A/N  I'm afraid I must apologize to anyone who has already read this update. There are several versions of this story lurking on my hard drive and because I am pathologically disorganized, I posted the wrong chapter. I'm very sorry for the confusion this is bound to cause.

Once again, I must thank my beta readers, Aearwen, Ithryn and the wonderful ladies at the Garden of Ithilien.  Any remaining mistakes are my own.

The murmuring of the wood rasp was replaced the pounding of an adze. Haleth sat up and glared at Inglor. He was clearly visible in the gloaming of the workshop. His face was a study in concentration as he carved a plank that would be one of the final strakes into perfect proportions.

‘You awakened me,’ she said accusingly.

‘I am sorry, Haleth. I thought you were already awake. Your breathing had changed.’ Each sentence was punctuated by the thud of the adze upon the wood.

She groaned and sat up, savagely brushing the wood shavings from her hair and clothing. Inglor continued working. It was tempting to distract him by asking him if he had ever heard of the concept of sleeping in.

There was little point. Since he had begun work upon his ship, Inglor had been uncharacteristically immune to distraction. He would speak to her, of course—to ignore her would have been impolite – but he would not stop working. So she signed and stumbled to her feet.

After careful consideration, they had taken up residence in Círdan’s workshop. Haleth had been reluctant, feeling this to be disrespectful of the absent Lord of Mithlond, but Inglor had no such qualms; it was not as though Círdan would have any further use of it.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and glared at the ship. It was being constructed far too quickly for her taste. When she had made her bed in the nest of wood shavings on the workshop floor, only the keel had been in place. Working alone through the night, Inglor appeared to have finished attaching the stem and had started on the stern. The sooner the boat was finished, the sooner they would part.

Haleth was beginning to truly resent Inglor’s single-mindedness.

There had been several occasions when she had considered setting the entire thing on fire but common sense, combined with the fear of Inglor’s puzzled, disappointed reaction, had kept her from carrying the idea through.

‘We should be able to start on the strakes tomorrow,’ she said.

‘I was planning on beginning the strakes this evening,’ said Inglor, who was examining the joints between the keel and the stern.

Haleth winced. Her throat tightened and her eyes began to burn. It was bad enough that he was leaving her. Did he have to be in such a rush?

‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked.

‘Well enough, thank-you,’ grunted Haleth, whose night had been disturbed by the dream of a white ship sailing into the West while she was left alone and bereft on the shores of Middle-earth.

‘I believe I am hungry. Would you care for some breakfast?’ Inglor seemed mildly surprised at his body’s audacity to demand food.

‘Thank-you, I would,’ said Haleth. It sounded as though Inglor was offering to make breakfast. This lifted her spirits a little. The more time he spent doing other things, the longer it would take him to finish the ship.

‘There may be some eggs from yesterday,’ said Inglor absently as he inspected the joints between the keel and the stems.

‘Yes,’ said Haleth shortly, not at all happy that Inglor was obliquely backing out of his veiled offer to cook.

‘Good,’ said Inglor as he turned back to his work.

Haleth groaned inwardly. With Inglor obsessed with building the ship, all of the mundane chores like gathering food, drawing water and cooking had been left to her. The suspicious, resentful part of her mind wondered if he wanted a servant more than a partner. ‘I’ll call you when it’s ready,’ she said as she headed for the door, not waiting for an acknowledgement.

She stormed off to the house they were using to store their supplies and cook, oblivious to the magnificent summer morning. The sky was free of clouds and birdsong filled the air. It promised to be a perfectly lovely day of the sort that Haleth always loved, but she was too busy with her resentful thoughts to notice.

There were two eggs left from the duck’s nest she had raided the previous day. Between that and some dried meat and fruit they had bought from one of the Hobbit farmers, there should be enough to carry them through most of the day. There was no bread, of course, which Haleth deeply regretted. The lack was somehow Inglor’s fault. If he were a true friend, he would have bartered for flour so that she could have had bread. Was a simple thing like that too much to ask?

She shook her head, disgusted with herself. The sun had barely cleared the horizon; it was far too early for bitter thoughts. Besides, she had made a vow to herself to make the best of the limited time she had left with Inglor and brooding over the situation would hardly make things pleasant. She told herself this over and over again as she lit a cooking fire and prepared breakfast.

