I would like to thank my wonderful beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn, who really helped to make this story shine.

The clouds had receded to the east and the clear light of evening shone upon them.  Twilight was rapidly becoming Silmariën’s favourite time of the day for the long, low rays of the sun made everything clearer.  Tol Eressëa lay behind them.  She watched it from the stern of the ship before the sun set.  The retreating land grew smaller and smaller in the distance but it never vanished below the horizon. 

She hesitated before approaching Eonwë.  The Maia was impeccably polite but his distant manner did not encourage casual conversation.

‘Excuse me, Lord Eonwë, but can people see better in the Undying Lands?’ she asked.

Eonwë considered this gravely.  ‘See better in what manner?’ he finally asked.

Silmariën was only familiar with one method of seeing; the one involving eyeballs. The maiar were mystical beings.  It was possible they had other ways of seeing.  She crossed her arms over her chest before continuing the conversation. ‘Do the senses work better because I seem to see farther here than I did in Middle-earth,’ she explained.

Eonwë paused before answering.  She waited, watching the dark line of Tol Eressëa.

‘The air is more pure here than it is in Middle-earth,’ he finally said.  ‘As are all things but I do not believe that is what you are asking.  The world here is as it once was.  The seas are straight.’

She waited for a longer explanation but none was forthcoming.  The sun was west of the Pelori and the long evening of Valinor was drawing to a close.  When she squinted, Tol Eressëa was still visible.

‘There is no horizon!’ she gasped.

‘Horizon?’ asked Eonwë.

‘The line in the distance where the earth curves,’ she replied, shocked that he would ask her to explain such an everyday concept.  ‘When one sails far enough away, an object left behind drops below the curve.  We say it is below the horizon.’

‘An interesting word,’ said Eonwë.  He turned away, effectively ending the conversation.

Silmariën was too busy absorbing the new situation to be insulted. Although it was disconcerting to discover the lack of horizon, it was even worse to discover this lack was extremely familiar.  It was as though she had learned a second language some time in her childhood and, after using it for years, had returned to her mother tongue.  Horizons had been imposed upon her at some time during her existence and she had accepted them as a matter of course.  Now that they were gone, the world seemed right again.

She pondered this as she wrapped herself in her nearly dry cloak and lay down to sleep and, of course, to dream.  

The air of Rómenna was heavy with the reek from the fire at Armenelos. The smoke darkened the sun and the minds of the Faithful who remained in the Land of the Gift.  For over a week the prevailing wind had been from the west.  If anyone had looked in that direction, they would have seen the Meneltarma was shrouded in murk and a pall hanging over the west.  But no one looked west if they could avoid it.

While the eyes could avoid looking in any given direction, there was no such happy escape for the nose. Everyone knew the source of the smell.  Ships full of wretched men from the eastern lands often landed in Rómenna, from which prisoners too old, too young or too weak to serve as slaves upon the King’s warships were shackled together and forced to march down the road to Armenolos. There had been many, many such ships and enough prisoners, it seemed, to equal all of the population of Numenor. Yet for all of those who marched west, none ever returned. 

Silmariën stood at the window of her grandmother’s sitting room, watching the latest cargo of human misery being forced along the western road, her fists clenched in helpless rage.  ‘All of my jewels for a bow and some arrows!’ she muttered.

‘They would do you no good, dear, as you well know.  Come away from the window.’  Her grandmother’s voice was soft and gentle.  She was perfectly correct; as Silmariën well knew, any attack -- real or perceived -- against the forces of Ar-Pharazôn would lead to a quick and brutal retaliation. 

But she was in no mood to be mollified.  The sheer unfairness of it combined with her grandfather’s and uncle’s bland refusals to take action against such an enormous atrocity offended her sense of justice. ‘How can we sit here and do nothing?’ she cried.

Her Grandmother examined her from over the top of her weaving.  ‘And what would you do, dear?  Any overt action would draw the forces of the King here.’

‘The King is Grandfather’s friend,’ said Silmariën.

‘The King is, but many of those who follow him are not!’  Grandmother roared with uncharacteristic rage. ‘They would use the slightest excuse to attack this family and take what little we have left.  Would you bring down the last of the Faithful for the sake of wild men you know not at all?’

Silmariën, shocked by her Grandmother’s temper, fell silent.  She watched the last of the captives disappear on the road to their doom. ‘How can we call ourselves Faithful when this evil goes on and we allow it?’ she asked sullenly.

Her Grandmother sighed, stood up from the loom, walked to the window and placed her hands on her granddaughter’s shoulders.  ‘It is difficult to believe in anything in dark times like these but there is one thing which can sustain you despite the misery and the loss.’

‘What is that, Grandmother?’ Silmariën asked dully.

‘Estel, my dear, hope.  No one else can take it from you, not entirely. And so long as you have it, you have a reason to continue.’

‘In what should I place my hope, Grandmother?’ she asked, turning to face her.  ‘If not for strength of arms, what is there?’

‘Do not be so quick to dismiss your Grandfather, child,’ she said cryptically.

‘Grandfather?’ Silmariën laughed harshly. ‘What is Grandfather planning to do? He will not ride openly against the King no matter what atrocities are done.’

Her Grandmother’s face fell.  ‘Not every thing can be won by strength of arms Silmariën,’ she said sadly.

‘It is the only thing the jackals surrounding the King understand,’ spat Silmariën.

‘Oh, my dear, you look so much like your mother.  You have your father’s temper but you look like your mother,’ said Grandmother.  ‘They and your brother are gone but I still have you. It was such a very happy day when you returned.’ Her expression was filled with regret and her grey eyes misted with tears she would not shed. 

