***

Disclaimer: Middle-earth and all characters therein are Copyright of Tolkien and his Estate and/or Enterprises. This work of fiction is for entertainment purposes only and no profit is made thereby.

Rating:PG-13 for brief sexual content and graphic battle sequences. There will be further warnings – please obey any that apply to you.

Story Notes:
*It is written that Cirdan was also called the Shipwright, and Earendil the Mariner; those epesses are frequently used in this tale.
*Elrond and Elros are depicted as twins, in compliance with HoME (the Silmarillion doesn't specify).
*Aerandir, Falathar, and Erellont are canon characters: Faerior and Mallith are creations of the author.
*Some quotes from J.R.R.'s work are used with little or no changes to the original; this is done knowingly and respectfully.
*In Laws and Customs, it is stated that Elven children learn to speak and walk in their first year. If Elrond and Elros seem slower to develop than that, consider that they are partially Edain, and twins.
*I don't incorporate miscellaneous phrases/words in Elvish, with or without English translations. It makes more sense to me that the characters are speaking exclusively in their native tongue, not just saying "mellon" every now and again.
*It should be noted that for the purposes of this story Gil-galad’s lineage and history complies with the version given in the Silmarillion. Therefore, Fingon sent his son Ereinion to the Falas after the Dagor Bragollach. When the Havens were destroyed circa the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, those who escaped took refuge on the isle of Balar- among them were Cirdan and Ereinion. I’m aware that J.R.R.’s final say on the matter of Gil-galad’s parentage was otherwise, but I prefer to have textual references for what I write of, and the reference I have is the Silmarillion. To those who favor Orodreth as Gil-galad’s sire, and/or Gil-galad as Lord of the Havens at Sirion; this is not that story.

Author's Notes:
*This is indeed a revised version of a story formerly with another title, by the same author.
*Special thanks to Lyllyn for beta reading. Any remaining errors are my own, sadly.

***

*******

The streets were crowded, bustling with Elves of Doriath and of Gondolin – great empires doomed by fate and lost by pride. Forced to flee their homes before the threat of death and thralldom, here the refugees of those once fair and prosperous realms gathered.

Cupped before the sea, the harbor at the mouths of Sirion were ever cleverly disguised; high reeds and craggy rocks did well to conceal that which ought not to be easily seen. Upon a high bluff nigh to the delta were built all establishments of business and leisure, and those homes of the Havens' residents.

From there above, either by the Steep Cliff or the garden pavilions overlooking the harbor below the ridge, one could see the comings and goings of the ships, and the happenings of the Sea. Just as well from either precipice or the heart of town could be seen the path of the sun, the glow of the stars, and the gulls dancing amid the clouds. This was glad for the townsfolk, who prided themselves on their very perseverance, and cherished these simple pleasures.

It was an ordinary day of mundane tasks, interrupted when the Harbormaster's bell rang from below. All those available among town ran through the tidy crops of green leaves and gold grains to behold what was come. One other stood already by the Steep Cliff; so used to her presence was the earth there that the rocks wore her footprints.

Seen by many was Cirdan the Shipwright's return -far earlier than expected- and with his ship docked not Earendil's; the watchers were nigh unto despair for his absence, fearing their Lord lost to the Sea. Those first beheld Cirdan's approach made their way through town, eager to hear anon what news the Shipwright brought of Earendil's fate.

Coming behind them was the Lady Elwing, her pace steady with control though her heart was heavy. She knew better than some that ill news never hurried to be gone, but came unbidden and lingered until spent. From the Steep Cliff she could not see Earendil’s vessel near or far, and her eyes saw far indeed.

The trail from town to the harbor was not a long one, but before a sloping bend in the road an Elf had caused the townsfolk to halt, ordering those with business elsewhere to turn back lest they complicate matters unnecessarily. This Elf was Faerior, a respected chancellor, and the people obeyed his instructions. As the throng dispersed, Elwing walked past unnoticed; save for Faerior, who smiled with sympathy and nodded for her to proceed alone. In this way Elwing came to the harbor first.

It was a sparse crew that accompanied Cirdan, and likewise Earendil sailed with a modest crew of his own. And such was fortunate indeed, for Cirdan's ship bore the lot of them home after Earendil's vessel met its demise at sea. But the seafarers were nonetheless in good cheer, for none were killed in the incident, and any injuries sustained were by now faint aches.

As Elwing approached the first pier, she confirmed with her eyes that Earendil was alive and well. She could see him climbing the mast along with another, and one on each side they swung down upon two ropes, furling the sail.

Cirdan's ship was artistry in and of itself, with carvings etched in the shape of a story all around its hull, the descriptive motif almost music for the eyes to behold. Elwing came now to the prow, the top of which loomed no closer than twenty feet above her. Silver and dark heads of hair shuffled to and fro on deck, as the seafarers onboard prepared to disembark. Soon a song was started, and all joined in. Elwing knew her wait would not be long as a rope ladder was thrown overboard, its wooden steps beating like chimes against the hull.

One voice became distinguishable as it parted from the choir, then a lithe body sprung over the bulwark, sliding down the ladder in a blur of gold hair and salt-blanched clothes. Gloves protected his hands as he squeezed the rope to slow, and the last ladder footing he did make use of, placing a boot there for stability. The song was ending, and arching backwards the singer twisted about-faced, freeing his right hand to sweep that arm in a flourishing gesture, holding the tune's last note high and long.

Satisfied with his ballad thus completed, he bounded off of the ladder, landing on the dock to pose with a bright smile before his unamused wife. The sailors above began another tune, and Cirdan changing some words brought a mixture of laughter and cries of protest from the others. But now Earendil did not feel like singing, and to maintain his smile required much of his concentration.

"Earendil," Elwing said smoothly, but did not smile, mistaking his mood for something it was not. "Welcome home."

"Aye – but alas! the same cannot be said for my dear ship." He laughed mirthlessly, his eyes reflecting only irreplaceable loss. "Unless Ulmo might greet her as she spirals ever towards the depths of the Sea; for that is her new home, whether she would choose it or not."

Elwing recognized that he was merely being strong -for his crew and his wife- smiling despite misfortune. Perceiving this her demeanor softened, though complete understanding of her husband's affinity for ships was far easier to feign than feel. "Truly, I am sorry, Earendil. It was a lovely vessel, and you labored over it so. Its loss shall be mourned, and its glory remembered fondly."

"But flawed she still was." Quickly glancing about to see that none would overhear, he admitted, "Nothing but trouble we had, Elwing, from the day we set out." Looking up he squinted under the noontime brightness, the cloudless sky an unwelcome irony. "The sun shone just as happily here that morn, but followed us not to Sea, and a storm was there waiting instead."

Elwing noticed his expectant pause. "You mentioned other troubles?" The question elicited a smile of appreciation from her mate, and an enthusiastic -if not entirely coherent to her- telling.

"Aye. First the mast we feared was not strong enough after all, for we learned soon the double square sails we rigged upon it was a mistake unforgivable -misbalanced, you see- and the assaulting winds tested even Cirdan's proven craft! He laughed when I proposed a second mainmast for poor Curuanna, whilst still we planned her form, but two would have been better; though a longer keel she would have needed to make room, naturally. That was not the least of which we disagreed upon while we built her, except that I adopt the foremast of his own design -as you see on his ship there- for Curuanna as well, and gladly I did so."

Elwing remembered that Curuanna was the name of Earendil's defeated ship, before she made the mistake of inquiring. "None were lost?"

Earendil shook himself, dismissing sorrow over sunken wood and wasted effort, when kin and friend lived to toil beside him again, and build better ships anew. "Nay, all are well. That is the best tidings I could bring, better than the lessons we learned of our craft... and I of my mortality." He stepped closer, yet mindful of any tension that might remain from the circumstances of his last departure. Slowly he reached out, nearly touching fingers with Elwing's at her side. "Elwing, I--"

But then a clamor arose as a plank was lowered, and the ladder hanging behind Earendil came to wiggling life. Soon Elves were hustling about as the noise increased. Looking landward Elwing saw the crowd from town had amassed, waiting for the Harbormaster to admit them onto the pier. Presently a few healers were making their way forth, smiling at every healthy sailor they passed.

"Come," said Elwing, "let us away. Though not long, your journey was wrought with danger, and tiresome. I would take you home to rest." At her husband's hesitation she added, "Unless you mean to... frolic with the rest."

Earendil was renowned among his kinsfolk, and Cirdan's presence would do nothing to dim the fervor of those wishing for a tale of the Sea and to share a goblet with the Mariner and Shipwright. Only more zealous would the people be to hear of what incident claimed the life of Earendil's newest vessel.

But Earendil was willing to forsake his usual wont. "Nay, beloved. I've no such desire for revelry today. Indeed a hearth-side seat upon the fur in our home would please me best." It was true enough, though he knew as well as Elwing did that he never sat at ease for long.

Elwing smiled at those words. "That is well. Your sons will be delighted." Taking her husband's hand, the pair began their journey up the pier, made long by several Elves who stopped in elation at the sight of Earendil, who kept him in place until he told a brief tale of his ordeal at Sea, and disclosed his plans for the evening.

Earendil was not bothered by the attention, and only rued the crestfallen expressions of his friends every time he excused himself short of a decent account of his expedition, or declined a well-meaning invitation to a saloon gathering. By the time Earendil and Elwing set foot upon solid ground their hands had long been parted, and they stood some feet apart.

Elwing looked at her husband, who appeared as excited as the townsfolk who received him so graciously. For the moment no one stood within a few yards, though more were approaching from all sides – not necessarily to meet Earendil, but none passed without paying their respects. Interruption was inevitable, and only a matter of time.

"You should stay," she said, adopting a playful lilt. "I shall never make it home with you at this rate."

"Nonsense," Earendil countered. "We are nearly there already."

Elwing laughed, but the tone was flat. "Your people love you dearly, and wish only for your company and to celebrate your safe return; I would not deny them their joy."

"Our people." Earendil's eyes fell with confusion upon his wife, and he ached to close the distance cast again between them, deterred when Elwing's smile dissipated.

"Bide with them but for a while," she said, ignoring his correction. "Gladden their hearts with your stories and companionship, and they will not disesteem you for an early departure. Then return to me at home, when the moon is newly alight. I'll be waiting." Turning she began to make her way through those gathered, weaving a solitary path home.

Looking after her Earendil was riven with the desire to follow, and obey, and question, and forget. Before he could master those conflicting impulses a hand was upon his shoulder. Spun around into a firm embrace, he was bid to tell his tale again, and again. It was another hour before Earendil set foot upon the path, much less saw the inside of the saloon.

***

The moon was high as a procession caroled through town, its numbers gradually diminishing with every stop, home after home. At last four companions gave their final farewells before separating into parties of two, one pair stumbling more often than the other as they shuffled away, giggling.

The Shipwright hummed one last encore, as besotted with the evening's mead as the night sky. Earendil embraced his wise choice to leave out the words, attempting to keep the beat of what would be a minstrel's part of percussion. But he was no minstrel, and the song ended in laughter as off-key as the singers had been.

They halted before the stately home that first had belonged to Tuor and Idril. Turning, Cirdan took a moment to admire the view. The porch faced west, the main street through town leading directly to Earendil's estate; from the elevated placement of the manor the whole of the Haven was visible.

Gardens bordered the north end of town, a patchwork of white trellises and flowerbeds nestled among the necessities of cultivated edibles. Below that ridge were workyards and storehouses for shipbuilding and supplies.

Glancing sidelong, he saw Earendil watching with an amused expression. "Yes?"

"I said, do you mean to stand here all night?" Earendil smiled, sweet and pleading. "I'm late as it is, and already as 'haplessly careless' as Elwing will tolerate; should I leave our honorable guest gawking on the stoop while I retreat to my soft bed, I fear what would become of me."

"Then let us not find out," said Cirdan, with a playful swat on the other's shoulder.

Inside, the house was dark. While Earendil was familiar enough to navigate without sight, he was less sure of Cirdan, and made towards a cupboard where lanterns were kept.

A soft laugh halted his movement, as did a gentle hand on his arm. "I was born before the sun first rose in the sky, my friend. The dark does not trouble me – even if I could only see well enough to find my pillow, I would still be content."

Earendil nodded. "Of course, thoughtless of me." He gestured to take Cirdan's cloak, but the Shipwright pushed the offer away, his meaning clear: he would not be waited on by the Lord of Sirion in his own home. Accustomed to it or not, the Shipwright's manner never ceased to amuse Earendil, who chuckled. "Permit me to escort you to your room at least, and you'll find that pillow soon enough."

Three spare rooms in Earendil's home were furnished as sleeping quarters. One was particularly ornate, and had served as Cirdan's housing for each of his visits over the years. As such, it was unnecessary that Earendil show his guest to the familiar room, yet he did so with the intention to have a few close words.

Cirdan peered into the chamber once Earendil opened the door, and sniffed, looking down his nose at the homely fixtures. "It'll do."

With effort, Earendil did not laugh at his feigned haughtiness. "It ought to, Sea-scamp, for it's this or the cellar with gratitude such as that."

Cirdan turned back on the other with a gleam of approval in his blue eyes. "Good night, tot," he challenged, using the teasing pet name Earendil had never in truth earned. "Thank you for your sufferance, and your dull company."

At that Earendil smiled, resting his hands on the other's shoulders. "Ai, I cannot keep pace with your banter. You remain the most condescending Elf this side of the Sea... interpret that as a compliment if it pleases."

Grinning smugly, Cirdan leaned down for a single kiss on the other's cheek: the earnest equivalent of a 'thank you' and 'farewell', just as the affectionate name-calling of before.

"Cirdan, a moment," Earendil halted the other as he began to turn. "I want to say—"

"If it is how thankful you are for my assistance at Sea during that catastrophe, I know, for you've already said. And if it is how sorry you are for not taking more of my advice in the building of Curuanna, I know that as well, for you've already said it too. And if it is to plead for my help one last time in the construction of another ship, you know, as I've already said, that I'm not leaving until we build one that you can keep afloat."

The words were plainly spoken, and there was nothing but the desire to make himself believed behind them. For such honesty and favor, Earendil was near to tears. "Thank you," he breathed.

"You are welcome, and an emotional drunk. May I sleep now?"

"Aye, and sleep well. We breakfast an hour after daybreak, but for you I shall make an exception, and be waiting o'er your bed with cold water and a cymbal ere dawn." An old joke between them, but Cirdan did not expect it from Earendil speaking so softly, and laughed out loud.

"I dare you," he said, and swaggered into the handsome room.

Heading then to his own bedchamber, Earendil was in good cheer that remained even as he tripped over a new rug lining the hall. It was strange to him how the house was both familiar and foreign to his senses; an oddity he was struck with upon every return. Little enough time was spent homebound that even small changes, such as the strange paintings decorating the bedroom walls, daunted him.

From a washroom to the left, candlelight and scented steam seeped under the closed door. He breathed deeply, as allured by the smell as the prospect of a hot bath. But first he passed by the ample bed, bordered on both sides by tall windows, to where a cradle sat under a veil hung from the ceiling. Pedestals of polished steel sat on either side of the altar, holding bowls filled with ceremonial herbs of protection and wellbeing.

Peering through the fabric, Earendil felt his heart beat faster at the sight of his sleeping sons. Their heads were furred with black hair, eyes lightly closed in the slumber of infants. On opposite sides they slept facing each other, their limbs touching if not entwined. Once he had found them suckling each other's thumbs in such a position, and smiled at the memory.

The urge to hold them soon grew strong; but knowing there was a ward set upon the threshold and being too weary to replace it, he settled for one last look, then forced himself to retreat across the room.

A mirror framed in woven brass hung beside the dresser, and before it sat a bench and narrow desk, the place where Elwing prettied her hair in the morning. Earendil recalled fondly the times he would watch her from their bed, ever fascinated by the grooming habits of females – just different enough from those of males to elicit the curiosity of the opposite gender.

Hastily removing his outermost clothing, he entered the washroom – therein met by a pleasing sight: that of Elwing sitting on the ledge of a cedarwood bathtub, lazily swirling a layer of rose petals atop the water. Her shift clung to her body in a most enticing way, the material damp and darkened at every curve.

The heated water had done well to rouse the room into a violent fog, and Earendil closed the door behind himself to keep that heat contained, swatting at the mist before his eyes. The floor was slick with condensation, not unlike the deck of a ship; he tread across a familiarly careful fashion. "Hello, my love," he said. "This is a most pleasant surprise."