Her thoughts turned to the practical matter of the food supply. If they were going to eat tomorrow, she would have to search for food today.

Mithlond offered many unaccustomed luxuries, for while the Elves had taken many of their personal belongings with them; they had left many others behind. Several days of dedicated scrounging through the abandoned houses had yielded a decent collection of mismatched plates and cutlery. There was a hearth to cook in; though as the days grew warmer Haleth would cook outside to avoid the worst of the heat.

She considered staying here after Inglor sailed; it was pleasant enough, there were enough material things for her to be comfortable. She would not really have to clean house; there were enough of them that she could move from one to the other whenever things got too dirty. The only drawback was that it would be so empty, especially when everything around her reminded her of Inglor so much that she would die of loneliness.

It was a ridiculous conceit as she had survived for years without home or companionship. But that was the problem with luxuries: it was easy to grow accustomed to having them; and once you did, it was exceedingly difficult to get along without them.

She carefully banked the cooking fire before loading a platter with food, plates and cutlery and making her way back to the workshop. ‘Breakfast is….umph!’

Inglor had been carrying a long plank. He spun around at the sound of her voice, forcing her to jump out of the way. Haleth struggled to regain her balance while keeping her grip on the tray.

There was an enormous crash as the board landed on the floor. Before Haleth realized what had happened, Inglor had taken the tray.

‘Shall we partake of this meal?’ he said when the last of the resounding echoes had died away.

Haleth grimaced and nodded. She followed him into the summer morning. He put the tray down by the side of the river and took a plate. They ate in silence, watching the water flow past.

‘It will soon be Midsummer,’ said Haleth to make conversation. It would distract her from the eggs, which were cold and rubbery.

‘It is,’ said Inglor as he studied the sky. ‘I had hoped to be home in time for the Midsummer’s feast.’

The food turned to ashes in her mouth. Was he in that big a rush to leave her? Closing her eyes and biting her lip, she placed her plate on the ground, her appetite destroyed.

‘Are you not hungry?’ Inglor asked politely.

‘No,’ said Haleth. She would have liked to say a great deal more, but with a supreme act of will she limited herself to the one, defiant syllable.

‘You should eat more, there is a gaunt look about you,’ Inglor advised her.

‘What do you care? Soon you won’t have to hurt your eyes by looking at me anymore,’ Haleth thought sourly.

They finished their meal in silence, with Inglor using manners one might expect to find at a king’s table while Haleth picked at her food in a desultory way. When he was finished, Inglor delicately wiped his mouth and hands with a napkin, thanked Haleth for the food, and went directly back to the workshop and the ship.

Haleth picked up the abandoned plates and followed in his wake, torn somewhere between fury and tears. She was not surprised to notice he had already attached one of the strakes.

‘You’ve been busy,’ she commented.

Inglor nodded, already distracted. If the ship had been a woman, Haleth would have hit it. Not wanting to hurt her fist for no reason, she picked up an axe and eyed the construction speculatively.

‘Haleth, there is something I would ask of you,’ Inglor said.

‘Oh?’ said Haleth, thrusting the axe behind her back.

Haleth thought Inglor’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. But he continued on in the same, calm tone of voice he always used and she dismissed the impression as a trick of the light.

‘The craft of the shipwright is dependent upon the knowledge of wood. Those with a more discerning eye than mine selected the trees that would be sacrificed so this ship could be made. It falls to me to choose wisely from what they left behind. My forefathers, with the counsel of Ossë, constructed the Swan Ships that carried them to the Blessed Realm.

‘My skill cannot be compared to theirs, yet they taught me as well as they could, for I was eager to learn. The hard, straight wood of the oak is favoured in all things, save only the mast. The mast shall be of a softer, more pliant wood; perhaps spruce or pine.’

He gently caressed the stems of the ship as he spoke. There was a far away gleam in his eyes. Haleth’s teeth ground together. ‘Yet the craft of the shipwright is not limited to wood alone,’ he finally said. ‘For a ship to sail well, the work of the weaver and sail maker is of equal importance.’

Haleth’s grip convulsively tightened around the axe. She had a good idea of where all of this flowery speech was leading and did not approve of the destination.

‘I would ask you, as a friend, to fashion the sail for this ship.’

Her thoughts caroomed around her head. ‘It’s bad enough that you’re leaving without you asking me to help you to get away faster!’ But to voice such thoughts would be ignoble. With an effort, she swallowed her anger.

