Inglor adjusted the steering oar.  It was exhilarating to be on his way home to his family and friends and the land he knew so well. Middle-earth had its charms, but his people’s time there had passed.  For better or worse, it belonged to the mortals now.

How he longed for home! He almost thought he could catch the scent of the flowers of far-away Valinor on the Western wind.  

Breathing a sigh of contentment, he watched his companion sleep. The sun had just cleared the eastern horizon. It cast a ruddy glow over the world but even in the rosy light Haleth’s face seemed pale.

He was worried for her. Ever since the palantir had gone into the depths, Haleth’s behavior had changed. When he thought about it, her behavior had changed before then; after the experience in Dale when she had taken poison meant for him. It was one thing to intellectually know she would one day pass from the Circles of the World. It was entirely another to watch it happen and know it had been his fault.

Her mood had been particularly dour since he had announced his decision to sail for the West. He had finally suggested that she make the sail simply to distract her.

Haleth stirred in her sleep, drawing his attention back to the present. She had thrown off her cloak during the night and now lay curled on her side, wedged between the casks and the boxes.

She was usually awake by now, but she had had trouble sleeping the night before and the day had been strenuous. He would let her rest.

Inglor shipped the steering oar. Taking care not to jostle Haleth, he raised the sail, trimmed it to best catch the wind, then seated himself in the stern and lowered the steering oar back into the water.

It would take the Corsairs several weeks to repair the damage to their boat, but there was no guarantee that the ship they had encountered at Mithlond was the only one in the gulf; the more miles between them, the better. He would break his fast with Haleth when she awakened.

The sun rose higher and the day grew warmer but Haleth showed no signs of awakening.

Inglor considered rousing her, but he strongly suspected she would not appreciate it. It could be a tricky thing, irritating Haleth in the confined space of the ship. There was nowhere to run.

Perhaps there was something he could use to awaken her from a distance? He could poke her with one of the oars, but she might grab the oar and throw it over the side. It would be very time consuming to have to retrieve it; unless, of course, she simply threw him in after it, which was a real possibility.

The sun was growing quite warm. Mortals, he knew, could suffer from lack of water on hot days. She should awaken at least long enough to drink.

‘Haleth,’ he said, gently shaking her by the shoulder.

Haleth groaned softly and opened her eyes. She blinked at him as though she did not recognize him. Then she looked at her surroundings as though she could not understand how she had gotten there.

‘Inglor?’ she asked, peering at him through eyes that were open the merest slits.

‘Yes?’ he asked politely.

‘I…guess I slept late,’ she said.

It was a strange thing he had noted about Haleth. On the rare occasions that she slept past dawn she behaved as though she had had less rest rather than more. It was only one of many strange facets of human behavior, but it never ceased to surprise him.

‘Would you care for some food?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m not hungry,’ said Haleth. Her face wrinkled in disgust. ‘I would appreciate some water, though.’

He obligingly moved further up the boat to retrieve the water cask.

As he filled two mugs with water, Haleth turned away from him. She seemed to be examining something. He heard her low gasp and wondered what it meant. He could ask, but there seemed little point. Haleth loathed showing any sort of weakness. While she would not directly lie, she would not tell the entire truth, either. If it were important, sooner or later he would learn of it.

‘Here is your water,’ he said, handing the mug to her. She looked somewhat pale.

Haleth smiled wanly and raised the cup to her lips.

He took up his position in the stern and they sipped their water in silence.

‘How far do you think we have come?’ she asked as she peered at the horizon.

‘Fifteen, perhaps twenty leagues,’ he replied. ‘Half way to Belegaer.’

Haleth’s face fell. ‘So quickly,’ she gasped. Inglor was wondering about her horrified reaction when she suddenly shrugged. ‘That, perhaps, is just as well.’

He was wondering if it would be worthwhile to ask her what she meant when she drained her mug and looked at him expectantly.

‘Shall we make the most of the fair wind?’ she asked.

They sailed through the rest of the day without incident, making good time in spite of the contrary wind.

The one odd thing that made Inglor wonder was Haleth's lack of appetite. Each time he asked if she was hungry she would shake her head and ask for water instead.

All went well until the late afternoon.

‘Tack the sail to the left, please,’ he told her, speaking in Quenya.

Haleth did not move.

At first he thought she did not understand him, but that could not be; he had been speaking Quenya to her for most of the afternoon. She had either answered in Sindarin or had said nothing at all, but she had followed his requests perfectly, so she must have understood.

He was about to repeat the instruction when Haleth abruptly bent double, her hand clutching the arm that had been injured by the Corsair’s arrow. ‘Haleth?’ he asked. ‘Did you drop something?’

She shook her head mutely. Her breathing was ominously loud.

‘Haleth? Haleth!’

Releasing the steering oar he sped to the side of his stricken friend. She regarded him through eyes glazed with pain. Her face was covered in a sheen of fine perspiration.

‘Oh, Inglor, I’m sorry,’ she gasped.

‘For what reason are you sorry?’ he asked. As always, her choice of words puzzled him. She had done many things worthy of an apology and never requested one. Yet now she had done nothing and she was begging his forgiveness?

‘The arrow,’ she said.

‘If it hurts you should have told me earlier,’ he said. ‘I can sail the ship alone.’

‘I know you can,’ panted Haleth. ‘But I think the arrow was poisoned.’

Poison. The word struck fear into the very core of his being. ‘Not again,’ he thought ‘Not now!’

‘Let me see,’ he said, gently pulling her hand off the injured arm.

The skin was barely broken, the injury little more than a scratch, but the area surrounding it was red and swollen. Red and black lines radiated from the livid centre.

With an effort he bit back the rising panic. ‘What should I do?’ he asked.

She shook her head, plainly not understanding the question.

‘When we first met, you nearly drowned. You told me of lung fever, what to expect and how to tend to you. What should I do?’

‘I…I don’t know.’

‘There must be an antidote; an herb you can eat or a…a….’ he groped for the unfamiliar word. There was simply nothing in any of the elvish languages that would describe it. ‘Poultice,’ he finally said, using Westron. ‘There must be one. Tell me how to make it.’

‘Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew?’ snapped Haleth. The flash of temper cheered Inglor immensely. Her shoulders slumped. ‘I have no idea what poison they used, let alone how to cure it,’ she mumbled.

‘But surely there is someone,’ he insisted.

‘Master Elrond, perhaps, but he is across the Sundering Seas,’ said Haleth. She was speaking through gritted teeth. Her complexion was taking on an alarmingly waxy cast. ‘Or the King in Gondor, but he is too far away. He might as well be across the sea.’

She pitched forwards and would have landed heavily on the bottom of the ship if Inglor had not caught her. He pulled her upright. Her eyelids flickered rapidly. He placed his hand on her throat to measure her pulse. Her heart beat strongly but far too rapidly.

Panic threatened to engulf him. He pushed it away. Haleth was speaking, her voice barely a whisper.

‘Bury me at sea.’

‘I shall not bury you because you shall not die!’ he cried, hugging her close to him.

Haleth appeared to not have heard him. ‘…just as well,’ she mumbled. ‘I couldn’t have borne to live without you.’

She lay still. Inglor gently laid her on the bottom of the ship. He folded her cloak and placed it beneath her head in a probably futile attempt to make her comfortable.

‘Inglor?’ she rasped. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Hush. You have nothing to be sorry for.’

‘But I do,’ she grasped his hand and pulled herself up. The effort this cost her was painful to watch.

‘I never told you this before because I was afraid. Afraid you would laugh, or worse, that you'd pity me.’ She drew a deep breath and looked directly into his eyes. ‘I love you Inglor. Good-bye.’ Her body went limp, her strength spent on the confession.

‘I know,’ he whispered shocked. How could she not have realized?

The ghost of a smile might have crossed her face. The expression was so subtle he could not be certain.

‘Haleth, do not will yourself to death!’

There was no reaction. He grasped her wrist. Her pulse was still strong but her skin was burning.

Turning his face to the west, he trimmed the sail and grimly sailed onwards.