‘Grandmother,’ said Silmariën, ‘Isildur was injured the day I returned.’  Her cousin had been grievously injured taking a fruit from Nimloth, the White Tree of Numenor.  She felt it had been a poor exchange.  The others -- her grandfather and uncle in particular -- likely felt the same, although they would never, ever mention it aloud; at least not when she could hear them.

‘He is injured but he is not dead,’ said Grandmother. ‘You were dead, or so we all believed.  If you can return from the dead then any thing is possible.’  Her grey eyes shone with such conviction that it put Silmariën to shame.

She bowed her head.  ‘I wish I could believe that, Grandmother, truly I do, but…” She stopped.  Estel was such a fragile thing. How could she explain what she had seen in the five years she had run with the resistance without destroying it for her grandmother? 

“Excuse me, please, but the air of this chamber is too close.  I shall take the air in the garden.” She sailed out of the room without looking at her grandmother’s face.

The atmosphere in the garden was a small improvement over her grandmother’s chambers, even though the day had been as fair and clear as could be expected in Rómenna when the wind blew from the west and carried the foul reek from Armenolos.

She threw herself onto a bench and glared at the sky. A cloud in the shape of a giant eagle soared overhead.  The great bird’s wings swept backwards as those of a hunting raptor, its cruel talons extended towards the ground.

Frustration welled up in her heart. She could do nothing here but embroider and hide.  Her very presence was a danger to her family.  Everyone believed she had died along with her parents and brother. Uncomfortable questions would be asked if the royal court learned that she still drew breath. 

She would serve a better purpose if she rejoined the ranks of the resistance in Forostar.  It was a hopeless fight, but it would be infinitely preferable to sitting in the false, terrified peace of Rómenna pretending to be a lady while others bled and died.

She glanced skywards again where the cloud glowed red in the dying light of day and cast a lurid glow about the land. She wondered how many of her friends had perished while she had rested in safety and comfort in Rómenna.

There were preparations to be made. As her family would never allow her to go, these would have to be made in secret.  She was mentally listing the supplies she would need when she heard a pair of familiar male voices. 

Terrified that the grandfather and uncle would guess her guilty thoughts, Silmariën instinctively ducked behind a bush. 

‘We must prepare,” she heard her grandfather say.  “Your ships should be loaded under the cover of darkness and only a little at a time lest we rouse unwanted attention.  Take great care, my son, for if any rumour of our plan reaches the King’s advisor, all will be lost.’

‘It shall be as you say, father.’ Her uncles’ voice sounded resigned.  ‘But my heart is not glad for it.’

‘Nor is mine, and yet it must be so.  If what we have learned of Ar-Pharazôn’s plan is true, time is indeed of the essence.’

Plan?  What plan?  Silmariën leaned in closer. 

‘All shall be done as you have ordered,’ her uncle said. ‘Yet it would lighten the hearts of our people if their lord was there to guide them.’

‘Elendil, we have discussed this time and again.  There is nothing for it.  The dreams of destruction become more vivid with each passing night and they are spreading. My steward tells me that the cowherd’s youngest child had the nightmare last night and she is barely old enough to speak.’

‘I did not counsel to ignore the dreams, for surely they are warnings of what is to come.  But will not breaking the Ban of the Valar only bring this fate sooner?’

‘What would you have me do?  Leave Numenor and all of her people to her fate? No.  I will go to the Valar and plead with them as Eärendil once did.’

‘Then should we not have our people stay here, or at least the men who are capable fighters?  The Hosts of Valinor will expect to find allies.’

‘No. The weak shall need protection in Middle-earth for thanks to the depredations of our countrymen, I fear the Men of Numenor shall not be overly welcome.’

‘All the more reason for their lord to lead them.’

‘You shall be their lord, my son, and you shall lead them well. You shall do as you must, as shall I.  My fate lies in the West.’

Silmariën remained frozen behind the bush, unable to move for the shock of what she had just heard. Grandfather Amandil was correct. Who but the Valar could hope to vanquish one of their own? Like the Noldor of old, her people would require the aid of the West to defeat the Enemy. And, like Eärendil, Amandil would beg for their intercession.

And while Grandfather Amandil was a moving and charismatic speaker, he had not seen the atrocities with his own eyes.  Silmariën had.  What she lacked in speaking ability could be more than amply made up for with conviction.

She pulled herself to her feet and ran to the house, unable to contain her excitement.

That night, lying in bed, her mind laid plans at a fevered pace.  When she finally slept, she was plagued by dreams of terrible portents and warnings.  She flung out her arm, gasped in pain, and awakened to discover she was already aboard a ship.

This ship, however, was not Grandfather’s ship.

Cradling her injured arm, Silmariën blearily took in her surroundings and wondered where she was.  The stars shone with cold fire overhead, magnified as they can only be upon the deep waters of the ocean. 

‘Are you well?’

She turned towards the speaker and discovered Eonwë looking down upon her.  Despite his kind words, his beautiful face was expressionless in the starlight. ‘As well as can be expected,’ she said. She began to massage her arm and immediately stopped, engulfed in a wave of pain.

Eonwë did not seem to understand her response.  He stood towering above her, awaiting a clear answer.

‘I am well, thank-you,’ she said through gritted teeth.

He nodded and moved away, leaving Silmariën to try to make sense of the latest revelation. 

The dream, she guessed, was a mixture of old memories and wishful thinking.  It would take some time for her to untangle the skeins of fact and fancy to determine the truth.  It also served as a good distraction from the burning fire in her left arm.