By afternoon they were sailing south, their forward progress being much less than the actual distance traveled as the wind blew out of the west which forced them to tack. 

Haleth, whose duty it was to adjust the sail, chewed on her lip and considered their situation.  The food supplies were low as most of the food had either been washed overboard in the storm or spoiled by sea water.  Fish were thick in these waters. They should be able to fashion some type of hook and use the spoiled supplies as bait.  Anything they caught would have to be eaten raw as there was no way to light a cooking fire.  It would be disagreeable but they would survive. 

Lack of fresh water was a bigger worry.  There was barely enough water for one person to survive the journey back to Tol Eressëa, but there were two people onboard, three, if Idril awakened before they reached their destination.

‘Inglor,’ she said.  ‘There is a problem.’

‘Yes,’ he said calmly.  ‘We are drifting too far east.’

‘Besides that,’ said Haleth as she stifled a groan, dragged herself upright and hopped towards the rigging. ‘There is not enough fresh water.’

‘I know. I told you as much,’ said Inglor calmly.

She grunted as she untied the halyards and rearranged the sail to bring the ship back towards the west.

‘It’s too bad we bailed all of the rain water out,’ she observed.

‘It was fouled with the water from the waves,’ he said.

‘Yes, I know,’ Haleth snapped.  She climbed to her feet, forgetting her sleeping leg, and almost lost her balance.

‘Be careful.  You came near to falling upon Idril,’ Inglor admonished her.

‘I KNOW,’ she shouted. 

Several gulls that were following the boat in hopes of an easy meal veered away.

‘Now you are frightening the birds,’ said Inglor unnecessarily.

‘So I am,’ she replied tartly, taking hold of the mast for balance. 

‘And you may awaken Idril, in which case there would be three of us trying to survive on water enough for one,’ he added.

Haleth fell into brooding silence.  The adjustments to the sail completed, she sat down heavily and stared across the ocean.

‘Would it help if we rowed?’ she asked. 

‘For now the wind is strong enough that we are better traveling under the sail,’ he said.  ‘If the wind dies, I shall row.’

‘We’ll take turns,’ she said.

‘Haleth, if you row you will become thirsty.’

Her throat closed.  She was already thirsty. 

It promised to be a very long voyage.

The journey seemed ridiculously long; far more than it had a right to be.  Haleth was certain the outbound trip had not taken as long. 

It was not only the distance that conspired against them; the wind had died.  Inglor now rowed, his back bent almost to his knees.  But in spite of his heroic effort, they barely seemed to move at all, or at least that is what Haleth believed as she stared over the unchanging breadth of water.

Idril slept on, oblivious to discomfort.  Haleth envied her.

Haleth was certain they had drifted too far to the east.  This should have excited her as it meant she was closer to home, but now it only meant it would be that much longer before she could slake her thirst.  She had mentioned as much to Inglor, who had insisted in a polite but adamant way that she was not in the condition to form a valid judgement.

She reluctantly had to agree with him, at least about her physical condition.   Burning thirst consumed her waking hours while her dreams were filled with the sound and smell of sweet water held just out of her reach.  On more than one occasion she had awakened to discover Inglor pulling her hand away from her mouth, forcing her to drop the salt water she had scooped from the sea. 

He must be every bit as thirsty, but Inglor never complained.  If anything Haleth’s growing discomfort had spurred him to great acts of endurance; he had been rowing since before the dawn and now that the sun neared its zenith, he showed no signs of slowing.

Haleth attempted to speak only to discover her lips firmly sealed and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.  With an effort she forced her mouth to work properly.

‘You should rest,’ she croaked.

‘Not yet,’ he replied, shaking his head.

‘Inglor, if you drive yourself too hard we will never see Tol Eressëa,’ she said.

He stopped rowing and examined her closely.

‘We must reach Tol Eressëa soon,’ he said. 

‘Yes, about that.  I’ve been giving the matter some thought,’ said Haleth who had been thinking of little else.  ‘If we find an island with a stream we should try to sail upstream as far as we can and try to collect some fresh water.’

‘I do not believe that would be wise,’ Inglor interrupted.  ‘The water, like the land, could also be enchanted.’

‘Failing that,’ said Haleth, continuing on as though he had not spoken.  ‘You could leave me asleep on an island and return with help.’

Inglor stared at her as though she had grown a second head.

‘It would be for the best,’ she rasped.  ‘I cannot last much longer without water.’

‘No,’ he said.

‘No I can’t last much longer?  Look at me, Inglor.  Look at this.’  She pinched the skin on the back of her hand.  It remained in a lose fold.

‘No I will not abandon you on an unmarked and unknown island,’ he said.

‘Inglor, what do you believe might happen?’ she asked.  ‘Idril, Tuor and Voronwë were undisturbed for over three thousand years.  What makes you think I’d be accosted if you left me for a few weeks?’

