Squall/Trust/Apology

 A/N: Findarato is the equivalent of a mortal 11 or 12 year old in this ficlet.

-Squall-

The storm came out of nowhere, catching Olwë by surprise as he secured the fish in the water well on the foredeck.  "Findaráto!" he shouted over the noise of the sudden squall, "start drawing in the lines, we've got to go back to the harbour!"

A quick glance over his shoulder showed him that his young grandson looked a bit green as the sailboat was tossed about, but the young Haryon gamely began to haul in the fishing lines on the starboard side of the vessel.  

Olwë turned to pull in the lines that dangled on the starboard side, and wondered just what had upset Ossë so much.  It was rare that there would be no warning of an incoming storm, and this one looked bad.  He gave a glance at the roiling clouds that were racing in and decided to cut the fishing lines instead of trying to pull them in.  He drew the knife from his belt and leaned over to slice the thread-fine hithlain, just as he heard something aloft crack.  Before he could look up, the mast top crashed down on the back of his head and shoulders.  The last thing he heard was Findaráto crying "Anatar!" 

* * * * *

-Trust-

This can't be Mandos.  I hurt too much. And I'm cold.  And wet.

Olwë could feel the wooden deck beneath him, somewhat padded by what he assumed were the hithlain blankets from the storage spaces beneath the stern seats by the tiller, rocking gently. The storm is over.

A familiar high pitched voice was shouting but it took him a little time to work through the throbbing pain in his head and back to realize that it was his grandson, Findaráto, apparently berating someone. Who could he be talking to out here?

"—Anatto's hurt bad! All because you lost your temper! Anatto told me that you loved us, but instead you almost killed him!"

"I'm sorry, so sorry!" 

Olwë, surprised at recognizing the penitent voice, opened his eyes to the unimaginable sight of Findaráto, soaking wet and furious, shaking his finger at Lord Ossë.  The Maia was seated tailor-fashion on the deck, his shoulders hunched, wringing his hands in his lap and his luminous face was streaked with tears.

"Sorry isn't going to help Annato, Ossë!  Our sail is gone, and I can't row a boat this size!" the not-yet-adolescent elfling snapped, stamping his booted foot on the deck for good measure. 

"Finda?"  Olwë winced at how shaky his voice sounded.  He tried to extend a hand towards his grandson, but went still once more as the movement made the pain worse.

"Olwë!" Ossë gasped.  "I'm sorry, Olwë, I'm truly sorry!"

Findaráto hurried to kneel next to Olwë.  "Anatto! You're awake!"  The youth gingerly touched Olwë's forehead.  "You hit your head on the rail when the top of the mast broke and fell on you, and then the sail blew away.  I thought you were dead!"

"Lord Námo didn't call my name this time.  How did you get the mast off of me?"

Findaráto flushed, "I started screaming, Anatto.  Um—I called Ossë—"

"Lord Ossë," Olwë corrected automatically.

The young prince scowled but corrected himself, "I called Lord Ossë some names, and yelled that it was his fault.  Then--"

Ossë reached over and brushed a strand of Olwë's hair away from his eyes.  "I heard him and came rushing in to see just who was ready to consign me to the void.  He was trying to move the mast off of your shoulder, so I lifted it off, and we found you still lived.  I'm sorry, Olwë.  I'm sorry you're hurt.  I'm sorry I scared Findaráto.  I didn't know you were out sailing."

The king closed his eyes as Ossë continued to apologize, then interrupted, "How far are we from home?"

About two hours if only we had a working sail," Findaráto told him.  "The storm blew us a long way off course."

"I can take you home.  It wouldn't take a moment to get you there," Ossë offered.

Olwë considered that before responding, "I hope you aren't asking me to abandon my sailboat out in the middle of nowhere."  Despite the ongoing headache and the pain in his neck and shoulders, Olwë managed to raise an eyebrow at the Maia.

Ossë looked a bit offended.  "Of course I wouldn't do that."  His expression changed and he looked suddenly anxious. "You do believe me, don't you, Olwë?  I never meant for anything like this to happen to you."

Olwë couldn't help laughing at Ossë's mercurial emotional shift, then moaned as his battered body protested.  "Valar, Ossë!  If this is what I feel like when I'm not the target of your wrath, I do not wish to be the focus of your anger."

"I'm sorry."

"Enough sorries!" Findaráto, impatient, slapped his hand on the deck.  "How are we getting the sailboat and us home?  Anatto needs a healer soon.  Fly?"

Ossë went still and then a smile slowly crept across his face.  "Do you trust me, meldonya?"

Olwë stared up at his friend and said, unhesitatingly, "Of course."

The Maia's incarnate form shimmered and shifted.  Findaráto gasped and stared.  Olwë smiled.

The large white swan brushed a wingtip against Olwë's cheek, and blinked an onyx coloured eye at Findaráto, before seizing the end of the forward mooring rope in his beak, and launching himself into the cloudy sky.

* * * * *

-Apology-

"Anatto, wake up.  You can't sleep yet."

Olwë opened his eyes and found what appeared to be two Findarátos leaning over him.  He squinted to bring his grandson into focus.  "I'm awake, hínya."

"Anatto, may I ask you something?"

A drop of water splashed on Olwë's face from a strand of Findaráto's hair, and the ellon hurriedly wiped it away, and pushed the golden lock aside.  Over the youth's shoulder, the injured king could see Ossë, still in swan form, pulling the battered sailboat back towards the harbour at Alqualonde.

"Of course you may."  Perhaps answering questions would help make staying awake easier.

Findaráto whispered, "Is-is Lord Ulmo going to be angry that I cursed at Lord Ossë?"

Olwë smiled gently at his grandson.  "Do you think that he should be, Finda?"

He hunched his shoulders and looked down, then nodded.  "I was awfully rude."

"You were frightened and angry.  Sometimes it's very hard to not be discourteous when you are afraid."

"But—" The youngster broke off a bit of lembas from their forgotten lunch, and offered it to Olwë. 

After opening his mouth for the fragment, and letting it dissolve on his tongue, the king prompted, "But?"   

"Being angry isn't an excuse, Ammë says."

"Well, your Ammë is a very wise elleth.  What do you think she would tell you to do?"  

Before Findaráto could reply, a host of gulls swept above them, screeching a noisy welcome home as Ossë drew them through the arched harbour entrance. All became pandemonium as the Maia alighted on the dock and transformed in time to prevent the damaged craft from banging against the pier.  

Olwë gritted his teeth as even the gentle lurch when the sailboat stopped jarred his cracked head and broken shoulder blade.  The dock workers swarmed in, and healers were swiftly summoned.  He saw Findaráto scooped up, wrapped in a blanket and carried to the quay, and he tried to reassure the worried elves who had taken the ellon's place.

The healers carefully transferred him to a litter and he blacked out briefly as they lifted it up over the railing.  But before he was carried up to the palace, he came around enough to hear Findaráto's voice.

"Lord Ossë, I'm very, very sorry that I called you all those awful things. Will you please forgive me for being so discourteous?"  

Olwë turned his head despite the dreadful throbbing, and smiled as he saw the Maia pull the young prince into a hug. 

Finis

(written Nov. 13, 14, 15 & 16, 2008)