‘It has been many, many years since I last worked a loom,’ she said when she could trust herself to speak.

‘As there was wood to fashion the ship, so there will be fabric to fashion a sail,’ said Inglor.

‘I haven’t seen any,’ said Haleth.

‘It is here. I am certain of it,’ he said.

‘Even if there is, I doubt that my sewing skills can be compared to those of elvish embroiderers,’ she said.

He blinked and patiently waited for her to explain herself.

‘I strongly suspect your triumphant return will lose effect with a plain, unremarkable and quite probably crooked sail,’ she said.

He gazed at her in mild confusion.

‘If I make the sail, it will be plain,’ she said.

‘Plain?’ echoed Inglor without understanding.

Haleth deliberately placed the axe on the workbench. The temptation to use it to pound sense into him was nearly overwhelming. ‘I will not embroider a device upon the sail, Inglor,’ she said. ‘We would be here for seven years.’

No sooner had the words left Haleth’s mouth than she regretted them. Working one of the complex designs of elven heraldry into a sail would have taken her months and could have delayed his departure until the following spring. She held her breath and hoped he would demand she embroider several designs upon a large canvas sail and possibly several more for a spare.

‘Why would that matter?’ he asked.

‘A seven year delay would not trouble you?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said, laughing. ‘Why would having a ship with a plain sail matter?’

‘Well…that is….I thought all of your people’s ships were intricately decorated,’ she stammered. ‘The ships of Falathrim certainly were.’

‘The sails are decorated now for we have had sufficient time to make them so,’ said Inglor.

‘But the sails of Eärendil’s ships are highly decorated in every picture or tapestry I’ve ever seen,’ she said in confusion.

‘The history of Middle-earth would have been very different if Eärendil had insisted upon waiting for Vingilot's sail to be embroidered before he journeyed into the West,’ said Inglor in amusement.

‘I suppose,’ Haleth conceded. ‘But still, it will look strange when your sail is unadorned and off centre.’

‘I doubt it will be off centre. So long as it serves its function well, it’s appearance matters not,’ said Inglor.

Haleth looked dubious.

‘Please?’ he asked.

‘Oh, fine!’ she snapped. ‘Now where shall we search first?’

‘There should be some sailcloth on the shelves of the larger workshops,’ said Inglor as he turned back to his work.

Minutes later Haleth was once again stalking through the streets of Mithlond alone, muttering under her breath.

She arrived at the largest workshop and glared at it. The building was directly upon the shore; with one wall supported by pilings that had been driven into the riverbed. There were three large double doors evenly spaced upon the walls overlooking the water. In earlier days these would have been open throughout most of the year to admit light and fresh air for the Círdan and his people as they laboured. They had closed the doors when they had left. Haleth doubted they would ever open again until time wore the hinges away and they fell into the water to be carried downstream.

Deftly picking the lock, she let herself into the workshop. The room was dark after the brilliant light of the morning and she had to wait a few moments for her eyes to adjust. Little by little she could make out the details around her. The room was truly cavernous. When the elves had lived here, it had rung with the sound of hammer and axe and song. Now they were gone and the stillness seemed to be more than the mere absence of sound. The building itself seemed to mourn their passing. The silence was the silence of a mourner. Haleth found herself holding her breath and walking on tiptoe to avoid disturbing it.

She picked her way around the room, ignoring the tool benches and the neatly piled stacks of wood. There had to be material for sails somewhere. It would be almost impossible for any ship, even an elven ship, to make its way across the Straight Road without a sail. If the elves had left wood, they must have left sailcloth as well.

The canvas would be stored near the place where the sails were made. Sail making required a large, clear area. The workshop, no matter how spacious it seemed now, would have been too crowded to accommodate the sail makers when the elves had been in residence. There was most likely a loft above the main workshop. She stayed close to the walls, searching for a staircase or ladder.

She eventually found what she was looking for half way across the room. The narrow ladder hung between two shelves. Quickly ascending, she reached another cavernous room. The windows on this floor were larger and the light dazzled her eyes as she pulled herself into the loft.

Haleth squinted about. There was an enormous set of shelves stacked with rolls of cloth. As she approached, she noted that most of the canvas was the colour of plain wool or flax, but several bolts had been dyed. The most popular colour was blue, although there were also several shades of green and gold.

