September 27th, 2986 T. A.

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Arien! Merciless Arien! Do you hear my voice? Why are you so cruel in your dutifulness? Why is your beauty so dangerous, oh proud guide of the Ship of Sun? Look at him! See what you have done, Arien! Look at my son! He lies beneath the bright stars of a cloudless sky, curled in pain of his wounds. His eyes are glazed over as he seeks the light of Silmaril in the sky, not having the strength to lift his head anymore. His cheeks are burning in fever from the pain and thirst under your rays. It is your fault, Arien! Do you hear me?!

I slam my fist into the rails. There! There! And again! The orcs! The mountain! Arien! With every punch a part of my fury dissolves into the old wood, and into the pain in my hand. Finally, when all of it has left me, I sink to the deck, drained, and bury my face in my palms.

Arien… forgive me. It is not your fault. It is the thirst that comes with your rays; it is the blood loss and pain of his injuries… but it kills him, and I cannot watch, doing nothing! Yet I must, and the burden grew too heavy when I saw him again today. It is my fault… My fault for being so helpless… Oh Valar, why? Why?!

Finally, after four miles, he has no strength left to move any farther. All that he has is… hope. Its sign I bear in my lantern, but I fear that a sign is not enough. Yet as I see its reflection in his eyes, for a moment I believe that this nightmare can end in a pleasant morning.

There it is – the determination still burns in his eyes. It reminds me on other times and places, on my own daring journey to the West through storms and mists, the many times I have almost given up and tuned my ship back. The moment of despair when I finally did, defeated by the illusions of the Enchanted Isles, accepting defeat to return home in shame. But suddenly a light! It shone through the illusions, through the storm clouds and mists. It was then when the Silmaril became a symbol of hope, after many centuries of imprisonment in the crown of Morgoth.

An echo of smile twists the corners of his lips – or do I only imagine it? It is as if he wanted to say “No, I have not given up yet. Foolish, isn’t it?” He cannot see me, but I smile back encouragingly. Perhaps we are both fools…

However, in the next moment, there is no trace of smile anymore. He struggles to move again, to prop up on his hands. He fails. Once, two times… He does not give up. After a few tries his hands finally support him for a moment, enough for him to gain another foot of the endless journey. So he crawls, and my heart bleeds when I watch him.

Again he looks at my star, and for a moment I have the feeling that he does not see a star – that he sees me, that he looks at me, and into my soul. Maybe I only imagine it. Maybe not… who can say? I return the look, like when I sailed for the first time, and I saw my sons looking at the new star, seeing me… I return the look, and I see: I see him…

I see you, Aragorn… I see the truth, unveiled by my imagination. You are not Elros. You are not the son that I sired and abandoned in the world of growing shadows. You are my son through many generations, through the glory and fall of Númenor, and through Gondor’s white towers and the mounds in Arnor. You are the last in Elros’ line. But what if you were not? If you had an heir… would it be easier for me to watch your suffering? I think… it would. It is a bitter realization that says much about me. It would… until this moment. Now I see you, not my own picture in you. I see a man, not a line. A brave man, refusing to give up against all odds. A fighter.

I wish I could tell you that you are not alone in the cruel mountains. I am here… I am with you. I watch you. I see your thirst. I feel your pain. I feel your hope – and it becomes mine, and I return it in the light that I bear. There must be a way… There must be! You cannot die here! Not because you are the last, no. You cannot die because I will not lose you just when, after watching you for many years, I have truly seen you… Aragorn!