Finarfin, the High King of the Noldor, was not experiencing the best of days.

An ambassador from the Teleri stood before him, radiating subtle anger and waiting impatiently for a response that would satisfy him.  It was easy to understand the reason for his fury; the Teleri were quite sensitive to anything untoward happening to one of their prized possessions. 

‘The ship has been retrieved?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said the Telerin ambassador shortly.

‘And there was no damage to it,’ he said.

‘No.  But the fact that it was taken at all is an outrage. Nothing like this has happened since the dark days,’ said the Telerin ambassador.

Finarfin grew angry at the mention of the Kinslaying.  While it was true that the Teleri had suffered terribly at the hands of the Noldor it was also true that no amount of restitution would ever be sufficient to earn their forgiveness.  Even the slightest disagreement between Tirion and Alqualondë would see the Kinslaying dragged forth, even though those directly responsible were still in Mandos.  As a wise ruler Finarfin would often allow them to prevail but after seven thousand years of blaming all the Noldor, even those with no blood on their hands, the argument was growing rather stale.

A good diplomat, he knew better than to let his irritation show.

‘But you did retrieve the ship,’ he said.

‘Only after days of searching for it.  It took three ships and six sailors to capture the thief,’ said the ambassador.

‘And were any of them hurt?’ asked Finarfin.

‘Not that they will admit,’ said the ambassador stiffly.

‘You have an undamaged ship as well as the person who took it,’ said Finarfin.

‘I have every confidence that you will deal with him.’

‘Forgive me but it is a her.’

‘Very well,’ continued Finarfin, frowning at the interruption.  ‘I have every confidence that you will deal with her in the manner you see fit.’

‘She is the Secondborn woman brought here by your kinsman,’ said the ambassador triumphantly. 

Finarfin steepled his fingers and leaned against the back of his throne.  This was an unpleasant twist to the situation.  There was no doubt that the mortal woman was prone to doing wild things; her past actions had proven that.  There was also no doubt that, as a member of his family had brought her to the Blessed Realm, Finarfin was ultimately responsible for her.

‘My dear, old friend I can well understand the reason for your distress.  Tirion and Alqualondë have long been joined by bonds of blood and friendship.  Surely we will not allow this slight misunderstanding to come between us.’

Hours of delicate negotiations later the Secondborn woman stood before Finarfin’s throne. 

He examined her with thoughtful consideration.  She would never pass for one of his people. Her features fit together well enough but her skin and hair were showing the unmistakable signs of the weariness that was the fate of the Secondborn.  There were creases at the corner of her eyes and the hair at her temples was distinctly grey, the iron strands contrasting with the sandy coloured tresses. 

She was standing ramrod upright and staring at an indeterminate point over his left shoulder, her expression blank as she waited for him to pass judgement.

‘I would walk in the garden.  Will you join me, Lady Silmariën?’  he asked.

‘As your Majesty wishes,’ she said woodenly. 

Finarfin rose and passed through the door that led to his private garden.  It was the refuge to which he would retreat when the burden of duty grew heavy.  Carefully tended paths wound through small groves of trees and past cool, singing fountains.  Sweet, scented blossoms formed a carpet of colour upon the ground. 

He walked along, the Secondborn woman hovering behind him like a reluctant shadow.

‘The path is broad enough for two, why do you walk behind me?’ he asked.

There was a quiet hiss of indrawn breath behind him.

‘Forgive me, Majesty.  I meant no disrespect,’ she said, shuffling forward to walk beside him but still, he noted, a half step behind.

‘Is it the custom of your people to walk behind their King?’ he asked.

‘It was meant as a show of esteem,’ she said.  There was an odd note of scorn in her voice. Finarfin wondered what it might mean; was she defending the customs of her own people or deriding them?  He would have to learn more before he could decide.

‘I knew some of the Secondborn,’ he said.  ‘There were still those who lived in the north when the Host of the West fought against the Great Enemy.  They were staunch allies and most honorable.’

He waited politely for a response of some sort but the comment had left her with nothing to say.  She was frowning at her boots as though they had committed some heinous crime.

The direction of her attention brought her boots to his notice for the first time.  They looked as though they had walked the length of Middle-earth and back.  The leather was a mosaic of patches and patches of patches.  It was doubtful that any of the original material remained. 