A muted sparkle caught her eye. When she looked closer, Haleth discovered a bolt of material that glimmered like starlight upon the water. She tentatively ran her fingertip along it and discovered it was as smooth as water to the touch. Silk! It had to be silk. It had been years since Haleth had seen the material last, and only in far smaller quantities and in a much looser weave. She wondered how the elves had come by such a larger quantity of it. Círdan, she knew, had been a great sailor. How far had he or his people travelled to find this?

Inglor, she was certain, would like it. It might even coax a smile to his face when he saw it. Haleth reflected that it would be good to see Inglor smile again; his facial expressions were always muted, but he had become downright stone faced since he had begun work on the ship.

Stupid ship.

Side-stepping a tide of resentment, Haleth pushed aside thoughts of Inglor and his ship and concentrated on the task at hand. The silver silk was in the centre of the stack. Taking hold of the edge, she tugged on it experimentally, but the cloth refused to budge.

Undeterred, she took a firmer grip, planted her feet and pulled harder but to no avail. She tried shaking the silk, forcing it to one side then the other as she pulled it outwards, but the entire bolt was firmly wedged in place. She pulled and pulled until an ominous ripping sound interrupted the silence. Then she stood back, frowned and took stock of the situation.

The bolt in question was in the exact centre of the shelf and was wedged between at least a dozen others. She tried moving a few of the neighbouring bolts with no better success. The only course of action was to knock several bolts on to the floor. This would hopefully loosen things enough for her to wiggle the silver silk cloth out of the pile.

Moving to the end of the shelf, she grasped the first canvas and pulled on it with all of her might. The fabric resisted at first then moved fractionally towards her.

She paused to consider. The bolts were large; even if she managed to move one on to the floor it would be impossible for her to put it back. She could go and get Inglor, but, besides the blow to her pride, he would not be happy with the interruption. She glanced around the dim vastness of the room hoping to find a small hoist that could help her with her task.

Common sense finally asserted itself; it was a ridiculous amount of effort for so frivolous a thing, especially when she had insisted the sail would be plain. With a last, regretful look at the silver silk, Haleth turned her attention to something more accessible.

A bolt of raw canvas sat on the end of the shelf. It was bland and unremarkable, but had the definite advantage of being accessible. Even though it was not as tightly wedged as the other rolls of sailcloth it was still heavy and unwieldy. It took a considerable amount of effort to turn the roll enough to free the cloth.

By the time she had what she thought might be sufficient canvas for a sail, Haleth was hot, frustrated and hungry. The air in the old workshop was warm to the point of being stifling. The sense that she was intruding, which she had forgotten while she had fought with the canvas, returned ten-fold.

Anxious to be out of the oppressive atmosphere, she cut a long swath of cloth and hastily folded it. She had just hoisted the heavy canvas into her arms when she realized she did not have either the proper tools or enough thread to fashion a sail. Staggering under the weight of the canvas, she explored the area around the storage shelves.

Sure enough there was a cupboard nearby. She was unable to open it while burdened with the canvas, however, and she had no wish to return. Cursing under her breath, Haleth dropped the cloth on a nearby workbench and rummaged through the cupboard. A quick examination revealed several boxes containing the tools of the sail-maker. One kit was particularly lovely; the picks, serving board and seam rubber were inlaid with silver. The only problem was that the roping palm was too large for her hand. After a moment of agonizing, for it seemed criminal to not keep all of the beautiful tools together, she exchanged it for a smaller one in a different kit. There would be more than enough time to put things right after Inglor set sail. Several large spools of heavy thread completed her pillaging.

Something glinted at the bottom of the cupboard. To Haleth’s surprise it was a pair of delicately made scissors, the handles fashioned in the shape of a heron with the blades as its legs. It seemed a strange thing to have left at the bottom of a sail maker’s cupboard. Someone must have lost them; their owner must be in the Blessed Realm.

She wondered if she should put them back or give them to Inglor. It seemed likely the owner would want them again, even if there were better scissors available in Valinor. But maybe they had been left here deliberately to be used by the next ship building elves. Judging by the amount of canvas on the shelves, Círdan was expecting a great many elves to use the old workshop.

With a sigh of regret, Haleth put them back where she had found them before retrieving the cloth and making her way into the daylight.