With a nod Elwing glanced to the window, and the moon beyond. Looking back at Earendil's guilty countenance, she smiled in turn. "You are just in time, have no fear. My wrath shall be reserved for another day."

"Then I shall be on time more often," he laughed, and took to the task of untying the laces of his sleeves. Seeing his difficulty, Elwing rose from her perch to help; he fought with the thong binding his hair with whichever hand was free. She liberated him from that knot as well, and soon there was nothing left to remove but his breeches. They stared wordlessly when their eyes next met, overwhelmed yet paralyzed by desire.

"You are hot-blooded, Peredhel," the lady teased, with her hand as well, rousing her husband with the brief caress.

"Aye," Earendil managed. Few other words came to mind – at least not the artful phrases he wished for. "'Tis cold out at Sea," he ventured awkwardly. "This warmth is most welcome, and your thoughtfulness in providing it. I thank you."

"Is there aught more I may do for you?" Elwing asked, heartfelt if candid meaning in her eyes.

Suddenly unsure, Earendil faltered. He was indeed lonesome for the attentions of his wife; the aching in his loins left no doubt of that. But he was just as aware of his bodily desires as of Elwing's condition -that of recently bearing twin children- and he knew not of a female's required duration for healing in this.

"Elwing, my tongue is in knots," he said, throat dry despite the humidity. "I possess not the talent to term my thoughts as a lady should hear them."

"Anything you say is good for me to hear," Elwing assured him. "I love all your words." She took his hand, wondering at its tenseness.

At length he sighed. "Waves capable of great destruction I have sailed through without avoidance or dread, yet I cannot now bring myself to look into your eyes."

"Wherefore?"

"Should what you see frighten you, I would be so ashamed for it that I could never dare look again."

Elwing brought up the hand she held, and kissed it. "Nothing within you would frighten me."

"Not even a passion that could wound you?" his voice was caustic with self-resentment, then reduced to a whisper, "I could not bear to pain you, and I fear to risk it."

At her relieved laugher, the tension drained from his hand. She said kindly, "I glean now your mind, husband – but ask me first how well I am healed, before you draw such conclusions!"

Blushing, he asked, "How well are you healed?"

"Completely. Yet mayhap you should discover for yourself." His surprised look remained as she pulled him close. "Now what were those words too unrefined for my ears?"

At last looking deep into her eyes, finding ardor therein equal to his own, he smiled. "That bath is not too full for us both, hm?"

If it had been, it would not have stopped them from sharing it. But Elwing was wise as well as fair, and knew better in great anticipation for her Lord's return than to fill it anywhere near the brim.

***

"Was that painting ever above?" Earendil squinted at the ceiling as he lay upon the mattress so missed during his voyages.

Stretched along his side, Elwing kissed the shoulder her cheek rested upon. "No, love. It was to be created as a gift for your return, and completed early by chance," she kissed him again, "just as you are returned to me so soon."

A pang of guilt reminded Earendil of the words he was interrupted before speaking earlier. "You were right, Elwing, about my departing. I should not have gone so soon; it was too early to leave our sons, and you. I was zealous to test Curuanna on the waves, and for my rashness the fates tested their waves on me."

"Earendil... was it so dire? Might you have been lost to me?"

If he told the truth, he knew she would never consent to him sailing again. If he lied, he feared she would not care whether he stayed or went. "More frightful to me than that possibility is the terms on which we parted last."

At that Elwing looked away, abashed. Their dispute had been much of her doing, though no more irrational was her behavior than Earendil's, or so she thought. "Let us not speak of that again," she said.

"I would speak of it indeed, if only to make a promise upon that dreadful mistake. Every time I set sail it may be my last departure, and that is the risk I accept for the purpose that is mine; but let us swear that we will never be parted in bitterness again." Their eyes met once more, and neither would sever that connection. "I could die tomorrow young but content, Elwing, if I took my last breath knowing you loved me still."

"We are bonded eternally by the sanctity of marriage, Peredhel. Ever will I love you."

Earendil kissed her brow, lingering with his lips pressed against her temple, enjoying the mossy scent of her damp hair. "That I am gladdened to hear, yet I still beseech your forgiveness for my leaving. I would not heed your counsel against it, not for the sake of our young sons, nor for you alone. The powers made a terrible demonstration to prove how wrong I was in that. I pray you forgive me."

Opposing desires stalled Elwing's reply. One was to forgive her husband, and let the hurts of past wrongs mend forthwith. The other was to ensure that he understood the significance of his choice, and was not simply sorry for the consequences.

"Our sons wept for your absence, and would not eat after an entire day." It was said as a statement of fact, her voice without accusation or sympathy. Though Earendil winced she continued, "I could not console them that first night no matter how I tried, and they only slept the next day in exhaustion."

"I'm so sorry," he blurted, looking with longing and guilt towards his sons' crib. "Forgive me, please, I had to go."

Those were the words Elwing never wished to hear. It was true that Earendil was as much a tool of his destiny as his ships were tools to help him carry it out. She knew that before they were betrothed, and accepted it before they were wed – but she did not like it. At times it felt as if she was married to Earendil's fate, not the person who bore it. Yet he could not change what was never his doing.

"I forgive you," she said.

Beside her Earendil sighed. "Then I may rest easy at last." His voice was lighter, bereft of many troubles it carried.

"A token of our love then, and a seal upon our promise." Rising onto her elbow, Elwing placed a chaste kiss on her Lord's lips.

Earendil returned the kiss, and delivered one of his own, not chaste enough to match his wife's modest gesture. Elwing's look was amused at his deviation. "My offense was greater!" he explained.

They fell together, sharing light giggles and heavier kisses. It was not the faint noise of rustling blankets, nor the endearments whispered twixt a couple in love that stirred the first babe, then his twin. From the cradle a whimper resounded, then again. Earendil hearing this put out his hands, stilling his wife as he listened carefully. "They're awake," he said after another noise, delight in his tone.

"Nay, they'll sleep more." Elwing pulled him nearer, reinitiating their affectionate tussle with a few knowing caresses. Another faint sob was followed by its match.

"Cease, cease... I cannot." Earendil pulled himself up, retrieving a robe from the headboard.

"Earendil..."

Her face was pleading, even slighted. Unsure of whether to feel apologetic or otherwise towards his wife, Earendil explained, "I'm... unused to it. I cannot bear to ignore them."

Elwing frowned. "Yet you neglect me with enough ease."

"I-" he stammered, gesturing to the crib whence another mewl came. "But might they be hungry?"

With a sigh she rolled out of bed, pulling on her own robe, and spoke disinterestedly as she passed by, "A wonder that would be, for all I do is feed them."

Earendil watched her throw open the pale cloth; if she recited words of piety before disturbing the ward, it was in a whisper he could not hear. Cooing to her children she moved to pick one up. "Be you to bed, husband. I shall feed them and return once they are through with me."

There was harmless teasing in her tone, but Earendil did not like it – not being dismissed as if he had no business, and not her demeanor. And least of all did he approve of what he saw under his sons' quite once it was pulled down: the Silmaril, shining brightly as ever. Though using the sanctity of the cot as a hiding place for the jewel sparked ire within him, he did not voice it.

"Nay," Earendil said, "they will sleep with us tonight." Elwing turned to him, the babe in her arms feeding contentedly. Earendil gave a disarming smile in case his words were taut, and they four returned to the bed. After both infants were asleep once more, Elwing laid beside Earendil.

Suddenly he spoke, "I love you, Elwing. And our sons as well have my heart, and there is naught I would refuse to do for them, or you."

"This I know." Elwing was solemn, waiting for what was next to come – for she perceived more of her husband's contemplations than he knew.

"You must share me now," he said evenly.

"Between the Sea and your fate and our sons whom I also love – this I know as well."

Earendil looked upon her, his mood no longer stern, if his words might have been. "I share you as well, beloved, with all of those things, yet I love you no less for it."

"Nor I you."

Their hands connected across the distance between them. In his exhaustion from adventures at Sea, and spent excitement from his homecoming that day, Earendil was swiftly asleep – but not Elwing.

She watched her husband's half-closed eyes, aglow with Elven dreams, then studied his fair features so at peace, golden hair spread as feathers upon the pillow, and her heart was made glad – yet she knew it would not last. Something would take him from her, as something always did, and it would happen too soon, and she would be left alone, on the Steep Cliff watching the Sea for signs of hope, or wandering the empty harbor in sorrow for her Lord, her love.

Not her beautiful sons or her handsome home or even her sacred Silmaril could ease that sadness, however Elwing wished it would. And she did not look forward to this eventuality, but with the foresight of her kin, that line of Melian the Maia, she saw it coming. Like a storm on the horizon, and a wind too high to bear a lone ship to safety, she floundered helplessly on the waters of despair; a victim of fate. And she did not like it.

***

***

Four months ago Earendil returned, and during that time the town was glad. His days were spent toiling with Cirdan; together they planned Curuanna's replacement, sometimes calculating materials in the storehouses, other times roaming the harbor wordlessly, garnering impressions of what the future held. Soon the building began, and the workyards were a din of hammering and Telerin singing.

Before dusk each day, the townsfolk would see their Lord pass down the middle street through town, with Cirdan at his side. By nightfall the porch of Earendil's home was lit with lanterns and laughter; looking closely Elwing could be seen, her twin infants ever in someone's arms.

When the long labor of Shipwright and Mariner was completed, the ship Telainathar was christened; seafarers frequently visited the moored beauty, eager for their Lord to disclose when the maiden voyage would embark.

None but Cirdan perceived Earendil's reluctance the day he finally made an announcement: "In one week, we set sail." His crew had burst into cheers, and though Earendil smiled at their merriment, his eyes betrayed him by straying towards his home where Elwing was waiting with his sons.

On the night before Earendil's departure, he and Elwing held each other even into the morn. They had watched their sons toddle about the porch, until both rested and slept upon a cushion, and were carried by their nurses to bed. Yet Earendil with Elwing remained, and they clung fondly to what would soon be out of reach.

"When will you return?" Elwing asked, not for the first time.

"I will return," Earendil answered, and wished it would be enough. Elwing tightened her hold of him, pressing closer to his side.

"If the sun never rose, I would not mourn its absence, if the lost day meant you would remain. I am that sorry to see you go."

Earendil sighed, and spoke with tired conviction, "Under sun or star, to Sea still I sail." He paused, listening to the rush of the waves echoing from beyond – a melody he heard even in sleep. "It calls to me always, and my purpose only more so. I must go."

"Ever as it has been." Elwing spoke softly, but her hands were fists. "I thought to go with you when we wed, and before."

Earendil unwound one arm from his waist, undoing the hand's tension with a soft touch to kiss her palm. "And so you might, once our sons are grown."

"They have their nurses," she ventured.

Earendil considered his reply. His childhood was different than that of his wife; whereas Tuor and Idril departed recently, Dior and Nimloth were slain when Elwing was five years of age. "Aye, but they have their mother also, who knows their needs better than any."

"They need to eat and be loved and kept warm. Any here may provide that for a time – they are cherished by all. What is being without me for one voyage to them? To you it is nothing!"

In a low voice Earendil said, "The Sea is unpredictable, and my doom uncertain. I need not to have nearly drowned but months ago to know that." Though he fell quiet, their thoughts were alike. Should he fail or be lost, Elwing would remain to nourish their sons through loss and despair. But if they were lost together...

Again Earendil spoke, "Nay, beloved. You shall stay to care for our sons, until they are Lords of this Haven during my absence – thereafter you may leave with their blessing. It must be their choice to chance becoming orphans, not ours."

"Their choice that we be together or sundered by the Sea?" Elwing frowned. "It was our togetherness which brought them hence. Why should—" but she vanquished such thoughts, breath quivering as she sighed. "Forgive me, I speak as if they keep us apart with selfish intention. 'Tis not so."

If Earendil was angry at her words, he could not be so when she met his gaze. Within her eyes was such loneliness that he wondered if he sat beside her still, or was already leagues away at Sea. "I sorrow for your absence, Earendil; always I wish to be near you. It is that simple."

In Elwing's heart were thoughts of her Silmaril, and how its brilliance comforted her at times – but never enough. Though she did not speak this, Earendil perceived her consideration, and it unsettled him.

"Cleave to our children for the companionship you miss; that is as it should be. My heart sorrows for my separation from them, and you, and our home here. I wish it could be otherwise, but too dire is my purpose to eschew that path now, for any reason. I must go."

Elwing shook her head, and hugged her husband tighter. It should be so -and she knew as much- that her home and children and motherhood ought to make her content. But she loved Earendil foremost, and everything she loved after was dimmer without him, and everything thus a shadow of what it could be reminded her of the glorious brightness away at Sea. So it remained between them, and they spoke no more that night.

As the sun rose hours later, they woke from a light slumber. Inside they fetched their sons, and broke fast together, just as many mornings before. Then Earendil bid the household a fond farewell, embracing his sons last of all. Reluctantly he was parted from them, watching through tears as their nurses bore them away to play and forget, as only children could do.

Hand in hand Earendil and Elwing came to the harbor, where Cirdan upon Telainathar was waiting. The ship was a grand one; less ornate than Cirdan's own, yet for the swiftness of its construction and excellence in design, it was splendid indeed. "It's perfect," Elwing said of the craft, whose name she could not recall. "Like a dream it will appear to any who espy it from afar."

"Thank you." Earendil still wore the frown that has assaulted him at home. Listless, he returned Cirdan's wave from the sterncastle of Telainathar.

The pier was lively and crowded with the bustle of seafarers in final preparations and of their kin in farewells. Elwing assumed this moment of privacy would be their last. "What would you say to me, husband, that you have not said for all this morning? Yours is a rare mood, so glum and quiet."

Earendil looked upon her, his countenance farseeing. " Kiss me now farewell, and take you again upon that path, and do not look back. Go home to our children – sing and play and dance with them, for I cannot, and tell them that I love them, and that I will return; and take this to your heart also. Those are my words." He said nothing about the Silmaril, though like an unsolved riddle it lingered in the corners of his mind.

"As my Lord commands it," Elwing teased in a defiant tone, tears in her eyes that did not match her strong voice. For several moments they embraced – if they noticed the amused glances at this prolonged demonstration of affection, they cared not. Their eyes met for only an instant after their ended kiss, then swiftly they walked away, in opposite directions.

Earendil was amid a swarm of seafarers, excited and of good cheer, the moment he set foot upon the pier; an honest smile found his face by the time he boarded Telainathar. He did not know that Elwing turning against his wishes saw this, nor that the sight would not be forgotten.

From the garden pavilions Elwing did not watch Telainathar set sail, nor from the Steep Cliff did she watch it disappear beyond the horizon – though in each of these places most other residents were assembled, with the rest singing songs of farewell from the harbor below.

In her home Elwing heard these songs continue well unto noon, though she did not sing. But her sons listened by the open window of their playroom, as any of Elvenkind would be charmed by music so sweet; perhaps they even wondered whom the songs were sung for, and why.

Long after the singing ceased, and her sons napped upon a quilt, Elwing sat in a wicker chair by the widow. In her hand rested a jewel that did not quite ease her heartache, and yet she could not bring herself to leave it isolated in an otherwise unoccupied room.

As the sun dropped lower, shadows grew long, and darkness threatened the last rays of daylight, still the Silmaril glowed keenly, reminding her of brighter times... and that was some condolence, at least. But it was not enough.

***

The illustration was almost complete, after beginning it nearly a year ago. A gentle dove of ivory, flying over a golden field, white clouds sharing the blue sky, and a sad willow weeping for the setting sun. Elwing stitched with painstaking care, whenever she was able, and she wore calluses for her dedication. Presently she added more shadow, and highlighting; mere details compared to the difficulty of before. Even so, she did not appreciate distraction, in any form.

"Nana...?" spoke the owner of the gray eyes that had been staring up at her for several minutes. Elwing looked sideways and down, to where her son rested his chin on small hands, his face framed by the seat cushion and the curved armrest above his head of black hair.

"Where is your nurse, my precious?" Elwing asked kindly, yet no answer came. "Where is your brother?" At that her son smiled widely. With each other, she thought – or he did. "Best you find them, lest they worry." Elwing returned her attention to her craft.

"Up?" her son piped, one of his few words.

