We change our course northward and give the ports a wide bend, so that the coastline remains barely visible from the ships. We should pass by invisible to our enemies; Súlion assures that Orcs’ eyesight by day is inferior to that of the Elves, even though their hearing is sharp. Three days later we approach Brithombar and cast anchor in a long bay, encircled by tall white cliffs. The city remains to the south, some twenty miles in a straight line.

I stand on the deck in the evening. All is ready for getting ashore tomorrow: the armour, the weapons, some provisions. The Sun falls into the Sea beyond the forest of tall masts, and long after the Vessel of Arien has disappeared, a red glow still paints the sky and water. I take hold of the railing and draw a deep breath. Perhaps I am not made for war, but now I want to take part in it. I want to free this land from Moringotto’s filth.

Soft footsteps behind make me turn. Súlion stands a few paces away.

“My lord Arafinwë, I have a request,” he says hesitantly, fidgeting with his sleeve.

“If only that is in my power to grant.”

“It is. I would go together with you. I can guide you through the land, and I can fight. I am no swordsman, but I can shoot well with the bow. Maybe your soldiers could spare a weapon for me?”

“They could, certainly,” I reply, moved. “And we would be grateful for a guide. But we would not demand this of you. You have suffered enough. You may stay here, with Falmar and his sailors.”

“I want to go. To do something, to help in some way. I want to avenge my brother.” A shadow passes his face, he frowns and bites his lip. “I do not want to hide on a ship while others spill their blood.”

“Falmar has reasons to do as he has decided,” I say softly. “Good reasons.”

“To stand aside at a moment like this?” Súlion’s eyes briefly flash. “I know enough of history to be aware of his reasons. I have dwelt with the Noldor for many years, and I know why and how they came here. Much of what they did was evil, but for how long can you hold a grudge? The punishment must be in measure with the crime.”

“You believe it is not?”

“No, it is not. You will see for yourself. What has been done to this land, to its people…” He falls silent and, arms crossed, looks towards the shore ere speaking again. “I love Endor. But now… Now it is a place of dread. We shall have to move with utmost caution tomorrow. Still, the land offers enough concealment.”

“You seem to know these lands well.”

He nods. “I am of the Falathrim, born on the coastlands, further to the south. The life of a fisherman or a sailor did not appeal to me, so I journeyed inland as soon as I was old enough to do so. But the Great Sea sings loud in the blood of those who once have heard its call. I returned – to find everything changed. The Long Peace had ended, and the land was perilous.”

“The Long Peace?”

“So we call it. For nigh two hundred years the lords of the Noldor held Morgoth in leaguer. Beleriand was safe, the roads were open. But then the Enemy unleashed his fire-demons. The North burned; the leaguer was broken. As soon as I heard the news, I journeyed back to the land of my childhood. Yet concern for my family was but one of the reasons. It was the longing, too. Longing for the Sea, for the soft sighing of foam upon the sand in calm weather, for the roar of swelling waves during the storm, for the harsh voices of the gulls. As I dwelt inland, I oft dreamt of the seabirds, of their cries, of their white shapes, so swift and graceful against the sky.”

He stands beside me at the railing and raises his face towards the sky, towards the seabirds circling overhead. The voices of the gulls are harsh, yet there is a strange music in their wailing. I never paid much heed to them at home, but here everything somehow seems to have a different meaning.

“Did you find your family safe?” I ask.

“Yes. They dwelt in Eglarest, and I settled with them. But twenty years later Morgoth attacked Falas. Brithombar and Eglarest fell. Many perished. So many.” He looks in the distance for a while, eyes void, then pulls himself together again. “My family survived, though we were sundered in the confusion of battle. Only later I learned that my parents had escaped to the Isle of Balar in one of lord Círdan’s ships. Me and my brother, we fled inland and took to a wandering life. We became hunters in the wild. We hunted the servants of the Enemy.” His eyes glint. “Swift arrows in the twilight. Knife-work in the shadows. Luck was on our side for a long time, and we did quite some damage to Morgoth’s creatures. But we became too reckless, and one day the hunters became the hunted.”

“I regret, Súlion.” The words seem hollow, yet I cannot find anything better to say. “I understand why you want to return. But you have already taken part in the war. None would hold it against you if you remained in safety now.”

He shakes his head. “I would hold it against myself. I am not so arrogant as to think that my bow could change the course of the battle. But I want to return, for the memory of what Endor once was. I would gladly give my life if I knew this war would bring destruction to Morgoth and his creatures.”

“It must bring end to the Enemy,” I quietly reply. “It must.”

“Yes.”

“You said you had dwelt with the Noldor for a time,” I say after a while of silence. “Where was that? Here, on the coastlands?”

“No, not here.” Súlion shakes his head. A far-away look dawns in his eyes, a faint smile appears on his lips. “I was a woodwright at the dwelling of our King. A beautiful place. It was built in a cavern, under a roof of stone, yet there was light, so much light that one could never complain about the lack of it. And the sculptures in the hallways – entire stories unfolded as one went by. Stone ceased to be stone, marble birds seemed ready to take flight, marble trees seemed to expect a sudden breeze. Our King was a marvellously gifted sculptor. We wondered, at first, seeing him with a hammer and chisel, taking part in the work like a common craftsman, but then we learned that it was the way of the Noldor, even of their kings. He made Nargothrond into a place of wonder.”

I grip the railing. Súlion’s words echo dimly in my ears. Nargothrond.

“Lord Arafinwë?” Súlion’s voice is concerned. “Are you well?”

With sheer force of will I turn to face him. “I am well. It is just… the name of the place. And what you said of your King.” I cannot keep the tremor from my voice.

“Finrod Felagund? Did you know him in Valinor, lord? And his brother Orodreth?”

“Findaráto…” My eyes sting with tears. “Artaresto… They are… were… my sons. My two eldest children.”

“I am sorry.” Hesitantly Súlion lays his hand on my arm in a gesture of comfort. “I am truly sorry, lord. Everyone loved them. They were so kind-hearted. I had already moved to coastlands when we learned the dreadful story of King Felagund’s passing, and later, that of Orodreth’s death and the fall of Nargothrond. I am sorry.” He lowers his eyes for a while in silent mourning, then looks up at me again, eyes wide. “But then… as their father, you must be Finarfin, Fëanor’s and Fingolfin’s brother!”

Despite the grief, I smile at this realization. “Indeed, even though our names in Sindarin are strangely changed.”

Súlion returns the smile, then considers me gravely. “You must understand why I want to join the battle, King Finarfin,” he says. “Are you not doing the same? In a way?”

I stand silent, unsure what my reply should be. Maybe I am doing the same. In a way.