‘I will not abandon you,’ he insisted.

‘But Inglor,’ she began.

‘I might be tempted to believe you are too frightened to marry me,’ he said.

Haleth regarded him in open-mouthed outrage.

‘Too frightened?’ she protested.

She struggled to her feet but was quickly overcome by a wave of weakness that forced her to think better of it. She slumped onto a wooden chest, her head bowed down to her knees, temper forgotten.

Gentle fingers caressed her back in a vain attempt to reassure her.  With a supreme effort she propped her head up with her hands and regarded Inglor with her sunken eyes.

‘Inglor, if we do not find fresh water soon there will be no wedding,’ she said calmly.

‘We will find it somewhere,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her close. ‘Perhaps it will rain tomorrow.’

The sky was a perfect, cloudless blue but Haleth did not have the energy to point out the obvious.

‘Perhaps,’ she agreed weakly.

He released her, moved back to the rower’s bench, bent over the oars and rowed with renewed urgency.

The sight of Inglor physically working normally riveted Haleth’s attention but this time she watched him and silently begged Manwë, Ulmo, or any of the Valar who might harken to her pleas for rain.  She envied Idril, who still slept and was insensible to their predicament.  It was quite ironic that Idril should be rescued from an enchanted island only to be lost at sea. 

The stars were burning brightly overhead when she finally fell asleep, curled into a ball on the bottom of the boat, wedged between the chest and the stern of the ship while listening to the rhythmic strokes of the oars in the boundless sea. She dreamt of a land with clear flowing streams, deep, cold lakes and springs of sweet water where she could drink her fill and never be thirsty again.

Haleth slowly drifted back to awareness and the burning, insistent thirst.  Years of homeless wandering had inured her to most physical discomfort, but she could not ignore this. It was difficult for her to notice or think of anything other than her swollen tongue and cracked lips. 

In spite of the overwhelming urgency of the thirst, there was something more her beleaguered body was trying to communicate.  With an effort Haleth concentrated on something other than her dry mouth and throat. 

There was a cold, dampness on her face.  She licked her lips and discovered they were unexpectedly wet.  Opening her eyes she discovered a world of grey, wispy tendrils.  Inglor sat slumped at the oars, defeated by thirst and exhaustion. 

The fog which enveloped the boat had condensed upon everything in sight.  Moisture glistened upon the wood of the ship.  Dewdrops quivered on the chest and oars.  The sail was wet with them.  Without stopping to think Haleth licked up the dew with her parched tongue.  It was sweeter than honey. 

She was lapping at one of the oars when the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise.  She glanced to the stern of the ship, expecting to find Inglor awake and ready to scold her for being selfish with the precious water, but he was still fast asleep. 

Haleth turned her gaze to the ship’s bow. 

There, standing like an apparition in the murk, stood Idril, watching her with a calm, appraising manner. 

‘Oh.  Hello,’ said Haleth, reluctantly lowering the oar. 

Idril continued to watch her with the same quiet scrutiny and Haleth realized she had been speaking in Westron.

‘Greetings,’ Haleth said, switching to Sindarin.  She hoped Idril could understand her.  It would be nearly impossible for her to be coherent in Quenya.

‘Where are we?’ said Idril.

‘On a guess I’d have to say lost,’ answered Haleth. 

Idril seemed less than pleased with the answer but she remained calm and polite.

‘Where is Tuor, my husband?’ she asked.  ‘And our loyal friend Voronwë?’

‘They are still as….’

‘My Lady Idril.’ Inglor had awakened at the sound of their voices. ‘I am Inglor of the House of Arafinwë.  My companion and I were able to rescue you from a sleep-enchanted island but, alas, were unable to also rescue your husband and friend.  When the fog lifts we shall bring you to Tol Eressëa.’

‘Tol Eressëa?’ snorted Idril.  ‘There is no aid to be had upon Tol Eressëa.  We must hence to Valinor with all possible haste.  The forces of Morgoth grow strong in the north and with no succor from the Blessed Realm, all of Middle-earth will be lost.’

Haleth looked from Idril to Inglor in confusion, too parched to understand.  They seemed to have forgotten about her so she brought the oar to her lips and greedily licked the droplets from it.

The movement caught Idril’s attention.  She examined Haleth curiously.

‘You are Secondborn,’ she exclaimed. 

Embarrassed to have been noticed, Haleth lowered the oar.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘I know you not from the Havens,’ said Idril, examining her narrowly.  ‘From whence came you?’

‘Most recently, from Tol Eressëa,’ Haleth replied.

Idril frowned, whether in confusion or disbelief Haleth could not judge. 

‘The world is much changed since you sailed from the Havens of the Sirion,’ said Inglor gently. 

‘So it seems,’ said Idril slowly.  She shook herself.

‘Lord Inglor, well met.  Unless I much miss my guess, there is some kinship between us,’ said Idril.

‘Indeed. And whether to Tol Eressëa or to Valinor itself we cannot go until Anor burns away the mist,’ said Inglor in his perfectly reasonable, maddeningly calm manner.

His gaze fell upon Haleth who was alternately running her fingertips over the ship and sucking the moisture from her hands.  He shook his head, using one oar, turned the boat.

‘Where are you taking us?’ Idril demanded.

‘Araman,’ he replied.  ‘We must be careful to stay on course to reach Tol Eressëa.  If we sail west we are bound to reach the mainland.’

‘We will be sailing further from help,’ said Idril pointedly.

‘We will never survive to summon help without fresh water,’ said Inglor. There will be fresh water in Araman.’

‘West it is,’ croaked Haleth.

‘As we are sailing perhaps you could tell me of the events of the wider world,’ said Idril.

‘Nothing should please me better,’ said Inglor.  ‘Many years have passed since you set sail from the Havens at the mouth of the Sirion and much has happened in that time.  Eärendil sailed into the uttermost West.’

‘My son!’ Idril exclaimed.  ‘My son survives?’

‘He does and he is accounted among the great by Elves and Men,’ said Inglor. ‘For it was by his voyage and his pleadings that the Valar were moved to send their Host to Middle-earth and end the reign of the Great Enemy.’

Haleth watched Idril’s face as Inglor told the old story.  For an elf, Idril had an incredibly expressive face and Haleth wondered why this should be.  Perhaps it was her comparative youth; Idril had only lived five centuries before she set foot upon the island and fell into her enchanted sleep. 

Whatever the reason, it was enlightening to watch her reactions to hearing for the first time what was, to Haleth, a very old story and one to which she had always known the ending.  For Idril, these events were new and held a personal immediacy that Haleth, born over three thousand years later, could never appreciate.

‘My son is a star?’ Idril asked softly.

‘The Silmaril shines upon his brow when he sails the heavens,’ said Inglor.

‘He is a sign of hope for those who must remain in Middle-earth,’ Haleth added.

Idril looked at her sharply.  Ashamed, like a child who had spoken out of turn, Haleth fell silent and looked at her hands.  The skin was loose, as though it had grown several sizes while the rest of her had shrunk.  She shuddered and looked into the mists instead.

‘You must drink.’  Inglor opened a chest, took out one of the remaining water skins and handed it to Haleth.

It was depressingly light. Haleth wanted to drain the entire thing.  It took a supreme act of will to hand it back to Inglor.

‘You should drink.  You need to row,’ she said. 

‘I can last the longer without water,’ Inglor reminded her as he refused the skin.

‘As can I,’ said Idril as Haleth silently offered it to her.

‘Perhaps,’ said Haleth, whose pride had been wounded at the intimation, no matter how carefully worded, that she was weaker than the others.  The fact that it was true did nothing to help her mood.  ‘Perhaps not.’

Inglor and Idril exchanged glances; Inglor’s was irritated, Idril’s surprised.

‘Haleth,’ he began sternly.

‘We shall all share the water?’ Idril interjected.

‘Of course we shall,’ Haleth beamed in spite of the ridiculousness of the situation; three people sharing a bit of water that was not enough for one.

‘You may begin,’ said Inglor. 

‘I insist,’ he added to Haleth’s mutinous expression.

Haleth glanced at Idril and saw no help there. 

Stifling a sigh, she took two quick sips, barely wetting her mouth before passing the skin to Idril.

Haleth peered into the misty gloom to avoid staring like a dog begging for food.  Breathing the moist air in itself was a relief.  If she kept telling herself that, she might believe it.

‘Here.  Drink.’  Inglor handed the skin back to her.

Judging by its weight, there seemed just as much water now as their had been when she had passed it alongl.

‘It would be preferable if the two of you deigned to drink this time,’ she said, taking a quick sip. 

‘As it would be for you to do the same,’ said Inglor.

Haleth opened her mouth to protest when Idril interrupted.

‘For pity’s sake just drink the stuff.  We shall never be free of this place otherwise and I should dearly like to rescue my husband and friend.’

‘How will we even know in which direction to sail?’ Haleth demanded.

‘We are north of Tol Eressëa.  For now we will keep the sun to our left.  I shall better be able to judge our position this evening if the sky is clear,’ said Inglor.

Haleth glanced about.  Anor was a watery circle within the curtains of silver mist.

‘And if the sky is not clear?’ asked Haleth, determinedly ignoring the sun.

‘Then we shall prepare to catch what rain as we can,’ said Inglor serenely.

‘Now drink,’ Idril insisted.