"Not with my needlework, love. 'Tis unsafe for you." Elwing did not glance back, and her son eventually toddled away, making a calculated pattern from one piece of furniture to another, determined not to revert to crawling, but not yet skilled enough to cross entire rooms without support. Seeing this in her peripheral vision, Elwing smiled. He was a bright and spirited tot to waddle on his feet even before most Elf-toddlers would – and though not strong enough to do it well, clever enough to do it still.

Finally Elwing held up the completion of her long toils, examining it with admiration. She imagined how Earendil would react, for he was ever amazed with the art of needlework. Her thoughts then turned to what manner of frame to make, or have made, and she began to conceive of a dual purpose for the picture and its frame. Unfortunate, that even her hobby was overshadowed by troubles of obligation; but so it goes, and her recent concerns were dire.

A new place to hide the Silmaril was needed, for it had been kept in her sons' crib, but soon the children would outgrow the cot, and a Silmaril would not be a secret if stowed under speaking children's pillows. It was too obvious that the Silmaril might be kept near her own person, thus it had no asylum amid her personal things, not even in something resembling a box for simple jewelry or other keepsakes. It had to be hidden, and protected, someplace safe, unexpected.

"Lady Elwing?"

Elwing started, and found her eyes unfocused, and the embroidery lying at her feet upon the floor. "Y-yes?" coming back to herself, she collected her dropped work, and stood up from her chair.

In the doorway, a servant stood with concern in her eyes, but repeated steadily, "The noonday meal is prepared, my Lady."

Giving her thanks, Elwing followed the maid out. In the dining room, she kissed each of her sons waiting there before being seated, and the meal was served as usual. But in Elwing's heart, doubt repeatedly claimed her attention. Had she anticipated such a purpose for her stitchery ere it was even complete? Was that impulse, to devise a new hiding place for the Silmaril, what hastened her progress along?

Thinking back, Elwing was shocked to realize the effort she had made to work on the craft, putting it before other duties, even if it posed an inconvenience to herself or others. But no, she relaxed. Never had she put such a material thing above her dear sons.

Elwing sighed in relief, and answered to her name being called, not realizing it was the third time the servant had spoken it.

***

***

On the morning that Earendil returned, Elwing leaving her sons with their nurses went to meet him. No one ship was missing out of the two departed, as had happened before, and this voyage had taken the expected duration of three months. With a light heart she reached the harbor foremost, though some others were setting out to welcome Earendil home.

As usual, the Harbormaster admitted Elwing with a smile and wink – passing so effortlessly, she chuckled to know that whoever came after her would have no easy time gaining immediate admittance onto the pier.

Telainathar sat motionless, and Cirdan's ship behind it was coming to a halt. Elwing watched the sails being furrowed as the anchors dropped, and listened to the songs that sprang forth from both ships as the seafarers prepared to disembark. Soon Earendil descended Telainathar in his usual fashion, though without flourish, and no song was upon his lips.

"Elwing," he spoke first, bowing in atypical formality owed to his preoccupation. "It is good to see you, as ever."

"And you, husband." Elwing curtsied to match her husband's gesture, smiling at the peculiarity of it. "Welcome home."

They embraced, and held for long. "How are the children?" Earendil wanted to know.

"Walking... or trying their best." Elwing giggled, "But they have excelled at falling down safely!" She felt his arms around her twitch in surprise, then slacken.

"I am sorry to have missed it," he muttered. Together they walked landward.

"Do not fret!" Elwing replied lightly, "Elrond has only just begun, and Elros is not such a fast learner, though an originator at heart."

"Already a year old this month." His face was troubled. "The storehouses are empty, you know. To build Telainathar took the last of our materials."

At this statement Elwing paused, knowing it was not wood for fuel he considered, of which they had plenty. She strove to retain her cheer, saying, "But now that Telainathar is built, are you not content?"

"The birchwoods of Nimbrethil is but a days march," he said. Yet both knew the hewing of trees and their transport here was long and hard work. Seeing her face fill with doubt, he continued, "It's meant to be, my love! Already in my dreams sails the ship next to be built; 'tis a matter of fate."

A dreamlike quality was in his voice, blue eyes aglow with anticipation that Elwing shared none of. She gestured beyond, her annoyance unsuppressed. "What of the ship you have?"

"Oh, Telainathar is a marvel, but her greatest achievements are her flaws, for now we perceive, Cirdan and I, what alterations will result in the finest vessel yet devised. Even the Sea was kind to our contrivance, sending us home swiftly so that we might bear this hope to fruition." He laughed, "It wants my chances to be fair, I deem!"

This Elwing did not understand, his obsession with ships and sailing, and the song of the Sea that she was just as pleased to hear sitting beside it, without desiring to float amidst it. "I am not pleased," was all she said.

The townsfolk had persuaded the Harbormaster to admit them at last. They came forth in good cheer to spirit away their beloved Lord for celebration and storytelling, while Elwing returned home alone.

***

When night had fallen, Earendil took leave of the saloon, despite any good-natured protests. At last a song was sung in his farewell; even that did not persuade him to remain for its duration. Backing out of the tavern with Cirdan at his side, the Mariner and Shipwright took deep breaths of the brisk air before turning to each other with tired looks.

"Is it such an event returning on Balar?"

"Hardly," Cirdan's tone was one of approval. "They thank me for my tidings and my effort – then they thank the stars for their continued safety, and leave me be. Although," here he nudged the other's shoulder, "I am not as nice to look at as you."

Earendil remained thoughtful. "The attention and praise bothers me little; sure enough it must be novel to those who remain here, what I do." He hesitated, and it seemed to Cirdan that he thought little of his next words, "Yet would occasionally that they praised the Silmaril for my return, and their continued safety, and left me be."

Cirdan frowned, perceiving an oddness – not in Earendil's words, but a matter they addressed.

After a quiet moment had stretched into several, Earendil gestured down the road to his home at its end. "Well, shall we?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye. "Your lowly bunk awaits you."

"Ah... nay, friend, not tonight." Sensing Earendil's distress, he explained, "Think nothing of it; 'tis only that cogitation has the helm of me. Mayhap I'll keep the Sea company tonight."

"You will not sleep?"

"I might yet, but I'll do it under the stars." Suppressing a wince, he hoped the last word had not been stressed in his speech, as it was in his mind. But Earendil's face betrayed no recognition, and Cirdan bent down for a kiss on the Half-elf's cheek. "Good night, tot," he said grinning.

Earendil replied with a shake of his head, "Get you no sand where it belongs not, ancient one. Good night."

Cirdan laughed, and turned wagging a finger to shame the other. His smile remained through most of town, yet when the narrowing path tattered off to sandy loam, his mood had likewise deteriorated. 'Under the stars', he thought acidly, ashamed at his own slip, though Earendil noticed it not. 'But not under the Silmaril'.

He snapped his fingers in irritation over suspicions he could not justify, foreboding he could not vanquish. Elwing's jewel was the one thing he had never spoken to Earendil about, in all their years of close friendship. Ever it seemed strange to Cirdan how all of the Haven's residents were enamored of the Silmaril. A sacred jewel, yes; the last remnant of the light of the Two Trees, yes... but a bringer of good fortune to its loyalists? That Cirdan could not believe.

The Silmaril was a glorious sight to behold; he had seen it once, when Elwing insisted -as an ally and friend loved as kin- that he not be denied the privilege. It was as beautiful and terrible a thing as he had ever looked upon, and the memory had not faded. Thereafter he better understood the songs that the Havens’ sailors sang, knowing they lived amid the jewel's light. But its divine protection? Its healing grace? Cirdan did not believe. And he wondered if Earendil did either.

***

Earendil walked deep in thought, his heart ill at ease. For the first time he could remember, he did not look forward to seeing Elwing. Her displeasure was his doing, and for that he was sorry; knowing that he would carry through with his plans -and that she would forgive him- made matters worse.

Only failure can disgrace my purpose, thus I simply must not fail. A familiar aphorism, one chanted as a mantra when the nights were cold upon the lonesome Sea. Yet his mood did not lift.

Once the path inclined he looked up, and saw the house quiet as usual for nighttime, except for a faint glow emanating behind the structure. For a moment he knew not what to think. Turning, he thought to discover if any among town marked this apparition. Few Elves moved about, paying no heed to Earendil’s home.

He continued to the rear of the house, finding himself amid a thriving garden that had not existed three months ago. Dwelling not long on this curiosity, he strolled through, approaching the Steep Cliff beyond. Elwing stood there facing the Sea, her body reduced to a silhouette framed by the Silmaril's brightness.

"Elwing, ‘tis I." Earendil was surprised by the tension in his own voice.

As she turned he averted his eyes from the shining jewel hung from her neck. "Join me," she called happily. "Join my vignette, husband."

Frowning and unable to explain his disquiet, he obeyed. "You used to keep it hidden." He glanced sidelong at his wife, whose eyes did not leave the horizon. "I think I would prefer it that way."

"Did you see my garden?" Elwing asked, no indication that she had heard his words.

"I did." He waited for something more, but Elwing wordlessly nestled against his side. At length he turned her towards him, forcing her eyes to depart from the distance, and spoke without the caution of before. "Elwing, do you even know the hour? Is this where you sleep?"

"Midnight, and of course not," she said smiling. "But our sons are asleep already – I would go to them with you."

He muttered an apology for his curtness that she dismissed with a smile, and together they walked towards the house. Elwing purposefully lead them through the garden's narrow path, paved with chips of fragrant driftwood. "Is it not wonderful?" She cupped a flower in her palm, bending to smell its aroma before gesturing for her husband to do the same.

With little enthusiasm Earendil complied, his troubled expression unaltered by the sweet scent. "I've never known foliage to grow so quickly."

"Our produce has ever grown as such; but since you cannot cook you would not notice!" Elwing’s airy laughter rang like a bell, and her eyes were aglow with pride as she said, "And now even more so."

Earendil closed his eyes, dreading the thing he wished not to hear, yet knew to be true.

Elwing persisted, "‘Tis of course the Silmaril, my love. Ever has it been a deliverer of good fortune upon us, and indeed it helps our very sustenance to thrive." She walked into Earendil's arms, embracing him. "Never before did I realize how much more potently its endowment would manifest, if only—"

"Elwing, tell me no more. The jewel brings us benefit, and that is well, for the Havens are prosperous and our people content. Yet it is only us who are safe, and it is only our Haven that remains, while the rest of Middle-earth plunges into darkness and danger, our kindreds into uncertainty and despair. I care not how we here are blessed as we are now, for I know it will not last."

"It is because of the Silmaril." Elwing shook her head in confusion. "It keeps us well."

"And fine that it might," said Earendil. "But nothing will avail us forever. There is nowhere left to flee, Elwing, from the many evils that ravage this land, and the Silmaril..." he paused, stricken to silence by the growing look of dismay on his wife's face – a reaction he was ashamed to cause. He sighed. "The Silmaril yields sweet fruit, yet it cannot end a war for us."

"Nor does it need to," was Elwing's retort.

"Nay," Earendil turned, trailing a hand along the bindings of a lattice archway, "for that is my task." He walked on, and Elwing soon came back along his side, both of them somber and quiet. They remained as such until entering their house; then Elwing led Earendil to their sons' shared nursery, made out of a room which had served some different and forgotten purpose the last time he had been home.

***

In three days' time, all who would assist were prepared for the journey to Nimbrethil. On the last evening before departure, Earendil returned home from the workyards alone. From the road he spied Elwing amid the town's crops – sowed twice as wide since the season before. Around her neck hung the Silmaril, showering all that lived with its gentle glow. Earendil paused at the sight, his eyes skipping from the harvest to his wife, rendered pale by the radiance of her jewel. Continuing towards his home, he thought of the children he was again to leave behind too soon.

"Well, there you are," said Cirdan. Earendil came into the playroom, almost sorry that the Shipwright happened to look towards the doorway. "How long have you been spying on us?"

Dropping to his knees to embrace both his sons, Earendil replied with a smile, "Long enough to hear that you were telling a story appropriate for young ears." With that he kissed each twin's head. Carrying the boys to where they had been, Earendil sat with them on the floor before the chair Cirdan occupied.

Seeing that the children had forgotten his story in their excitement over Earendil's entrance, Cirdan said, "It's been hours, tot; what took you so long? These two were impatient enough to come and wake me so I could go fetch you." He laughed away Earendil's apology for that, continuing in good humour, "Did you forget your way home then? Fall into the Sea?"

"Nay," Earendil answered. Then after a hesitation, "Was Elwing here when you arrived?"

Now Cirdan understood his friend's unrest. "No." As they toiled to ready the storehouses and workyards for the timber they would return with, Elwing had come to visit her husband daily, never remaining for long. When Earendil would inquire towards her other occupations, she replied that the Haven beckoned for the Silmaril's presence. Of this Earendil had, in Cirdan's opinion, ever pretended not to hear.

With a nod Earendil sighed. Eyes falling upon his sons, he pulled the nearest into his lap. "And where are your nurses that you would trouble our guest at this hour, hmm?

Pursing his lips with a tiny finger, Elros whispered, "Sleeping."

Cirdan snorted. "Had you seen the way they scaled my bed, it would be the least of your awe that they evaded their nurses also." At Earendil's stricken look, he cried, "Ai! Such alarm from one who rides the helm like a seesaw."

"Give them no ideas," came the mumbled reply. Climbing into Cirdan's lap, Elrond asked what a seesaw was, and Earendil stopped Elros' ears while the Shipwright gave a detailed description.

Soon a maid entered, having heard voices at this odd hour. Following her back upstairs, Earendil put his sons to bed, then escorted Cirdan to his room, though his thoughts were elsewhere. The maid had not inquired towards Elwing's absence, and nor had his sons.

"You are troubled," said Cirdan, stopping before his door.

"No." Earendil flinched at the piecing look received. "Yes."

"Talk now, or later?"

"Later."

Bending for a kiss, Cirdan thought to leave the other in a lighter mood. "Your sons are bright as their mother's Silmaril. They will make fine sailors."

Earendil frowned, and turned to go. "I sincerely hope not."

***

***

Their endeavors in the forest Nimbrethil had gone without mishap. With the calculated amount of felled timber in tow, their journey home was slow and arduous as expected. Still, with their schedule kept and spirits high, it was labor gladly done.

An Orc-corpse sprawled across their path was the first indication of strife nearby, mere miles from the Havens' outskirts. Finding an Elven arrow in its back, they determined it had died of blood loss, and its tracks led away from the coast. Soon another body was discovered, then another – each seemingly died whilst fleeing for the woods.

When it became apparent that the creatures had fled the Havens, Earendil ordered the timber be abandoned. Advancing with all haste, they hoped to come in time to the defense of their home and loved ones.

Coming upon the town, they found it strangely quiet, the most obvious sign of battle an ominous tendril of black smoke rising in the distance. Earendil bade his company to go as they would to their families, dispatching Cirdan to find the chancellors.

Along his own way Earendil passed few Elves, from them gleaning little of what had transpired, save that orcs had attacked. The townsfolk were shaken, but resolute; like leaves unavoidably fluttered by the wind, but trees utterly unmovable all the same, they had endured. He tried to comfort them with reassuring words and by commending their courage, without rushing his speech. Nor did he hush them when they repeated or stuttered, or hurry his steps when he continued on his way.

His people needed a stalwart Lord, not one more rattled husband and father afraid for his personal affairs. Earendil assumed that role of lordship, and in every appearance fatherhood and husbandry stood behind that Lord. Not until the very last did he run with a speed the wind would envy, when but yards from his home he heard the shrilling cry of his son shatter the quiet.

Two Elves knelt within the foyer, sweeping glass from the floor. A small pedestal was overturned, the vase ruined which once sat on top. Earendil cared not for the irreplaceable treasure that had belonged to his mother. "Where is Elwing?" he demanded. "Where are my sons?"

One Elf stammered in surprise, pointing upstairs; his mate kneeling beside him said, "In their nursery, my Lord."

He ran past, crushing glass beneath his feet, and up the stairs. "Elwing, thank the Valar!" In relief he slumped against the doorframe. Elwing sat in a chair by the bed with Elros in her arms. The child clutched to her fiercely, face red and contorted from crying. Elrond knelt on the floor by his mother’s feet, arm reached upwards so as to stroke his brother's feet in condolence.

Once Earendil appeared, Elrond sprang up and spurred to him. "Father!" he squealed, instantly as ecstatic as a babe could be.

Earendil swept his son into his arms, embracing him firmly as he dared, speechles with relief. His family was safe; all in this room and with him now – safe! "I'm here," he was able to say, then in awe as realization struck, "Elrond... you ran!"

Elwing's expression was of delighted surprise, both at her husband's return, and his discovering Elrond's newly honed ability. But her eyes were hardened as Earendil had seldom seen, not yet at ease from the danger that had come so suddenly, and the bitter knowledge of what a tragedy could have befallen.

"They both have been, since you last left," she said. Elros turned his face from burrowing in his mother's hair. Though most welcome, the sight of his father sent him into another fit. Wailing anew he reached for his father, calling his name unintelligibly through sobs. Earendil hurried to take him and sat on the bed.

"Ai, Elros, Elros! This is no good for you, crying so... easy there, I'm here now, easy." In his efforts to console Elros, Earendil did not see Elrond reach behind, and pluck a fish-shaped pillow from the disheveled blankets. But when Elros was given his favorite toy, his bawling ceased, and looking up at his father's face -faithful fish tight in hand- he gradually came back to himself.

Elros calmed even further when his mother came to sit beside him, then having every one of his dearests near, including his beloved mackerel.

Before speaking, Earendil took a few breaths. "What happened to cause him such grief? Was there fighting near?"

"Nay, nowhere near here," Elwing assured him. "He woke amid his nap, and saw from the window the pyre far out at sea. Alas, for had I returned but a moment sooner I might have prevented it." Elrond pointed towards the bay, where his brother had stood when he first shrieked in horror.

Earendil remembered the smoke visible from afar -and guessed by the absence of orc corpses near town what its use was- but still did not understand Elros' distress.

Sensing his confusion, Elwing explained, "He thought it was your ship that burned. All he knows of ships is that his father comes and goes upon them; it is not so difficult to guess his thinking when he beheld a craft of flames floundering upon the waves."

Earendil shuddered, and held his sons closer. "That is a harsh guilt for me to bear, when it was not by my doing that he beheld the spectacle."

"How far should we have drug those carcasses away from here, lest we breathe the putrid fumes from their burning on land?" Earendil said nothing to his wife's gentle rebuke, listening in silence to the logic she had no doubt concluded after due consideration. "Or should we have buried them in the earth, so we could gaze upon the mounds of our enemies' deathbeds, and in Ages hereafter Elves could walk unknowingly with that foul rot underfoot?"

"No." Earendil stood up, holding only Elros after Elrond had crawled into his mother's lap. "I don't know."

Behind him Elwing sighed, and forced a smile for the sake of her now frowning son. "It was by my decree that the raft was built and the pyre sent out to burn. The deed was swift to completion, and swift also shall be those vile creatures' deliverance to Ulmo's keeping in the deep. The Sea is a good and final place to be rid of something for ever. My thoughts were shared by our chancellors in all of these matters."

"Ai, Cirdan!" Earendil's head dropped along with his voice, "Is it woven in my fate that I must ever be pulled in two?" At length he straightened, and turned. "I sent him to gather the chancellors. I... I must to go. I have to go out and meet them. Likely they've been waiting for me already."

Elwing went silent as the events of the day and her own part in them repeated in her mind. Everything had happened without Earendil here to guide them. Elwing did not see his return, however timely and welcome, as near so vital to he Havens’ perseverance as he perceived; and she was of a mood to let it be known.
"Or perhaps this council is unneeded? I could surely recount what has occurred this day, for I have indeed been here, just as all the others."

Now Earendil looked doubtful. "Then you should come, and speak your piece as well. But I would still hear from the governing circle as a whole, before I address the townsfolk, and my crew."

Elwing did not argue, and rising together they went out.

***

The conference chamber was an annex of the library, separated by tall doors that were rarely closed. Today the window curtains were drawn apart, allowing bold rays of sunlight to filter into the room, warming its occupants. At the circular table sat those appointed ruling authority over the town’s vital affairs. Cirdan sat among them in honour of his long wisdom, and his advice was ever gratefully received. Many remembered well their dealings with the Shipwright in the days of affiliation between the Falas under Cirdan's rule and Doriath during Thingol's reign.

The day's events were relayed to Earendil in full, each chancellor describing those happenings in which they had played significant roles. Grievously Earendil learned that one Elf had been slain in the hour before dawn, when the orcs first came upon the town, but few had suffered injuries by the fight's end. Damage to the town's structures was also minor, and little of anything that had been plundered was yet unaccounted for.

The meeting went on, and the mood remained somber – though the presence of Earendil's young sons was a welcome distraction to all. Their innocent smiles were unhindered by the memory of bloodshed or loss, their bright faces unmarred by warfare or pain. The battle could have been tremendously worse, and the attack alone was a frightening reminder of the town's potential vulnerability – but the children were a reminder as well, of all that is worth fighting for.

Faerior's youngest and only living son, Mallith, was Captain of the Havens' Guard, and lastly he was summoned to speak of the happenings at the front lines of battle. He recounted the onslaught scornfully, as one brave if bitter. Pondering for a moment, Earendil paid little heed to the round of commentary following Mallith's colorful tale. The room quieted once more. "You mentioned an eventual retreat on their behalf."

"Aye, my Lord. Before first light, the orcs had feigned to fall back. We perceived it was a ploy to deceive us into lowering our guard, so those remaining orcs could make a second and final assault before their advantage of darkness was lost. During this lull I attended a short tryst with the chancellors at your home. It was decided that when the enemy fled at the last, the Guard would pursue them and ensure none lived who had discovered this Haven.

"Verily even as I returned to my post the orcs came forth again, as pitiable an attempt as the first. The sun soon began to smile upon us, and the orcs cowered under the light and our wrath combined. Then they wavered, perhaps seeing at last as little hope for victory as for retreat, yet still they did not flee or surrender."

Mallith stood, and bowed to those assembled. "And now the tale would be best finished by the Lady Elwing, for I have already told of my part in the orc-hunt which followed after. I beg your pardon, my Lords, but my duty requires me elsewhere for the nonce."

None had so much as flinched in surprise or displeasure, save for Earendil. Eventually he said, "Of course, Mallith. We thank you for your attendance here, and your valiant service." Mallith inclined his head respectfully to his father in particular before taking his leave.

All eyes turned to Earendil, expectant but patient. The Mariner glanced at his wife, waiting to be named, then at those others seated, their expressions becoming curious at his prolonged silence. Finally he looked to Cirdan, who had remained uncharacteristically subdued for the duration of the meeting. Elrond had fallen asleep in his arms early on, and still slept there with his head rested on the Shipwright's shoulder, snoozing peacefully.

With all the subtlety of breaking glass, Elros piped, "Nana’s turn!"

Some chuckled at the child's cheerfully tactless announcement. "Elwing," Earendil began, "please recount for us your next part in this." Cirdan alone detected the note of astonishment, and shared Earendil's surprise. That Elwing indeed had actively participated -save for attending the tryst in Earendil’s absence- was beyond his ability to fathom.

Elwing bowed her head in acknowledgement. "My part was simple enough, as those here know. After the conference was ended I also went out to greet the sun's coming and behold our enemies' flight." Heads were nodding, several expressions grimly satisfied, those present remembering the orcs fleeing in a last desperate effort to survive.

Earendil's jaw had never been clenched so tight. "You went out?"

"Aye," Elwing nodded sharply. "And when those beasts did not run fast enough under the threat of sunlight alone, I held the Silmaril aloft in their wake. By the holy light they were no less than agonized, and fled in a madness unsurpassed."

Many voiced their approval of this tactic, yet Earendil shivered with the dread of sudden foreboding. Cirdan sat a few inches taller, so straight went his spine in alarm. Nevertheless the mood of the chancellors was rather that the story had then been told in full, and some even gathered themselves to stand and stretch, while others turned to one another and chattered amongst themselves of menial things.

Rising to his feet with such speed and force as to send his chair noisily skidding backwards, Earendil sent an icy glare across the room, and no one save Cirdan and his sons were spared from the cold embrace of that look. After a startled gasp from Elrond, awakened by the chair's racket, again the room fell quiet.

Without mentioning the demonstration of disrespect, Earendil said to all, "I have heard enough of this day's events." Those already standing were mortified, those still seated elated to have been slower to rise by chance. Earendil continued, "If the head of the order would be good enough to go out now and make the call for a town assembly, I would address my people before nightfall."

Faerior stood. "I will gladly arrange it, my Lord, by your leave."

Earendil waved him away, coolly dismissive as he never was by nature. "The rest of you may retire forthwith if your attention is as spent as it seems to me now," he checked everyone with a keen glance, and none dared challenge him, "but otherwise, the courtyard before my home is where I expect the gathering to amass ere dark." He waved his hand again, partially to shake it out of a fist. "Thank you; dismissed."

The chancellors filtered out of the chamber in a more than less hasty manner, and Earendil with his family soon followed.

***

None were gathered before the house, but looking out from the porch, activity could be seen amid the town as folks made ready to set out from their homes or places of business. Earendil watched empty space as he waited, the implications of the council heavy on his mind. Cirdan had not hesitated to sit on a bench, and might have napped if Elrond was less insistent about hearing a tale of Osse and the Sea. Elwing was carrying a sleeping Elros, who had never finished his midday nap, and not rested during the entire council.

Eventually Faerior could be seen, a large cluster of Elves following behind. Earendil woke from an unintentional sleep. Elwing had seated herself, and she gazed gloomily at the floor, thinking thoughts Earendil could not sense. Cirdan was now asleep, and sitting beside him Elrond picked at a knot -tied by someone with strong hands- between one of his shoelaces and the Shipwright’s belt.

"They come," Earendil said. Blinking to wakefulness, Cirdan undid the fisherman's knot with an expert tug. Elrond would not soon forget the craftiness of the bearded Shipwright, and nor would he keep him awake again past his bedtime, for doing so could mean another extended period of sitting still with a crippling knot in one's shoelace. At her husband’s request, Elwing helped Elrond off the bench, and led him inside, her disappointment kept concealed.

Cirdan came beside Earendil, watching the growing procession approach. "That was a swift assembly," he commented.

"Eager to hear me out and begone, I wager, to return to their homes and families. And likely none too pleased to be removed from their repairs or suppers, either."

"Earendil," Cirdan laid a hand on his shoulder, speaking quickly as the crowd neared. "Much has happened recently, as you well know, and I perceive that... well, things are changing." He lowered his voice to keep any from overhearing. "Call it foresight or foreboding or whatever you will. All the same, ill feelings have been brooding within me, and I wish to speak with you of them in private – soon."

Earendil could read the gravity on his friend's face like a letter bearing bad tidings. "Aye," he said, the way one might agree to have an arrow pulled from a wound. Unhappy would be the exchange, but it was inevitable.

Faerior was first to arrive in speaking distance; bowing low he gave profuse greetings.

"Hail, Faerior, and greetings to all." Looking skyward, he judged the amount of time until sundown, then spoke loud enough for all to hear, "Thirty minutes we wait for others to join us, if they will, and then I shall have my say. Thereafter you all may fly back to your lovely wives to tell them more of your tireless labors in Nimbrethil, or your fearless slaying of orcs today." Some clapped or chuckled, but none were truly in high spirits. Earendil's shipmates in particular did not meet their Lord's eyes as willingly as usual.

Few were left unaccounted for when all attendees were assembled. The courtyard before Earendil's home was densely occupied, and many more stood along the outskirts. Faces were a variety of uncertainty or confidence, and every emotion in between; but all gave full attention to their Lord, listening intently to his heartfelt speech of reassurance and perseverance.

In Earendil's presence they were comforted, courage renewed by his own strength of character, his willful determination and unwavering faith. But there was something new in their mood and demeanor; an element from seemingly nowhere, a difference. Something had changed, in their hearts and minds. Perceiving this, Earendil shivered, and felt the night as bitter and intolerable, and smelt the air as stale and earthy. In his ear, a familiar not-voice whispered to him a curse upon curses, making his mixed Elven and Mannish blood run cold and hot: The world is changing.

He spoke until night had fallen. His people were as heartened as they could be, and weariness burdened him. At the end he offered to hear a last round of questions. Few had spoken aloud during his address, and the same awkward silence laid heavy on the air as Earendil waited for any reply.

Laughing mirthlessly, he called out, "Come now, friends, family! This is strange of us, not to share our thoughts, be they happy or unfortunate." Many were abashed, and looked away. "Out with it then – you there!" Earendil pointed to one maiden in particular, no slight blush coloring her cheeks at being singled out. "You, my Lady, must carry the darkest secrets of all, for it is ever the fairest ones who dabble in mischief!" She giggled, and would not make false claims regarding her innocence. "And besides, I know your father," Earendil added, and there was a short uproar of laughter, and the Harbormaster hopelessly defended his name, soiled with due cause during his long life.

When the crowd had sobered they became thoughtful, shifting uneasily. Earendil gave no indication that he would dismiss anyone soon. Finally an Elf stepped forward, a path splitting for him more readily than he would have preferred, allowing Earendil to distinguish him from the rest. He was a leatherworker by trade, only one to speak out when a matter touched him deeply. Yet his words were seldom inaccurate, when he spoke for all.

"When you are here, my Lord, all is truly well, just as it is now. Even tonight in the aftermath of dire happenings, we stand united before you, and we relish your conviction. But during your absences, it becomes a trying task to keep heart. For months on end we know not of your endeavors, if you will succeed, or return at all. The shadow creeps ever closer here, the earth shudders beneath our very feet, and mayhap it is not so at Sea. This we must face alone, and it is difficult. You encourage and empower us, Lord, but how much of your strength may we borrow and spend, until we are all of us left exhausted and helpless? And if ever you should not come back, would we be any less lost without you?"

Earendil nodded, sad with understanding. "I will not say that I myself have never worried in this way. But, my friends, listen to me! My journeys are long and unsure, often fruitless, always wrought with difficulty and danger. Yet it is you all here, free and hale and thriving, the Haven we have built together, and the future I see reflected in our children's eyes, that brings me strength even through doubt and fear."

Downcast faces were uplifted, and a passing cloud did not tarry over the moon. "And though I said that this Haven brings me hope, think not that it must be your only home, or that you may not leave and return here, as I do. You need not feel yourselves beached at the feet of the swelling shadow, watching warily landward for what evil might next come to test your mettle, even as your hearts are turned towards the West, over the Sea."

"We have no desire to leave, my Lord!" called one, and many voiced their agreement.

"Nor do I!" Earendil laughed. "Yet the shadow grows, as you say, and these lands we love are more perilous than ever. Sirion is here with or without us, and here it will remain, and for ever after in our hearts even if the land is marred. But you are not alone of exiles and refugees in Middle-earth," here Earendil glanced quickly to Cirdan, and the Shipwright nodded his consent.

"The island Balar as well is a similar place to these Havens, and it would seem familiar to you, I think. It may remain untouched for a time, even if Sirion is threatened again, or overtaken." Faces were unhappy at the implications of leaving their home. "My heart is confused lately, friends, for I feel that my journeys are drawing to an end, but also that they shall be endless all the same." He shook his head, "No, I have no better sense to make of that, so make of it what you will.

"I cannot say and I dare not guess how long it might be until I return bearing final tidings from the West, good or bad. But after this day, it seems to me a good idea that we consider joining ourselves to Gil-galad and Cirdan’s people on Balar, for it may be a safer place to wait. I must think closely on this, and we will speak of it more together, soon."

He smiled again, full and bright, and it seemed that no trouble could dim such joy. "But take heart! For now we are safe, and victorious at that! And at the last I say unto you this: my end will not be yours, whenever it comes; and this I do vow. If I should be lost, another way shall be found, and another will be revealed to discover it, for such is the order of these things which are not ours to control.

"Also I swear that I will not forsake the path I tread for your sake, my kindreds, and for love of my birthland. Only by death or decree of the Valar shall I be parted from my purpose, and unhappily at that! This is my promise to every one of you. Give to me your faith, all that you can spare, and you may have my strength, all that I possess – alone of anything I need only a good wind to fill my sail, and hope will prevail, both yours and mine!"

A silence befell, stillness like before the dawn. The face of Earendil was alight by the stars and framed with golden hair; a halo of sunlight in the evening. He appeared suddenly to all who looked upon him as a vision of something more: a symbol of hope. They had always seen it before, if recently it seemed somewhat forgotten, as if their memories had dimmed, or been clouded. Surely Earendil the Bright had not faded from their hearts; for what could surpass him, son of Idril and Tuor, scion of the two kindreds, and beloved by all?

"Yes, take heart," said Elwing from behind, and Earendil turned to stare unwittingly into a blinding light. A hushed murmur swept through the courtyard below, and awed eyes gazed entranced up at Elwing, bearing the Silmaril around her neck. "Hear mine as a voice of understanding, for I live and toil among you. I sow scarce seeds into this decaying earth, walk wearily though uncertain days, and I inhale the smoke of destruction blown upon us from the north. Yet my faith remains unsullied, and it lies secure in the purpose of my husband and Lord: to deliver us from our woe, and avail us in the face of evil unnamed."

The crowd was quiet as Elwing came to stand beside Earendil. "Give hope where it is due, and verily Earendil deserves all manner of succor for his efforts on our behalf. But speak not of fleeing this Haven, nor of waiting for long days in despair and fear. What need have we for that?" Laughing she held aloft the Silmaril.

"Here is the hope we keep, while our Lord is away, and it is all that we need. All else sails along with him," she looked at Earendil with a smile, something he no longer wore. "Was it not this very day that by the Silmaril's grace we were protected from harm? Is it not by the will of this sacred jewel that we are blessed with bountiful harvests? And who others born in Arda have the light of the Two Trees mirrored in their eyes, except for our own children, who bask in the Silmaril's light? Rejoice, one and all! For we are twice blessed: with Earendil who sails ever yonder seeking the Valar's mercy; and by the Silmaril itself, bright in spite of gloom, unmarred in spite of doom. Behold! 'Tis not us who the Valar might pity, but those beyond the reach of our good fortune."

"All the more reason to consider Earendil's words," Cirdan spoke at last, though he had moved long ago to the side of the porch. "To gather us together in these darkening times seems wise, and the stronghold of Balar is fortified in many ways that this place cannot be." The eyes upon him were unfavorable – it was clear to Cirdan that Elwing's speech had the crowd's favor, and none wished to revisit Earendil's last proposal of change.

"But that is a discussion for another time, and one I shall have little part in. You are welcome on Balar, people of the Havens, and I speak for the King as well, for he and I have agreed previously on this."

"We thank you, and Gil-galad," Earendil said. "It will be given careful thought."

"And the offer remains open," Cirdan smiled, "very much unlike my eyes. By your leave, I wish to retire for this night... and possibly for part of the coming morning as well."

Earendil sighed, relieved that someone finally spoke of quitting this long and tiring day. "Indeed, and I follow in your wisdom, as ever." He turned to the crowd and spoke parting words that Cirdan did not heed. He only waited to hear was that he was excused before slipping inside, and up to his designated guestroom. He was not surprised to find a bath drawn for him that had since gone cold. He undressed quickly, washed even faster, and was asleep a second or two before he lying down.

Yet even in sleep Cirdan could not be at ease. Thoughts of the Silmaril shrouded his dreams like a heavy mist. The attack on Sirion had awoken a dormant fear, and left it vibrating unnervingly in his center. If the Havens were assailable, even under the Silmaril's supposed protection, was Balar truly much safer? Cirdan perceived that it was time for him to return. Gil-galad ought to hear news of recent occurrences.

He tossed in his sleep, as he never did, and strove to ignore the whispers in his ear, as it was impossible to do. The world is changing.

***

***

She awoke to silence, and found herself gazing at the vacant half of the bed, where Earendil had lain in her last memory of wakefulness. No warmth remained as she trailed her hand over the sheets, and she sighed.

It happened many times before, in the few weeks since her husband last returned, that he would depart in the middle of the night. Always he would not retire from his toils until a late hour, coming to bed exhausted if he came at all.

Through the days and evenings, constant clamor of labor echoed from the workyards, and sometimes singing as well – not the playful tunes of Elves happily at work, but evoking hymns, full of meaning, power. Only a few voices sang in this way, Cirdan and Earendil among them, and only when all others were absent.

Earendil had been distant, as if his mind was busy even against his will, and he looked upon their sons with a sadness that was unlike himself. Elwing made herself content with the fleeting occasions of intimacy they did share together, and the scarce hours of companionship over meals or rest. She did not question her husband’s strange behavior, nor complain to him. But she worried.

His restlessness was due to the events of the last weeks, she thought. The townsfolk had officially declined a formal proposal of relocation to Balar under the High King’s protection – even with Cirdan’s endorsement and knowing their Lord’s desire in this matter, the people were unwilling to forsake their home, and Earendil would not force them. Soon after, Earendil’s crew disclosed their wish to remain landbound in protection of home and family, fearing another spontaneous attack upon the Havens, as had occurred during their last absence. And recently Cirdan disclosed his intentions to return to Gil-galad’s realm, accompanying Earendil only as far as Balar upon Vingilot’s maiden voyage.

All unhappy tidings for her husband, and he seemed more distraught day by day. Yet he spoke naught of his troubles with her. That she could not always understand his heart she had accepted long before their marriage. But lately his thoughts were closed to her, and if it was by some fault of her own, this she understood least of all.

Presently she arose and dressed. On previous nights Earendil had been discovered in their sons’ room, face concerned and eyes doubtful, even during sleep; she decided to seek him out there, if there he might be found.

The nursery was dark inside, and quiet as the moments before a winter dawn, yet warm as summer shade. "I spoke bravely that night when you last returned, of our perseverance and the confidence we should have." Elwing walked from the doorway and lingered by a dresser, feeling gradually out of place as her voice disturbed the silence. "It is not always so, deep within my heart, if you would know the truth."

Earendil did not at first reply. He sat in the chair by his sons’ bed, gazing upon their motionless bodies as they dreamt in peace. He remained so still that he might be mistaken for asleep, save that the smell of roses and honey accompanied Elwing wherever she walked; he had been aware of her presence even before she spoke. "That was long ago," he spoke quietly, "and I have spoken no ill of it. Why do you think of it now?"

Still awkward, Elwing stepped closer, pausing behind Earendil’s chair. "I wondered why you might be here, and why you have been here or elsewhere through so many nights, instead of in our bed, with me." Earendil’s head lowered at that. She said on, "And such is as it has been, since that night. Am I mistaken?"

"In that day also Elros was faced with a most unhappy sight, as you will remember." He paused as there was a stirring in the bed, but the child went quiet again. "I worried that he might dream unpleasantly. I would be here to comfort him should he awake in such a fright again; that is my only purpose."

Elwing fell silent. He had explained his purpose in coming here, yet here is not always where he comes. And if it was a half-truth, how could she fault him? Mayhap she did not want to know more; mayhap he did not know more to tell. "You will depart again too soon," she said, resting her arm on the back of the chair.

"I will depart when Vingilot is complete," he replied evenly. "I must."

She sighed. "Ever our talk turns to such dire matters. That is not why I sought you." She did not say how lonely she was; he did not say it was bound to worsen. Through the window, she noted the inky sky beginning to lighten. "Faerior asked me yesterday on behalf of the chancellors what your mood might be concerning our peoples’ decision to abide here. I told him I did not know."

"The chancellors made a convincing argument, for their part. Cirdan and I believed our proposal was for the best, that there is little reason to stay here and joining ourselves to Balar would be wisest – as it seems we stand alone in our thinking." He paused, frowning. "Tell Faerior that time will tell; or that if he would find his way to the workyards, I could answer for myself."

Elwing bent down, lowering her arm to circle his neck, and spoke gently, "It surprises me that you would wish to leave this home of ours, this Haven that Tuor built and Idril graced."

His tone did not soften. "So I have heard. And so I have said: I think of our safety and the future, not of my heart’s desire or my father’s hard labor."

She rested her head atop his shoulder then, feeling his tense muscles forced to relax. "Our people are not like you, Earendil; they are less hardy. Perhaps I am not as resilient either, though I share your mixed blood. Do not expect too much from us, for our hurts mend slowly, while our roots grow swift and deep. We are content to be embedded in our ways, and have no yearning to change, unless it be a change back to some remembered way of things. For my part this is my third home, and I do not want another. Even your fellow mariners who have ever sailed gladly by your side are now loath to leave their home."

It was nothing he did not already know, and he replied with a long-suffering air, disheartened as ever that she did not understand, and perhaps never would. "Do you still not see why it is plain that I must go? I am the only one who can. We are not safe here for long, and even Balar will not be safe for much longer. My crew remains because they sense now the very danger which drives me onward. My only hope to avail our kin is to come as quickly as I may to the Blessed Realm – even then nothing is for certain. I dream of arriving in Valinor, but I dare not strive to see further than that. Still—"

"You must go," she finished for him. He grinned to hear what his next words would have been, feeling less mistaken. "And while you are gone, we shall endeavor to carry out your parting wishes." She placed a kiss on his neck for every promise, "Further watchposts will be built and manned at all hours. Breastworks will be raised to circle the vulnerable side of our town. The Guard will double their patrol, and all able to bear arms will undertake training to use them well."

He smiled at her diligent recital, and that each kiss lingered longer than the last. "Nowhere in my demands did I bid you commit the list to memory."

Relieved by his amiable tone, she smiled. "But you know now how studious I am, and you shall worry less." He would never worry less, whilst the Shadow remained, and she knew it. Neither voiced what they both knew to be true. Instead they kissed, parting only once no reservations remained between them.

"Our sons sleep in peace, Earendil. Come now to bed with me, while we still may." She leaned close to whisper in his ear. "I have committed many other useful things to my memory – some that might please you to know." What she did next with her tongue assured him that she spoke correctly.

They went out together, finding their bedchamber dark in the last hour before dawn. Earendil moved to approach the dresser, surprised to collide with his wife who had stood on his other side a moment ago. His question was silenced as her lips closed upon his, and when his mouth was free again he forgot what his thoughts had been. She led him by both wrists to their bed, but Earendil hardly needed direction, his mind turning alike to Elwing’s after their last kiss.

They paused beside the mattress, embracing again, the taste of each other familiar yet novel and never quite enough. While that kiss ebbed to a reluctant end, Earendil struggled to free his hands, playfully pinned behind his back, and retaliated by hooking his leg behind Elwing’s knee, tripping her to sit atop the bed.

She landed in giggles, and pulled him to stand close beside the edge, corralling his legs between her knees. "We are playful tonight," she said, giving his sides a brief tickle.

He jumped and stifled a cry of surprise before seizing her wrists, then raising her arms above-head bent to kiss each finger. A foot trailed up and down his calf, then a heel nudged into the back of his knee. "Come down to me, tall one," Elwing implored; he obeyed by kneeling, but continued his task, having three fingers yet unkissed. Now the heel massaged his thigh, grinding harder as it moved up. "Not what I meant, my Lord," the lady persisted, her formality in jest. "I beseech thee, join me here on the bed."

"Almost," he paused to say. The last digit was enveloped in warmth, and Elwing gasped at the unexpected feeling of tongue and moisture, a blush rushing to her cheeks as her mind turned to other things Earendil could suckle.

He reverted back to kisses, trailing them along her wrist, arm, shoulder, giving attention in especial to the tender area of her neck, then down to the collarbone. "Now here is an unhappy thing," he said, gazing at the dress which denied him contact with lower portions. "A lady of your loveliness truly has no need of such decorations." He was thoughtful, glancing up as he pulled slowly on the lace of her bodice. "Shall I release you from such a hindrance to your natural beauty?"

"Yes indeed," she smiled without much innocence. "And I shall repay you in kind."

"My thanks—" he gasped as she slipped her hands under his hastily opened shirt, immediately teasing his nipples. All subtlety forgotten, he no longer worked slowly to remove her dress; every motion quickened even with the beating of his heart. His eyes closed as the hands on him changed deeds, one now through his hair, then massaging an ear, whilst the other caressed his genitals until desire burned demanding within him.

Finally there was flesh beneath his busy fingers, and Elwing shrugged off the sleeves of her dress, revealing herself completely. Still blinded by pleasure, he leaned forward to find her unclad embrace, eagerly received.

They shifted to lie on the bed, and there rolled together in a contest of dominance, the game for play more than conquest. At length they settled facing each other on their sides, and Earendil opened his eyes at last, breathless from so many deep kisses, dizzy with unquenched need.

Elwing's eyes were intense upon him as she tugged at his belt. "This will not do, you know." But he did not answer, his eyes fixed in bewilderment at the jewel she wore around her neck. To no avail she tried to catch his gaze. "Earendil?"

He looked up sharply. Something close to betrayal flashed in his eyes. "Not to bed." He shook his head as if to wake from a dream, or clear his vision. "Not with us, not like this."

"But—"

"Please, Elwing!" He searched for some reasoning to present. "I take off all of my things."

‘It is not a thing!’ she wanted to shout – yet of course it was. "But—" turning away from her he sat up, again shaking his head as both hands covered his face. "Earendil! You act as though... as if—" words failed her, logic faltered. All she wanted was to comfort him, to demonstrate her love. What wrong had she done to earn this coldness? Her thoughts told her none at all. Yet there he sat apart from her, his sincere and desiring gaze suddenly detached, his eager and thoughtful touches turned to groping for his shirt in the dark. "Stay!" was all she managed.

Once standing, he faced her. It seemed that emotion strove to surface, on his face, in his eyes, but he forced it down, and his voice was aloof. "If this is the way it will be, then so be it. But know that I am displeased, and I must settle that within myself which tells me I should have no obligation to share my bed –indeed, my very wife!- with a piece of jewelry."

"Then I will put it somewhere out of your sight for a while," she retorted, "and return straightaway to share you with your Sea-longing!"

He whirled away from her in anger, and she watched with bated breath as he took a determined step towards the door; glad yet horrified that he would prove her right should he seek solitude by the Sea, as was his wont. But his first step was the only he took.

"Ai, Elwing..." Head dropped, he turned back without looking up. "’Tis true! The Sea speaks ever in my ear and heart, just as with Tuor my father. I do not deny it; I cannot, for even now my thoughts were turning to it! Forgive me..."

Her hands had taken to clutching the Silmaril, but the sight of her husband so dejected interrupted her unnatural thoughts – and this she never remembered thereafter: that in the moment when he turned from her in resentment, she suspected he was jealous of her jewel, and planned to keep it from him by any means.

But now with a softened hear her frustration was forgotten, and his behavior forgiven. Reaching out to him she said, "Oh, Earendil, you need not even ask – return to me!" He did so, melting gratefully into her welcoming embrace. "My sweet Peredhel … why do you carry such burdens alone? You are strong as the great Men of old, Earendil – not as the Valar themselves! This doom is too much for you to bear."

"And well do I know it!" She was surprised to hear him sob, and held him tighter as he wept away long-suppressed emotions borne from more than tiredness and anxiety.

In each other’s arms they remained until morning, with the Silmaril between them.

***

***

From the horizon he saw her, distant like a dream upon wakening from deep sleep. Stepping up to the bulwark, Earendil focused his eyes to their utmost limit. The ocean spray assaulted him, stinging with salt and occluding his vision; undeterred he leaned out as far as safety would allow, a few inches closer to what was too far for mortal sight. Vague at first she was, as a mirage gleaned beyond frail mist; but now solid and sure she came, speeding forth like a memory recalled to present time by a strong mind.

"Elwing," he breathed, asking despite knowing, hopeful despite dread. In form she was changed; more alike to a bird than Elf-kind, yet more humanoid than fowl – but Earendil recognized the sorrowful gray eyes of his wife.

With desperate speed Elwing approached on wings of long white feathers tipped with moonlit silver. As she swooped to a halt before Vingilot’s helm, Earendil stumbled back, awestruck and perplexed. Shaking himself he thought to wake in his bed from this strange dream; but he did not wake. Then blinking he thought a passing fog would wisp by as normal; but the vision remained.

The slender form hovered motionless in the night air, and for a second or a lifetime, seemed hung in the sky as securely as the stars outlining feather and flesh and hair behind her. Then her pale arms -or feathered wings, as it seemed one was veiled by the other- stretched up in a gesture that might have been gratitude to the Heavens or defiance to the Fates. With a cry fair as a dove and proud as an eagle she swooned into the arms of her beloved.

Though Earendil moved fast, he was unprepared to brace her weight, perhaps still unconvinced that this was no hallucination. The impact brought him down hard upon the wooden deck. Awkwardly he strove to sit upright, maneuvering his wife for her greatest comfort even as he had taken the brunt of the fall upon himself.

