Sea-Flower

by Soledad

Author’s notes: Ósanwë means mind-to-mind communication aka telepathy. Originally only the High Elves were considered to be capable of such thing; I took the poetic licence to allow the ruling family of Dol Amroth to share the ability.

Acknowledgements: My heartfelt thanks to Thorsten Renk and BJ Ward whose diligent work on Adûnaic enabled me to give this story a bit more background – and to Fiondil who helped me to find the right sources and christened Atanalcar’s flagship. My thanks also to my wonderful beta, Linda Hoyland, who wrestled the grammar into a shape bearable by native speakers.

The ship itself was inspired by Roger Garland’s painting, “The Havens of Moriondë”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 Chapter 05 – The Journey of the Sea-Conqueror

 Ivriniel woke up to the familiar feeling of a ship dancing on the waves that rocked it like a cradle. Being a true daughter of the Sea, she always found the movements of a ship quite soothing and felt pity for those unfortunates who became sea-sick from it. Her happiest memories were of the times she had spent on the Sea with her father, while she had still been considered the heir to the sceptre.

But as soon as she opened her eyes, she knew that she was not on board one of the Dol Amroth swanships… and not only because of the size and the luxurious furnishings of the cabin in which she found herself. It was clearly the stern cabin, as it had three square windows that looked out on the swirling water astern. Low, cushioned benches round along three sides of a table and a silver lamp swung overhead slowly, following the rhythm of their travel.

Silver? No, it was actually mithril, she realised at second sight, and most likely Dwarven work, judged by its exquisite delicacy.

The ships of Dol Amroth – with the exception of the merchant barges – were clinker-built, light and tall; built in Elf-fashion, for speed above everything else, and relied almost entirely on their square-rigged sails for propulsion. They had two masts (the smaller ones just one) and could outrun every other vessel on the Sea, save for the genuine Elven ships of Edhellond.

This ship, however… she could not see much of it through the small, heavily curtained windows of the cabin, but it seemed much larger than the ones she was used to. The oriental flair of the cabin’s furnishings made her think of a Corsair ship; but not one of the clumsy coastal drifters, for certain. No, this vessel had been built by a shipwright whose skills matched those of the Elven boat-makers. She could feel the speed with which it swept across the waves.

She sat up on the flat, unfamiliar bed – it was like those low, broad cots the Haradrim called a diwan – and tried to remember how she had got herself on a ship… and a foreign one at that, apparently. How had she ended up here – and why? Looking for any signs that could explain it, she turned to the right, where a mirror was embedded into the cabin wall to check her appearance, in the hope that she would find some clues that way.

She was still wearing the simple green bliaut and the hooded grey pilgrim’s cloak in which she had visited Ulmo’s Well, although they looked creased and even soiled with dirt and sea water here and there, proving that she had not boarded the ship of her own volition. There were small puffs of dust in her hair and on her cloak, too, as if she had been rolling on the floor of some poorly swept warehouse – which she definitely had not. Not since the age of three anyway.

There was only one explanation for the foreign place and her desolate state: she had been abducted. But who would dare to do that to a Princess of Dol Amroth? Although she was no longer was the heiress apparent, even the most evil – or foolish – men would think twice about risking the wrath of old Prince Angelimir, who had the reputation of dealing with everyone who would threaten his family with a swift and merciless reprisal.

Besides, no longer being her grandsire’s heiress or the intended wife of the future Steward of Gondor, what use would she be for anyone?

Unless… Lirillo, whoever he might have been, promised her a great destiny if she left the Well through the eastern gate, albeit one clouded by mortal peril. And she had left through that gate, seeking out the promised adventure, following the voice of that Umbari minstrel…

Oh, of course! Now she could remember. The singing, the brief conversation with the minstrel who foretold a long journey, then the faint, barely perceivable prick of a needle as he had bowed over her hand to kiss it…

She had been poisoned. That son of a faithless Orc had given her some obscure Southron poison, which caused her to fall asleep instantly, so that they could bring her to this ship. There were always dozens of merchant ships from Umbar and from the Haradric realms in the Haven of Pelargir. No-one would have noticed some Southron boatmen carrying a sack… or a rolled-up rug from the desert realms. That was a scenario that happened all the time in the docks where the traders loaded their wares in and out.

By the time her guards became worried and started looking for her, the ship had most likely left the harbour. By now, they were perchance halfway across the Bay of Belfalas already. Not even the marvellously fast Elven ships of Edhellond could catch up with them anymore, even if she had the means to call on Lord Gildor’s help. Unfortunately, her modest powers of using ósanwë would be useless by that distance.

But did he truly want the coldly handsome Elf-lord, the friend of protector of all her forefathers to come to her rescue? