Once again, I would like to thank my wonderful beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn and all of the writers at the Garden of Ithilien who really helped to make this story shine.

The Finder stood near the stern of Eonwë’s ship and looked eastward to where the sea and the cloudy sky blended into one.  They were going in the wrong direction.  Every fiber of her being was calling her to the east.  She peered into the curtain of grey, vainly searching for some sign of the familiar, eastern lands but there was nothing but mist and cloud. 

A disapproving Eonwë had allowed her to return the vessel she had purloined.  The craft’s owners had been very understanding, although under the circumstances, with the disgruntled Herald of Manwë looming over the conversation, there had been little else they could do.

The ship was large enough for a dozen people.  The crew was Telerin elves. With no common language, it was impossible for the Finder to communicate with them.

They sailed around the green shores of Tol Eressëa and headed for Valinor. To the west, the rocky walls of the Pelori jutted out of the ocean. Somewhere within that massive rampart was a cleft, where the old stories told of the city of Tirion, built upon the green hill of Tuna.  No mortal who had ever set foot upon those shores had ever returned to Middle-earth; yet, as the spray splashed on her face, the Finder had the eerie sensation she had been there before.

‘Does your arm hurt?’ Eonwë had reluctantly assumed the role of nurse.

‘A little, yes,’ she said.  In actuality it hurt a great deal; she did not like to admit to it.

‘Drink this,’ he said, handing her a flask. 

She sniffed the contents of the flask and pulled a face.  He had gotten the potion, she supposed, from Master Elrond.  If effective medicine had to taste bad, this was the most effective medicine in existence.

‘Two swallows,’ said Eonwë.

Two swallows were two swallows too many, but there was no way she was going to complain.  She had put off taking the medicine, hoping the pain in her arm would lessen to the point that she no longer needed it.  She had reached the point where the pain was worse than the taste of the medicine hours ago, but was too proud to mention it.

Holding her nose, the Finder took two, quick gulps and handed the flask back to Eonwë, who seemed to find her twisted expression of disgust mildly amusing.

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

‘Yes, please,’ she choked.

He handed her a water skin.  She drank deeply, rinsing most of the bad taste from her mouth. Once she gave back the water skin, she wrapped herself in her cloak, found a spot out of the way of the crew, and sat down.  The potion made her drowsy.  As the pain slowly receded she fell asleep.

~*~

The dream pounced on her as though it had been waiting.  The Finder plummetted through a sea of grey mist. She groped for purchase, but there was none to be had.  Shadows and bright sparks of light dance past her as she fell. After a time she noticed the light increasing, as though the sun was trying to break through the clouds. Somewhere, far above her head, came the rumble of distant, earth-shaking thunder.  Before she could look up, the grey mists vanished and she found herself in an eerily familiar garden.

She sighed in frustration and sat back, frowning at the embroidery on her lap. The wind picked up a free length of azure silk from the bench beside her and sent it fluttering across the garden until it settled on a rose bush.  She should go and get it; embroidery silk had become ridiculously expensive and her grandfather, or rather his steward, had gone to some pains to obtain it. 

Try as she might, however, she could not find a truly compelling reason to stand up and walk the few steps to the rose bush. After all of her exploits in the past five years, embroidery was too pedestrian to command her attention.

She shivered.  The wind was from the north and it bore a touch of frost from the far away everlasting ice.  Despite the chill, the change in wind direction was a relief.  The wind in Rómenna usually blew from the west and carried the taint from the unholy altar at Armenolos. Those were the days when there was no escape from the stench of burning flesh; it permeated everything from the highest tower to the deepest, darkest cellars.  

Amadil’s house offered far more opulent surroundings than the caves, hovels and haystacks she had grown accustomed to, but there was still a subtle air of menace about the place. This was hardly surprising. The Faithful were preferred for sacrifices; and those who remained were gathered in Rómenna,where it would be easy for the soldiers of the King to round them up and march them to Armenolos.  

The air in the house itself was tense for other reasons; her cousin had been grievously ill for weeks. There was no sign of improvement and day by day hope for his recovery faded in the miasma of smoke.  

There was no escape from the fear and despair.  It even stalked her in her dreams.  

She shook off feeling of impending doom the dreams always engendered and took in her surroundings instead.  The light was muted; the sun hidden by heavy grey clouds that promised rain. Her grandfather’s house was on the top of a hill overlooking the city of Rómenna, and grandmother’s garden was positioned in such a way to take full advantage of the panoramic view of the harbour.   

There, tall-masted ships stood proudly at anchor while fishing boats darted among them, attracting a flock of seabirds. Merchant ships loaded with the wealth of the eastern lands were tied at the piers. The men loading and unloading them were little more than black ants crawling into and out of the hulls.  

Rómenna was a city of white and green: white houses that stood in bright contrast to the verdant gardens that surrounded them.  It was a city of commerce, its streets bustling with merchants and sailors.  Yet the frantic activity of the docks and the marketplaces masked a creeping sense of despair.   

Placing the embroidery – a depiction of Tar-Minyatur standing at the prow of a white ship, ready to set foot upon Numenor for the first time—onto the bench beside her, she rose to retrieve her embroidery silk.  

‘If any of the King’s court were to seen this it might be construed as rebellious,’ a familiar voice commented from behind her.  

‘Which is well and good for I am a rebel, after all,’ she said evenly.  ‘Fortunately, all in the King’s court are quite certain I am dead.’  

There was a pause and then, 'Do not jest about such things.  Too many of our family have died.'  

'I am sorry, Anárion,' she said, biting back the sharp retort that had been on her lips.  

Her cousin sank onto the bench, taking the space not occupied by the embroidery.  She picked it up and propped it against the side of the bench, seating herself beside him.  Anárion barely noticed.  He watched the fishing boats and the quarreling birds in the harbour below. 'Is there any change?' he asked.  

'None,' she said, shaking her head. 'Isildur is as he had been since he returned from Armenelos.'  

'If he were to die it will have been for nothing,' Anárion said.  His gaze drifted to the mulched patch of earth where the hope of Numenor lay buried.  

'He will not die,' she insisted, placing her hand on his arm.  'He is strong and he will recover.'  She knew the words were false.  She had seen too many strong, young men succumb to death.  The lie was more comforting than the truth and Anárion was in need of reassurance.  

Anárion recognized the untruth for what it was.  He smiled but the expression did not reach his eyes.  'I have no wish to bury my brother, Silmariën.’  

A chill of premonition ran down her back.  ‘Nor do I,’ she said softly.  

 ~*~

The heavens opened.  The deluge was upon them.

The Finder leapt to her feet and found herself soaking wet on the deck of an elvish ship, with waves tossing them about.  While she had slept, the wind had whipped the waves to a froth.  The ship rode up the next wave, paused at the crest, then tumbled downwards.  Water burst around her, drenching her once again.

The crew was working the sail with calm expertise while the captain held the helm steady.  A sailor grasped her by the shoulder and pulled her towards the centre of the ship before she could be drenched a third time.  She allowed herself to be pushed to a slightly less wet location and endeavored to keep out of the way. 

It was difficult as her mind was filled with the memory of the dream. ‘Silmariën?’ she thought incredulously.  ‘My name is Silmariën?’  If ever in history there was a name that did not fit its owner, this was it.

‘You dreamt.’

Silmariën drew a deep breath.  The wind had died to a pleasant breeze which chilled her.  The green shore of Eressëa was to their right, and Eonwë had decided to take an interest in her again.  He stood above her, looking down. 

‘Yesh,’ she replied, deliberately biting her tongue to suppress a sarcastic comment.  She had to be extremely careful.  Manwë’s herald was unlikely to tolerate smart remarks from a mortal who had invaded the Undying Lands, no matter how unwittingly.

‘I trust your dreams were pleasant?’ he asked.

Silmariën – she had a remarkable amount of trouble referring to herself by that name – gazed across the empty expanse of ocean, weighing her answer and hoping the Ainur did not consider a long delay in responding to be a sign of bad manners.

She cast a glance at Eonwë.  He stood as still as a statue, patiently waiting for some response.  ‘They were – informative,’ she said at last.

‘Good.’