"Elwing!" he cried, "Beloved!" But she was still, and made no reply. It appeared to Earendil in the despair of that hour that all life and memory of living had left her, empty and cold in his helpless arms. Bitterly he wept and took her close to his bosom, holding her thus throughout the night. For once the whispering of the surrounding Sea and the sway of the ship underfoot was nothing but an unwanted distraction, and he loved it not.

It was with a silent heart that Earendil closed his eyes to the world, and sat unmoving in the darkness, feeling every one of his mortal years, dragging him closer to an end that he welcomed in his misery.

***

It was dawn when the ship first became visible from the harbor along Balar's coast. Cirdan’s keen eyes marked it long before any other, and he alerted the Harbormaster at once, then stood aside while preparations were initiated, quietly observing. His mind alert but unfocused, stray acuities were allowed to enter his awareness, if they would – and they did.

It was not relief or even the tentative peace of nothingness which struck him, but rather a chill realization. With closed eyes he listened to the Sea that had never lied before, and the salt-scented breeze whispering hints of tomorrow – yet the message remained the same: the world is changing. That shadow of doom glimpsed not long ago had fallen, that tinge of worry laid long idle in his heart had awoken.

When he opened his eyes he it was Telainathar that he saw docked, without doubt the fastest ship the Havens' folk possessed. He knew when Faerior raced from the gangplank, face blanched with fear, that he came to deliver a message alone; Cirdan steeled his heart, and went to retrieve it.

Moments later he rode out on the fastest messenger horse available, unable to remember a time when he had felt more urgent. He told himself there was still time, that the eventuality of conflict had been a likelihood long anticipated, that Balar was ever prepared for the worst and would reach the Havens in time... all the while cursing himself for a fool, as the weight of foreboding sank deeper into his heart.

He passed the stables without dismounting there, and the courtyard gates without slowing. The looks received were unappreciative, as his mount threw stones and dirt, and people were forced to make way for the Shipwright who urged his steed through every manner of everyday assemblage and transaction. They did not know that at the harbor Balar's Fleet prepared for war.

Dismounting at stone stairs leading to an arched entryway, Cirdan bounded to the door. Before passing into the King’s hall, he glanced back upon the Elves gathered in the bustling square – already they were beyond the disturbance of moments ago, carrying on as usual. With a sigh he turned inside, mustering the whole of his resolve as he made ready in heart and mind to cause the one thing Elves were innately loath to create: change.

Gil-galad was found in his conference chamber, sitting with three others whom Cirdan ignored as he strode forth, groping with numb fingers for the papers under his tunic.

"You look as though Balar were sinking," said Gil-galad without jest. He had begun to rise until Cirdan gestured he remain.

"It is well that you are seated." He dropped a note on the desk, followed by another of different parchment. "That one on top is from the Lady Elwing; you had best read it first." Gil-galad nodded and read quickly, expression growing grim as he did. Before he finished, the three others made as if to leave, but Cirdan halted them. "Stay. Your King may have need of messengers."

By then Gil-galad was through. "When did it arrive?"

"This morn; I rode from the harbor forthwith. Elwing’s courier shall remain until he has your reply to return home with."

"Then he will leave before nightfall." He gestured to the second note. "This other is the last letter sent by Maedhros then, the one Elwing mentioned?"

"The same."

He took up Maedhros’ missive, reluctantly as one would revert to handling rough wool in place of fine silk. With cold eyes he read, carefully, assimilating the implication of each nuance even as he loathed every word. "This is more forewarning than I had expected," he did not hear himself say.

And yea, those unfortunate others had all fallen before the cruelty of evil unleashed, notice or no: the Falas, Nargothrond, Doriath, Gondolin. But never more, so swore Gil-galad. "This courtesy will be Maedhros’ last mistake." With a flick of his wrist he discarded the parchment. "And the audacity! Writing of desired friendship beside demands for the Silmaril, as if one justifies the other. Such poorly disguised duplicity – I might have expected more artfulness from Maedhros. And more caution! Arrogant fool has he become, to think that Balar would do nothing."

Cirdan did not speak, pacing the room whilst Gil-galad dispatched the messengers to assemble a council. That done he came to Cirdan's side. "They will not retreat," said the Shipwright, remembering his and Earendil's failed attempt to convince them otherwise.

"That we have known, and prepared for. But retreat would merely delay this day; Maedhros would hunt the Silmaril even unto the shores of Balar, if it resided here." Gil-galad said quieter, "To relinquish the jewel and finish this at long last seems wise to me, but I understand Elwing and her people are decided against that."

"That also we have known," was Cirdan's somber reply. "Earendil and I could not persuade them to leave with it – I believe naught could convince them to abide without it."

"Then I see only one way to reach an end." Unspoken was that end, for Gil-galad would not name the sons of Feanor in death. "But I wonder what is Earendil’s mind of this. Do you know of his whereabouts, when he will return?"

"Alas that I do not!" Cirdan spoke with sadness uncommon to him, "It was a year ago when I saw him last, in northern Belegaer, and that meeting was by pure chance. He had traveled far, seen much—" he faltered as though stricken, but straightened quickly.

"And he had further yet to go. I do not expect to meet him again soon. But there are things I promised him, Gil-galad, so I say unto you now: we have discussed this before, you and I, and passing the same issues and doubts, ever have we arrived at the same agreements. But that was during talks of possibilities, of days that seemed far off and vague, and now is the time of action, for the future is upon us. No longer may we speak of valiant deeds under ideal circumstances. Today we must decide, and live for ever with that decision." He grasped Gil-galad’s shoulders, seeing the familiar face of a friend, but searching for the support of the High King. "What say you now, my Lord King?"

"Just as I have said before; that the Havens of Sirion are under our protection. For better or worse my heart is unchanged in this." Gil-galad grinned with little mirth. "Also I say that if Maedhros thinks to easily usurp the survivors of Doriath and Gondolin combined, he may be unpleasantly surprised to find himself facing the survivors of the Falas as well, along with all here who hail from the houses of my forefathers."

Cirdan smiled in relief, but only briefly. "I do not love war, Gil-galad, but hearing this from you makes me glad. Had we been able to hasten to Dior’s aid at Doriath, this madness might have been ended already. Who is to say? But I have hope Maedhros will think better of his strategy, once he realizes such an alliance is prepared to oppose him."

"Perhaps he will not attack at all, but come only to fall upon his knees before us?" Gil-galad shook his head. "Have hope that we will persevere, my friend – but give you credit only where it is due."

The Shipwright frowned. "Maedhros may be desperate, but I believe all sense has not left him. He will not dare challenge in battle the crown that could have been his, and forget not his love for your father." Seeing Gil-galad’s eyes darken at that, he added, "Perhaps I expect much of Maedhros, but mayhap I know him better than you." Cirdan said nothing of Gil-galad’s comparative youth, or his relative inexperience in such matters – but it was on his mind, and he was not the only one.

"Many of those who died upon his sword no doubt thought better of him." He gestured to the papers on the table, and his voice grew thick as he said, "My father would not stand for this, friendship or no – and neither shall I."

That hour the council was held among the wisest of Balar, the King's decision to go at once to the Havens’ defense fervently unanimous. That afternoon all necessary measures were initiated, and by the next morn Balar’s Fleet would be mobilized.

Faerior departed ere the night, bearing the High King’s promise to hasten aid with a relieved heart. Those working within sight of the shore that evening watched swift Telainathar as its sails disappeared beyond the horizon, and they smiled to know what tidings of hope it bore for their distant kinsfolk.

None imagined then that it was already too late.

***

It was a cold night made frigid by the fingers of hopelessness that caressed Earendil as he slept, somewhere between a nightmare and reality, neither far from the other. Morning came, none of its splendor recognized by the Mariner who dreaded in his waking what the daylight might make clearer. The lifeless form of his fair wife? The emptiness of his arms and the haunting memory of a hallucination so real? He knew not, and almost he wished never to learn what ignorance concealed.

But wakefulness found him, and there was naught to do but surrender to whatever fate the day would bring. Stiff and unhappy, Earendil opened his eyes… to blackness. Afraid in his grogginess of what manner of weave covered his face, he gasped out with a start. Could he breathe? Coughing he tried to sit up, only to find a weight on his arm. The other was free; instinctively he reached up to pull at the strange net of shadow. Hair? Blinking at the silky strands, he shifted and beheld with marveling eyes Elwing in her own form, lying beside him in undisturbed sleep.

Shaking in his relief, Earendil chanced to pull her closer, disturbing a keen soreness in his back that at once was decidedly insignificant. "Elwing, Elwing," he chanted with bated breath, brought even to tears for his joy. If he feared her dead and yet she lived, then likewise his other fears must be misplaced. The dreams he gleaned of bloodied sand and broken swords must also be false. And indeed they must be, for the mere thought was nearly too much to bear. It must be untrue, lest he break apart as a delicate cloud before a mighty wind, and dissolve into forgetfulness. Lest his hope fail him utterly.

But what then had urged Elwing to depart? Perhaps not a catastrophe, Earendil told himself. Perhaps the Valar had taken notice of Middle-earth’s woes, and Elwing was sent on the wings of a great bird to bring him the tidings. But why then were there dried tears on her pale face? Earendil sighed, closed his eyes, and rested his temple against Elwing’s, trying not to think of dreadful things. He was humming a wordless melody and praying for a stronger wind when he felt a stir beside him, then heard a yawn.

Elwing opened her eyes to the loveliest sight imaginable: that of her husband, cradling her as if she alone was all that mattered, his bright eyes filled with hopefulness. "Earendil," she breathed. At first her heart soared, and she thought herself waking from a terrible dream. But then the ship swayed, and her heart broke anew. There was no dream, save for the nightmare that living day had become. Earendil held her silently as she wept, and it was many moments until she could bear to face him again. Her eyes were filled with guilt and tears when she looked up at last.

"Forgive me," she said, sobbing. "Like rain the Feanorions came down upon us, and we were showered with our own blood. Their swords spared no one; yea they even cut each other down, such was their madness! Our sons are gone, the Havens destroyed. Death, Earendil, I saw death in immortal eyes! Take it!" Grasping suddenly at her chest, she tore the Silmaril from its chain. "Take it!" Earendil had no choice but to do so as she closed his palms around the jewel. "Take the only hope that remains for us. I have nothing else."

Looking in her eyes, Earendil believed. Hers was the face of a childless mother, a homeless queen, a broken wing tormented by wind now worthless. He heard his heart beating like a steel drum inside of his head, yet he spoke with calmness that he did not feel, "Tell me how it has come to this."

***

***

It felt like the world was ending, as every element I had valued at highest worth was destroyed before my eyes. We had warnings, and in hindsight they were fair enough, perhaps more than we deserved in our foolishness of prideful bliss and arrogance. What did we think, that we were indestructible? That our swords were mightier after years without service than when they last failed us in battle?

What did Turgon think, when Tuor delivered Ulmo’s warning? I know not how he thought, but I know how he felt. Gondolin was his home; his hands that built it could defend it, his will that conceived it could avail it. Why should he flee when the enemy would follow; why should he build another hidden realm if secrecy proved futile?

Mayhap I will meet my grandfather yet, and we may speak of our disillusions together.

For our part, we felt righteous enough. Curse the Feanorions, for challenging us! In such days of darkness and doubt, when we had been driven from our Kingdoms, dragged into thralldom, beaten into remission… then came these subtle threats, these shameless demands, as if we should have no more pressing concerns than quarreling amongst ourselves over the only hope left to any of us.

Why should we submit, after all we had endured? By demanding the jewel they claimed everything we had: the bringer of our fruit, the sum of our heritage, the only light which yet staves off the Darkness. We could not relinquish the Silmaril any sooner than they could renounce their wicked oath, and they knew that! Thus they gave us no choice at all, and despite their talk of friendship, they were willing to kill. But we knew that. Many of us carried the scars of their blades already, if not on our flesh than in our hearts.

How the thought of their desperation stung me; I felt no pity towards their plight, and the abhorrence boiling in place of sympathy burned like fire’s touch within me. By it I was ignited, and I was not alone. How their falsehoods reopened my wounds like a knife; I saw beyond their sloppy diplomacy, just as my father had before me. I saw the pattern, not the words, the symmetry of a never-ending cycle of transgression. It mesmerized me – it mesmerized us all. We fell into line, embittered folk of Kingdoms lost, and danced our part with flawless formation. Soon enough the kinslayers joined us, and the sequence was complete.

And so we danced together, with blade and bone, as we had danced with ink and parchment over a great distance, when the lingering scent of each other on the messenger’s hand was too near. Later upon the field of battle we could not be close enough.

Under the last amber rays of dusk, our swords flickered like a crop of firebrands swinging in the wind, until the moon came out and turned our blades to shimmering icesickles in the night. Coldly we smote each other as the stars crowned our bloodied helms, and arrows flew in a syncopated melody of aim and reception, ill intent and unexpected pain. Feet fell lightly on the ground, bodies fell lifelessly to the sand, and the screams you never heard were the ones wrenched from your own raw throat.

If the battle had proceeded fairly, I meant to take ship and flee with a small sum of those crippled from past service, too small to wear armor, those with child, those without hope. But it was not to be so, and verily I fought, wanting nothing more.

One sunny afternoon, three scouts simply did not return when they should have. The Guard was suspicious, my advisors less so, but none saw further than I. We had just adjourned a council when the missing scouts returned, all of them bloodied, shaking. None sat horses, though they had ridden out upon them. I watched from the center of town as they approached the first set of breastworks, at the front of town where a gate would stand if Earendil had submitted enough timber to construct one.

As I ran home, raised voices followed at my heels. The captives were shields for the kinslayers stooped behind them. Calling to the borderguards, they said we were surrounded, outnumbered, that Maedhros’ army would arrive within an hour. They hid behind innocent Elves whilst threatening our lives, our children and future. They did not live long, those lone kinslayers sent ahead of the host to accept our surrender, who negotiated with their blades to the backs of our kin.

Brave Mallith, Captain of the Guard, diligently patrolled the border of town, and he was not lenient when it came to matters of honor. His was the last voice I heard as I ran -pounding on every door until my fists were skinned- and his voice was vehement. Then there was only noise in the distance, bellows, cries.

Even supper bells rang amid the turmoil that followed. Those at home first realized the danger, either by the racket at their doors or the skirmish at the outskirt of town. They did all they could to warn their husbands and sons who labored at the harbor or workyards; and to retrieve their mothers who sowed the gardens and sisters who tended the livestock.

It was in the beginning a clamor of horns and screaming and running seemingly in circles. But the Guard was quick to assemble, and once the initial panic ebbed away, it was all quiet preparations, sober organization. Behind the furthest breastworks they waited an hour for the first volley of kinslayers to arrive, nothing left for them to do save pray.

In the foyer I donned the wargear I had trained in since Earendil last left; a gift to Idril from Turgon her father, later a gift from Idril to me. Already I heard familiar trumpets echoing through the dying light of day. Maedhros had come. I saw his face in my mind as his approach rang in my ears. Years ago in Doriath my heart had quailed just the same when I first heard that music singing death and doom to us all.

My sons stood by weeping; everyone was too occupied to comfort them save for a few soothing words, and in that hour more than ever they longed to feel safe, to be held. I pulled on my helm, and a mantle of gray went over all – then I knelt to my sons, and we spoke together for what would be the last time... words I cannot remember.

At last we stepped outside where we were to wait, my household and I, until an escort arrived. Night had not yet fallen, but my spirits were tempted to do so as I beheld the town: surrounded, outnumbered. A line of kinslayers shoulder to shoulder and three deep bordered the southern crescent of town. Already the stables and livestock were beyond our defense, along with the first ring of breastworks now manned by enemy archers.

During a brief council held earlier -truly hasty talking while the chancellors were suited with armor- it was decided that I would go at once to the harbor. An escort was to meet me at my home, and if need be, hew a path for my escape.

Though I was clad as if for battle, as were all those in my company, deception was the reason for our raiment. Elwing was not to be seen fleeing from her home with twin children clutched to her bosom, or the Silmaril upon her person. Nor was she supposed to acquire a thirst for blood as she beheld the carnage before her – yet there I was, sword unsheathed before I realized my mistake. For the weight of an Elven blade is not easily shed, a power once in hand not readily forgotten. No longer was I a crying child, carried beyond harm’s reach despite all pleads to remain at my father’s side. Nay, a tool rested in my palm that could earn retribution, and in my heart was the will to exact amends.

I heard glass break from behind and above, and acted without thought. Whether archers loosing arrows from afar, or intruders entering the manor from behind, I cared not. The escort was not in time, and my children were in danger. I led the charge with a loud command in a low voice, and raced out to meet an adversary I had only just realized was not one of my own townspeople.

How had the enemy gotten so close? Indeed, infiltrated the line of defense to stab us in the back? A riddle for another time. My first duel outside of training was over in a moment. The gore misbalanced my sword, and turned my stomach, and I did not appreciate it, having no time for distractions.

Turning I saw my household followed me across the courtyard, their determined faces blanched with fear. I looked behind them, confident that we could reach the harbor before the last ring of breastworks was abandoned, though the Guard had lost the second row already.

We followed the middle street bustling with activity as fast as we could without appearing to flee and as fast as the children could walk unaided. I bid them not to be carried; doing so would leave no doubt as to our purpose. We must seem as soldiers moving into position, not escapees flying to safety, from Elwing’s home no less, with children in arm.

I dared not risk being waylaid; my capture or the capture of my sons would be the Feanorions’ best hope for finding the Silmaril sooner than later, and doubtless they watched for such an opportunity. I would not be held captive like my mother, my sons would not be abducted like my brothers. I checked occasionally to see four tiny feet shuffling under their nurse’s cloaks. But for the most part I fought. I fought until I realized that I should not be fighting, for we were yet in the middle of town, and I could see ahead that our shieldmen still blocked the access.

Amid the confused and betrayed and dying cries of those around me, I fought despite doubt, decent as the males beside me... until they both fell, one after the other, before the mightiest warrior I ever knew, with fiery hair thrashing in the wind like serpents spitting forked tongues. A mask of amber freckles spread like wings upon his handsome face, framing bright eyes that flashed wrath and ruin, and a sword long as a dwarf is tall was held by his left hand.

Maedhros Kinslayer, brother of my father’s murderer: how my blood sang with the yearning to smite him! Yet I could not bring myself to move whilst I stood unnoticed, not when such an act of vengeance would expose my sons to his ire. He had paused looking to the side, searching for some thing unknown to me. I paused looking the other way, and at last I understood. They were coming up from the north, from below the ridge, from the road to the harbor! No wonder they were intermingled amongst us in the crowded streets, no wonder so many lied dead upon their faces, killed from behind.

Had they swam in from the ocean itself or traversed the maze of reeds and sinking mire from further up the delta, I knew not. A shout erupted near enough to shake me, strong as stone. "Brother! Ai, brother, hearken!" Maedhros bellowed, and I was gone, knowing I had tarried too long.

Forced to shove and yank the grieving wives of those two Elves who fell beside me, soon my household was moving again. In our haste the children were carried as we ran. What else could be done? The road to the harbor was riddled with kinslayers coming the other direction, and the ships' condition could not be guessed. Without the cook and his son who had fought with me, we six ladies –two helpless with babe in arm- could not maintain the facade of being soldiers.

As we made our way through the mounting hysteria, kinslayers were seeping in from the narrow passageways between the buildings lining the road. They must have been climbing the ridge unchecked from below. At the harbor, were none of the mariners protecting the road, or was it all they could do to fend for the ships? Yet no good were ships if we could not reach them. We had gone so wrong; where I did not know.

"Elwing! Elwing!" holloed a seafarer ahead, identifying me unwisely. My escort had arrived at last, it appeared, and I held no grudge as one by one they clambered over the garden pavilions to trample through my flowerbeds. We reached each other without incident, not far from the courtyard where perhaps we should have remained, arrows and all. There were six tall Elves total, all armed and little harmed.

"What has happened?" I demanded to know, noticing I had scarce breath to speak with.

"By stealth the kinslayers came to infiltrate the harbor from below. Whilst we stand in peril I dare say no more. Come!" My ladies and I were surrounded, protected within the circle of armor and blade as the dozen of us moved towards the ledge

Over his shoulder the seafarer spoke again, "But take heart! Our enemy has become our friend, for the kinslayers stand divided; many now fight against their lords beside us. The rest flee overwhelmed from the harbor, making their way to higher ground to regroup with their fellows of like intentions."

As he spoke we began making our way down the slope. It was steep, mostly slack loam, though not impossible. More difficult to climb than descend, and I was glad to be fumbling down with little effort. My heart pounded in my chest, and every breath was like a dagger in my side.

"Look there!" he pointed below. We were nearly down already; I could throw a stone onto the first pier. The area was busy as an anthill. In the dusk I could not tell from our distance quite what went on, save that there were blades everywhere, twinkling like stars until they fell.

"One ship we have spared from capture or damage, Telainathar the swift. We must hur-urk-!" an arrow through his neck silenced him for ever, yet he lived long enough to raise his sword in warning, a gesture to the road that was his last deed ere he collapsed in a twitching heap. More commotion came from the path, getting closer, louder. I guessed a retreat had been ordered, either by my people or Maedhros’, and the sea was the chosen avenue of escape.

Another seafarer surged forth. "Make haste!" he cried, an arrow whirring by his ear. That shaft had been loosed from the ridge. The fleeing kinslayers had turned after ascending the slope to defend their fellows from above – the brotherly gesture did not touch my heart. My protector carried a shield that he held aloft, pulling me close to his body.

"The kinslayers have taken the ridge, or else their converted brethren have changed loyalties again. Fly!" After a few steps I felt the vibration when an arrow plunged into my protector’s side, and heard the air forced from his lungs. Shield held out, he stumbled on. The arrow which hit him had come from below: we were being attacked from two sides. Looking back I saw that my sons were held by seafarers, their nurses lagging further and further behind. They were both mothers thrice over, thus tired easier than childless wives, or males. I knew if they did not reach Telainathar in time, we could not risk waiting for them.

My head light, I scarcely noticed when the shield was gone, and my face buried in sand. I had tripped over the valiant Elf who died protecting me. Someone pulled me up, and I was carried a short while, then set to stand on wood. My eyes focused upon plain horror, twisted with dizziness. From out of the water, kinslayers flung themselves upon the pier. Had they been hiding there, or for how long, I did not know. Two bodies flew by me, and I saw amazed that one of them was my own handmaiden. They grappled with the newly emerged foes, showing tentative success, but more were surfacing behind the first.

Telainathar was as good as lost. I could not help but search the horizon for signs of Balar's Fleet, or Cirdan’s familiar craft. From the empty Sea I turned away. Only the seafarers with my sons and two of my ladies remained alive of my companions. Behind them the road was a swarm of glinting metal. I could not be sure what was happening, save that fallen Elves littered the path, and the sand was red with blood. It was all coming closer, so close I could feel the heat of their bodies.

A broken sword lay at my feet next to a bloodied corpse, my hand was empty. My tunic of chain mail was torn, the leather jerkin underneath sliced but intact, and I vaguely remembered a blur and an impact and a strain on my arm. I must have grappled with someone, and triumphed. When I looked up another lady of mine fell, slain by the grief of it all.

If I thought before that we might have recovered and stood as champions over the battle, I realized in that moment how wrong I was, what fools we had been. The Silmaril was a dead weight against my chest, never heavier. I removed my helm and stepped forward, reaching for the only end I could see: one of shame and darkness and despair. Yet someone seized my wrist: Faerior, who I had seen looking far better. It occurred to me that I might not have won my last duel alone after all.

"Nay, Elwing! Award them no victory in this; ‘twill bring none of our fallen back from Mandos’ Halls the sooner. For you and your sons hope yet remains. Keep it, and follow me!" Then I was running again, climbing up the slope I could barely tumble down without losing my wits in exhaustion. My sons were beside me, in the arms of those two seemingly tireless sailors, while Faerior led us onwards. I wondered if he was aware that the fighting above was no less than the mayhem we fled.

Suddenly I heard a scream, unaware then that it came from me. I hit the ground hard, a weight upon me, hot as a furnace, heavy as a mountain. I could not move or breathe, nor believe my eyes, such was the appearance of the enraged face above me, twisted in madness, drawn with the torment of desire and loathing.

"Where is it?" he fairly shrieked, his voice one of wretched magnificence. Maglor Kinslayer, come to end his suffering at any price. His hands tore at my clothing, reached under my mail shirt through the rip in it, probing for the only link to his sanity. I resisted him best as I could, but he was stronger – far stronger.

"Where is it?" What desperation in that plea, such a perversion of what it means to cherish some gift, to covet some blessing; like beauty, or light. They are not ours, they just are! He was not going to stop before I lay nude in the sand and he later found the Silmaril in the pocket of my leather jerkin, or until he had suffocated me in the process.

Before he could question again I flung sand in his eyes, and his next screech was a line of curses, not all of them Sindarin. I could only crawl away after that, my breath squeezed out of me, legs burning and weak. I did not get far, before I heard a familiar voice among all the others, small and terrified, calling my name. Not Elwing, but my real name: Mother.

Fighting to stand and scrambling backwards, there below where I had been half buried in the sand, laid the two seafarers in four pieces. Had they come back to my rescue or had others ensnared them also, I knew not. But to my horror, my sons were in the arms of identical copper-haired Elves, grinning like wolves.

Behind them Maglor was on hands and knees, and in that moment of vulnerability as many Elves sprang forth to slay him as to defend him. For the moment I was unnoticed again, and looked to my children as I caught my breath. Elrond was limp and colorless in his captor’s grasp, eyes closed. Elros stared through me, eyes rigid, unseeing. The light in them which had been so keen at birth was hazed, the depth which had been endless was so shallow I could see the bottom: I could see his death. The matching kinslayers whom I recognized as Amrod and Amras backed away, slowly, telling me with their eyes that I was to follow, and obey.

"Murderers!" wailed Faerior behind me. I had forgotten he still lived, all my thoughts bent on my sons, lifeless, taken from me. I swore it would not happen, yet they were lost. Faerior stalked past me, and moved to block me. "Will you not cease until the blood of all our children is on your hands?" An emotion besides mania passed the brethren’s faces, and they glanced at the unmoving bodies in their arms.

In that instant another volley of arrows came down, this time aimed at the enemy. Faerior took advantage of the distraction. Warrior he was not, but wise indeed. He spurred forth, a cry of anguish and rage mingling with the ring of steel. "For Mallith!" So his son was dead too. Vowing Faerior’s sacrifice would not be in vain, I ran forward, after I had turned back around. I would join my sons, my family and people, but first I would avenge them.

Someone laughed harshly from behind, someone else barked orders, and someone followed me still. Faerior roared again, and the laughter stopped abruptly. From atop the ridge ahead, I heard the twanging of bowstrings, and the footsteps behind me retreated. The orders came again, this time frantically, calling for archers, shieldmen, the seizure of Elwing. I ran with the strength of one who runs to eternal rest, reaching the summit in agony.

Lithe strangers with pale eyes lined the ridge: enemy archers, Green-elves. One looked upon me as I sat there gasping, wordless. In his eyes I learned all I needed to know, and I had never been so glad to meet a traitor. Those at the harbor were the only ones who had identified me, and now their egression was barred by their treacherous allies.

As best I could, I staggered and hobbled forward, while all around was fighting. What little I glimpsed of the town was in ruins. At times I crawled between dueling Elves or over slain friends, and I heard footsteps following me again before long, interrupted by the chiming of blades, only to begin again, then halt, then come.

There was no clear distinction between friend and foe at that point, and I was saved only by the treason of my enemies. Fitting, I thought, that kinslayer should slay kinslayer, thus securing my ultimate betrayal.

At last I walked into a wall, following it until there was a terrace, then a shrubbery and a bench. My garden. I limped ahead, towards the smell of salt, and the sound of certain, crushing escape.

I would never stand at the Steep Cliff in sorrow or reflection or anticipation again. Through the tear in my chain mail I could retrieve the Silmaril quickly; fortunate, as I had no time, no time for anything. I knew people watched me, pursued me, defended me. I thought I heard music and begging. Then there was rushing air and a coolness through my hair and I could breathe at last – and then I did not need to.

***

***

A healthy wind stirred the ever-present aroma of the Sea, and filled Vingilot’s great white sails. Yet somehow the atmosphere seemed eerily calm, even the waves subdued, the churning of the tide naught but a whispered hush in the distance. Earendil leaned on the bulwark, oblivious of the night, silent tears falling to join the ocean below. Low clouds drifted by; luminous under the full moon, dancing like tendrils of mist. The creak of wood, a faint and ancient voice, echoed a mourning melody through the darkness. Earendil thought he would never sing again.

"Earendil?" came a voice from behind, sorry to interrupt his Lord’s privacy.

"Yes, what is it you need, Aerandir?"

There was a pause, then respectfully, "You have turned us about, I notice. Was it not your wish that we return posthaste to the mainland, my Lord?" Concern was evident, yet he spoke as someone who already has his answer.

Earendil squared his shoulders against an invisible weight that crushed him down whenever his attention wandered. The weight of the Silmaril bound to his brow was insignificant in comparison. "It had been my wish to return home, and there balm my despair of long, fruitless searching; rekindle my own hope with the faith of my people." He faced Aerandir. "Shall we still return to our home, now ruined, and seek comfort in beds of ashes; encouragement in the faces of our slain kin?"

Aerandir bowed his head, and answered in no other way.

The silence stretched like a remorseful sigh. Earendil shifted, his skin feeling prickly and his eyes stinging with the acidity of his own words. "Would you return, Aerandir?" he asked softly. "I am Lord of naught but this ship, now. Tell me to bring your feet to solid land, and I will do so."

"No, my Lord— my friend. Ever have I believed that yours was the path to our salvation, and I believe it still." Looking up, he lifted his chin, forcing Earendil’s face to replace the memory of his family, slain but days ago according to Elwing’s account. It was no happier a sight, for in his Lord’s eyes was reflected the memory of his own sons, also lost.

Aerandir felt that he should say something. After hearing Elwing’s tale that morning, there had been little discussion. Earendil laid his wife to rest in his cot, then isolated himself above deck, asking to be undisturbed. Aerandir had sat ever since with Falathar and Erellont, but few words passed between them. Perhaps there were no words left to be spoken, no comfort to be had. But for love of his Lord, he resolved to try.

"I am sorry for your sons." He sighed, and tried harder. "They were joyful in life. Though their years were few, at least they were glad."

"Better to die an innocent, you say?" Earendil shook his head, raising a hand to halt Aerandir’s reply. "Peace. Your words were caring, and I thank you. Forgive me that anything which touches my heart causes me pain, even such kindness."

Aerandir nodded his understanding and glanced sidelong, thinking of some way to lessen the eve’s misery. Only the empty Sea surrounded them. "A shame that Cirdan is not here, with his handsome ship. I think of the fall of Gondolin, and how important it was to Tuor your father that the tale be told, and written, preserved. I fear if none save we here know the account of the Havens’ destruction, it may be lost. For if we reach the Blessed Realm, will we ever return? But perhaps there are other survivors, besides the lady Elwing." He shuddered. "Though… the sons of Feanor are not known for their compassion. ‘Tis said that any survivors of Doriath were slain."

"That is what I fear," Earendil replied quietly. "Only those who could flee and fend for themselves will be spared the Feanorions’ mercy." No hope did he have for his sons’ escape; thus none for their survival. He met Aerandir’s eyes, speaking quickly to try and comfort him, "But hold some hope that the tale will yet be known – forget not Elwing’s message to the High King. Though his Fleet came not in time, it will come nevertheless. And if there are survivors who fled or hid or were spared, I think they will gather to him, and the Havens at Sirion will be remembered on the Isle of Balar, at least."

It was little consolation to either of them, for it seemed to both that if the Havens were assailed, Balar would soon be next. Remembering his purpose, Aerandir said, "I will maintain our course, and keep watch. Best you take some rest below deck." He forced a smile that quivered despite his efforts. "I am not so tireless as you, and will summon someone to relieve me by dawn. I should not be pleased if none were prepared to answer my call." Then gravely he added, "Also, the lady Elwing has awoken, and she asked of you."

Earendil nodded, and walked past. He knew well that it was also solitude Aerandir desired; there would likely be no shortage of willing lookouts in the following days, if it meant having a few hours alone to grieve. Below deck all was quiet, save for the faint creak of wood as Earendil descended the stairs. The short and narrow hallway was lit solemnly by a single lamp. Two doors were on each side, and one at the end. Earendil stepped into the first room on his left, muted murmurs passing through the door left ajar.

Inside was a small table, and lined along the walls were cupboards stocked with food. Erellont and Falathar sat together, their talk halting when Earendil entered. "Hullo," said Erellont awkwardly. His face was drawn with sorrow and weariness; it was clear he had been weeping not long before. Sitting beside him, Falathar bowed his head, and gave a more formal greeting, yet his voice was no sturdier.

"I thought to bring Elwing something to eat, as I heard she has awoken," said Earendil. "Then I shall retire for a while. Aerandir has the helm, until dawn."

"I think rest would benefit us all," Falathar replied, "but as for Elwing, she has indeed been here, and ate already at least to appease us."

"Had we known a lady so fair would join us on this voyage, fancier provisions would have been brought," Erellont added, his voice almost unrecognizable without its usual cheer.

"Yes, had we but known." Earendil smiled, striving and failing to mimic his own characteristic mood. But too much had changed, and too little was certain; no one would ever be the same. "Then I suppose I shall take my leave," he said turning. "Good night."

"We will make it, my Lord."

Again Falathar helped Erellont to word his thoughts in more detail. "We have spoken of it, and to turn West again seems to us the wisest course. There is naught we can do now, for our people or our home. Truly our path aims to Valinor, for better or worse. If nothing else we shall be closer to our kin as we near Mandos’ Halls."

Head bowed, Earendil nodded, but could think of nothing to say. That he still had hope? That his companions’ devotion heartened him? That he could feel much of anything at all? All lies, they would be. Leaving his shipmates behind, he walked the short distance to his room as if through a haze of thick fog: unseeing, graceless. The parts of his heart that did not plainly ache were strangely numb, and fear began to sliver between those two extremes. He would desire sleep, if therein he might meet forgetfulness, and truly take leave of his cares for a few hours of rest. But it was his dreams which first alerted him to the changing of the world, of the horrors to come, and he felt no comfort would be waiting for him in sleep, not now and perhaps never again.

"Earendil…"

He started, finding himself leaning against the frame of his door, eyes unfocused. He looked across the small chamber to the source of the voice, and there was Elwing, sitting up in his cot.

"You stood unmoving for many moments. Were you asleep on your feet?" she asked.

He only heard the guilt, not the hollow words; he understood the underlying apology, not the question. Crossing to her, he fumbled with his clothing, loosening a few things, removing little, such was his lack of coordination. He collapsed to sit before her, and there any words he had formed earlier and saved for later use failed him. Take my silence, he thought, take it to mean that I have nothing else to give.

Elwing reached to his face, caressing softly. "I have been told by those more familiar with the meaning of these waves that we have turned, and sail now West."

"I see no hope left in the lands of Middle-earth." Earendil did not take heed when the Silmaril bound to his brow was slipped off, and set aside. "Though I seek for Valinor now in despair, at the least my path is made clear to me. There is no other way, and either we will come someday to the Blessed Realm, or we will not."

Elwing nodded, and leaning forward, helped her husband to remove his garments. "A noble quest, as it has ever been. And here I am beside you on that journey, as I had always wished." She sat back, tears in her eyes. "This is not what I wanted after all, or else you would see me happy before you, and here I have sat, and slept, and reminisced, my tears incessant, my misery undiminished. Will it ever end?"

"We will mourn for our sons, and nothing will seem as it should until that shadow is lifted, or lessened," said Earendil, his voice weak. In truth he could offer meager reassurance, with so little of his own confidence remaining. "But it is no indication that you will never know happiness here, with me."

"Yet I will never be happy with myself, Earendil. With such care I tried to act rightly, yet it seems I fell only faster into folly. I do not understand my fate; the end is hidden from me, and the means just beyond my grasp. Am I foolish, Earendil? Have I lost my sight? For it seems that all things are twisted around me, and all that I attempted has gone askew."

"Elwing, Elwing," he pulled her into an embrace. "I have no answers, and I am so weary. Let us rest together, and this night will pass us by, and the dawn will bring new light; that much I know. And I will love you even through darkness and doubt; this I promise."

They laid back together, and their pain -though mutual and shared- was little eased. The Silmaril so carelessly set aside was buried by chance under a layer of fabric, and there it lay until the morrow, forgotten and alone – for once its heavenly light shone bright yet unnoticed, and perhaps even the holy jewel tasted the bitterness of despair, if only for one night.

Dawn came indeed with its usual splendor, and if none aboard Vingilot took notice of the sunrise in especial, the light shone no dimmer for it. Earendil and Elwing ascended to the deck, and walking hand in hand came to Aerandir’s side. He greeted them each in turn, then gesturing to the eastern horizon and the rosy dawn he said, "The morning deceives, my lady. Our travels will not be so easy as this inviting display would lead you to believe."

"Nor has the road been easy in our coming thus far." She felt Earendil’s arm wrap around her waist.

Aerandir nodded, and passed a hand over his face, drawn with tiredness. "That is indeed so." He met Earendil’s eyes, making it clear his next words were not for Elwing alone. "But there has been a strange and twisting wind, carrying a smell of sleet. I fear there is a storm building, and that it may come upon us from both sides."

"It would not be the first time," said Earendil. "And it shall not be the last." He took a deep breath, and verily the scent of tempest was strong in it – also enchantment and shadow and beaches of stardust was carried to his senses as if on the breeze, like a fleeting vision that left its memory in his mind as flavor lingers on the tongue.

Coming back to himself he said, "Get you some sleep now, Aerandir. By all means we shall hold the storm at bay until you wake, and then we will dance together in the rain, and the clapping thunder will keep our pace."

A measuring glance assured Aerandir that his Lord was not fey. At length he smiled, the familiarity of Earendil’s humor returning to him. "As you say, my Lord, now doubly imperative is my rest, if I am expected to dance. Until then." He left after a bow, and if it was his imagination or his fatigue, his feet felt a little lighter upon the floor, and the threat of a storm frightened him less.

And so with Elwing at his side, Earendil stood now most often at the prow of Vingilot, and the Silmaril was bound upon his brow; and ever its light grew greater as they drew into the West.

***

***

Drawing a hand over weary eyes, his sigh fell like a receding wave, reluctantly parted from the shore. Upon the middle street slick with blood he stood, the buildings on each side of him quailing in the silence of battle’s aftermath, mourning the Elves who had built them with such care: Where have they gone, those mirthful, thoughtful Elves? Sweetly they raised us!
"Silence," he grated. In response the pavement shrank under his unyielding weight – somewhat disgusted, he studied the meticulousness with which it was created; every cobblestone fitted into perfect place: Heavy boots, harsh feet, marching, hurting, spilling blood, bringing hate!
"Silence." He stomped his foot hard enough to crack the clay, and walked on.

Coming to the gardens, he calculated the provisions that could be salvaged from the bountiful -if slightly damaged- crop. And he smiled at that, satisfied that the long trek back to Ossiriand would not be slowed by the need to hunt... then he heard the lamentation: O lady Elwing, fair and white – wherefore this fight and why her flight?
"Because we are all doomed," Maedhros growled, and turned away. Without her jewel, warm and bright – endure this dark instead of sight?
"Forever." O Noldo Elf-lord, great of might – pray sing the songs they sang last night!
"Silence!"

There would be no peace whilst this realm yearned for the Elves who had graced it. Chafed at that, Maedhros walked through town, the buildings and pathways quieting at his approach. Coming to the end of the road, he halted to inspect the body of one who laid face-down. The Elf’s identity confirmed, he continued, passing few injured along the way, and many carcasses. Elves did not strike to maim or cripple, and to lay alive with a debilitating wound after battle was considered a rare misfortune.

Before long he saw the ships from ahead -some were shallow and small for fishing, others deep and long as many great trees, and one of exceptional beauty – all of them emanating terror and outrage.

But he paid no heed, his attention taken by the task of finding two particular warriors in a field of several. If the twins had not worn helms, he could identify them by their hair alone, or their garb; but many here were dressed in similar colors, or their clothes were so stained with blood and grime as to be unrecognizable. Inspecting each face was a grim task, even for one accustomed to the consequences of battle.

In a moment of rest he paused, and looked towards the Sea, carefully ignoring the lament of the ships docked at the piers:
Earendil, Earendil; face alight with heaven-stars!
Peredhil, Peredhil; know a kinder fate than ours!
Silmaril, Silmaril; rescued now from future wars!

Despondent, he sighed. The grisliness of his chore and the pangs of failure had gradually been wearing upon him, and presently he felt miserable; sore and tired and wretched. Every time he blinked another pale face floated before his closed eyes, dim eyes vacant and staring back at him lifelessly. So many dead, and nothing gained; he had never felt so thoroughly bereft of all hope, and the madness of his quest was never clearer. Amrod and Amras were nowhere nearby to be found: they were dead. He turned from the Sea and the docks and the ships, and resolved to find Maglor instead. He would ask him to forsake their foolish search, and help prepare for departure. The sooner they could leave this place, the sooner it would become a memory.

Turning his eyes to the ridge, he noticed that the garden had pavilions where one could overlook the harbor from above; no doubt a lovely view, in better times. But now the sandy slope was lined with tracks, appearing like streaks of tears on the face of the earth, and bodies were strewn all about the bank – some evidently tumbled down from the ledge, bows still clutched in their hands, while others seemed to still reach for the summit, their arms outstretched.

To his surprise, one previously overlooked Elf stood in shadow at the foot of the bank, head bent down, shoulders slumped. It was Maglor, and Maedhros did not look forward to encountering whatever his brother gazed upon so intently. Nonetheless he approached, and coming beside Maglor he beheld two bodies, identical in shape and clothing, lying side by side in the sand, motionless. One was face up, the other prone; mirror images in death as in life.

Thrice Maedhros tried to speak, not making a sound. Knowing he would find his brothers dead made their discovery no easier. They were the youngest, and should the youngest not be the last to die? Suddenly he felt very old, an ancient tree in a razed forest, where the saplings were burned to the roots while the eldest were left to dwell alone, bereft of purpose and the ability to sow anew.

"I did not know what they held," Maglor said, his ragged voice a mockery of what it could be. "I was half-blinded by the sand in my eyes. I ran into a volley of arrows, and only saw them for an instant while they retreated, and then I was forced to take cover. After that I pursued Elwing, not thinking of them again until it was over. I did not know they fell, I did not know what they carried."

Maedhros roused himself from the stupor his mind had drifted into. "What?" He saw that Amrod held a small child in his lifeless arms, the way a youth might clutch some plaything to their bosom during sleep. Peering closer, he assessed the child; one more face that would haunt his memory. The grey eyes, glossy like melting ice, stared unblinking at the sky, and his skin was white as snow against his dark hair, speckled with drying blood. An arrowhead protruded from his left shoulder, the shaft mounted in Amrod’s torso where it entered him from behind.

Maedhros was sickened to see that several other arrows had found their mark likewise, and that his brother had been targeted from both sides, evidenced by the multiple wounds at opposing angles. Somehow it was worse, knowing that Amrod had died slowly, bleeding from so many punctures, staggering as limb after limb he lost his strength, unable even to defend himself at the last when someone had crouched to slice his throat. It was a cruel end, yet no less than he had dealt, and perhaps no better than he deserved – seeing that, understanding it, was worse by far.

Maglor had stepped forward to kneel beside Amras’ prone form. Unshed tears shone in his eyes, and an unspoken apology did not pass his lips. He was ever fond of his youngest brothers, who loved hunting in the forest and riding under the open sky, who respected nature and relished the wild. ‘Brash’, others had named them – ‘Free’, Maglor would reply… would never reply again. He winced until it hurt to be so twisted, and reaching out grasped the spear that stood like a crude flagpole in Amras’ back.

"Is slaying each other not shameful enough, that we do it also without honor? Why not a fair contest for these two, at least?" He shoved away his brother’s hand when it rested on his shoulder, refusing his comfort. "Because they would have triumphed! None dared to face them, for none could match their prowess; thus here they lie slain with weapons in their backs!" With his other hand he seized the shaft, locking his fingers together. "Coward’s tool, I name thee; slayer of my brother, disgrace of thy wielder – begone!" Wrathful, he wrenched the javelin from its rooting, careless of the damage it would cause to Amras’ already mauled remains.

There came a distinct gasp, then a whimper as Amras’ body settled to the ground. Maglor started, as did Maedhros, and they both rushed instinctively to turn their brother around, finding that a second child had been pinned beneath the corpse. Bright blood oozed from a shoulder wound, and his eyes blinked wide with fear, clouded by pain as they moved frantically about.

Maglor was quick to react, bending close and attempting to soothe the child with words as he busily removed his soiled gloves. Next he inspected the wound, eliciting a cry from the child, who strove to master himself to speak, his voice surfacing only weakly, "Help... please!"

"Be brave, little one," Maglor said, hurrying to staunch the flow of blood. A swell of guilt arose in him, for he realized the child had been pierced by the same blade that skewered Amras; the blade he so crassly removed. As he worked he spared a glance at the spearhead lying aside, seeing that its tip was slender and smooth, widening to form jagged teeth as it neared the hilt. Likely there was little to no tearing upon removal, however ungentle it had been.

"Please... please," the child was pleading, and Maglor looked back.

"Hush now, child. Speak not if it pains you." He lifted him gingerly, baffled when the youth fussed.

"No, please... my brother, help him!" Again Maglor started, having forgotten everything else save giving aid. His eyes dashed to Amrod – the other child was gone.

"I severed the shaft, but the arrowhead must be removed with a healer’s skill," said Maedhros from slightly behind, in Quenya. Maglor turned, shocked to see his brother holding the first child. Maedhros handed him a flask. "Have him drink some, then follow me."

Maglor fumbled with the cork, and urged the child to drink. The moisture to his parched throat prompted more words. "I saw my brother get hurt," he said, seemingly oblivious to his own injuries, though his eyes clenched shut as Maglor jarred him to stand. The boy groaned and writhed as if dizzy, but was persistent, "Where is he?"

"He is with us, do not fear. We will—" ahead of him Maedhros paused, and turned to look back, his tall form straight and ominous against the black of night. Maglor followed his stern gaze to Amrod and Amras, the sand stained red with their blood, and he swallowed against a tightness in his chest at the sight of them.

He looked back to Maedhros, and the child he held, and then down at that child’s twin in his own arms. "We will... help you," he finished. The child took a shaking breath and went still as his eyes fluttered shut.

Maglor walked quickly to come beside his brother, and they continued in silence.

***

***

In later days it would be remembered how Cirdan had wept openly beside the shore, and sang a dirge for the fallen, and that by the sound of his lament the Havens' survivors knew Balar's Fleet had arrived at last, and coming out of hiding they joined themselves to the High King. Seen by all was Cirdan searching the dead for signs of life as a wraith floating silently through an uprooted graveyard, and that he alone sailed Telainathar from the mouths of Sirion, coming not to Balar for many months. There was talk that he had sought for Earendil in the far waters to no avail, or that he had aged and lost his way as a man forgetful of his own affairs; for when he returned such weariness and sorrow was in his face that he appeared old in the way of mortals.

The tale was told that Elrond and Elros were taken captive by the kinslayers, and that Elwing with the Silmaril upon her breast had cast herself into the Sea. Some few maintained that Earendil’s sons had been cruelly slain; though their remains were not discovered – to this it was added that they were devoured by the enemy, or thrown from the Steep Cliff to drown in the Sea. Others claimed that Elwing had emerged from the waves in the likeness of a great white bird, and flying with haste disappeared beyond the horizon, the light of the Silmaril fading as she went – to this it was added that she flew not into the West, but up to the Heavens, and a new star would appear when she perched in the sky for rest.

It was understood that Gil-galad preferred not to hear such unfounded tales – so they were whispered instead, until the stories were rumors, and the truth was obscured.

Thereafter it was known that Cirdan dwelt more often than ever by the Sea or upon it, seldom seen in company or high spirits, and his wisdom had grown strange. Queer things he spoke of, such as the changing of the word – but he came to say ‘sinking’ instead, and in secret they called him fey for a time.

If ever it was questioned, why the Havens' folk had not united sooner with the people of Balar, a song would be sung of the brave warriors who fought in defense of the Havens and the Silmaril, and how even faced with sure defeat they were not cowed. Only in closed thought did some wonder if the Havens' people had fought to keep the Silmaril from the kinslayers, or if they had fought to keep the Silmaril for themselves.

Now if the woods of Ossiriand rang with singing and laughter in the years that followed, none on Balar heard of it or knew of why. And that story is not here told.

***end***