He briefly wondered why Anairë had not offered her new footware and quickly decided that she must have.  Anairë was quite excited to have one of her descendents with her, no matter how distant or strange that descendent might be.  Silmariën must have declined to wear the new shoes.

‘I have heard the Edain of the north were brave and true,’ she finally said.

It was Finarfin’s turn to be disconcerted.  He had spoken of the old allies as though she had known them personally while of course she had not.  He had not accounted how the temporary lives of the Secondborn would shape their experience. 

‘Lady Silmariën,’ he began.

‘Please forgive me, your Majesty, but I prefer to be known as Haleth,’ she said, still glaring at her boots.

With a jolt Finarfin finally put a name to her odd behavior; she was pouting.  It had been ages since he had seen it last for the youngest of his offspring had put childhood behind them long ago.

‘Very well, Lady Hal…’

‘Forgive me, Majesty, but I can hardly call myself a Lady.’

Finarfin blinked.  He could think of many things to say but none of them were likely to be well received. 

‘The Telerin ambassador tells me you were in a ship sailing eastward,’ he said.

‘The Teleri are great mariners,’ said Haleth as she examined a sculpture.  ‘I have every confidence in their ability to recognize both a ship and the direction in which it is sailing.’

‘Especially when the ship is one of their own,’ said Finarfin gently.  It had been a very long time since he had had a conversation of this tenor but the old, long unused skills were returning.

‘Especially when the ship is one of their own,’ said Haleth nodding in agreement, her face a study in contradictory emotions.  Finarfin thought he could recognize at least three: embarrassment, anger and sullen resignation.  It was odd to see so much emotion so close to the surface.  His people had once been like this and worse.  Year upon year of existence had tempered their moods.

‘Why were you sailing east?’ he asked gently. 

It was interesting to watch her lower jaw extend to smother her upper lip.  It was unlike any expression he had seen before.

‘Tol Eressëa,’ she said.

She was lying.  He was absolutely certain of it.  He was also absolutely certain he could not accuse of her it, not matter how obvious it was.

‘Why did you seek the Lonely Isle? Are you not content in Aman?’

She shot him a panicked glance then immediately looked away.

‘How should I not be content in Aman?’ she asked dully.

‘It is not Middle-earth,’ said Finarfin sympathetically. 

‘But Valinor is like unto what Middle-earth was meant to be,’ she said. ‘How could I find fault with it?’

‘It is true that Valinor is what Middle-earth might have been, but it is not as it is.  It must be quite unfamiliar to you, no matter how beautiful.  I would choose that which I loved over that which others deem beautiful.’

Haleth averted her face.  Finarfin pretended not to notice her scrubbing the corners of her eyes.

‘I want to speak my own language,’ she said. There was a catch in her voice.  Again he politely ignored it.

‘There are some in Tirion who speak your language,’ he said kindly.  ‘I shall gladly speak to Inglor on your behalf.’

‘No!’ Haleth cried. 

‘I mean, please don’t trouble yourself,’ she said, abashed.

‘Haleth, I cannot help but note that you are less than happy,’ Finarfin began.

‘Your Majesty, I crave a boon,’ she blurted.

Finarfin inwardly smiled at the forward request.

‘If it is within reason, I shall grant I,’ he replied.

‘I would like to speak to someone who lived in Middle-earth; someone who is familiar with the same places and stories.  Perhaps Master Elrond? I have yet to thank him for healing me.  Or the Ringbearers?  I should like to see the Ringbearers again and hear the tales of the Shire.’

‘Forgive me, Haleth, but from the little I know of them the folk of the Shire have little in common with your people,’ said Finarfin. 

‘But they’re mortal,’ said Haleth.

Ah.  There was the true reason for her discontent.  While she was no longer numbered among the Secondborn, that change had been recent and not of her own choosing.  Here was something he could sympathize with although it still puzzled him; her countrymen had perished in a quest to gain the fate of the Elves.  Here she had been granted it and she gave every appearance of not wanting it; or at least not being happy with it. 

Perhaps she was beginning to fully appreciate what it meant and was regretting the loss of her own Gift. 

Finarfin would have dearly loved to question her and discover if he was correct but it was not the best moment.  There would be time later, but first he would have to win her trust. 

‘Very well,’ he said.  ‘You shall go to Tol Eressëa. But you shall go aboard one of my ships and you shall be accompanied by an escort of my selection.’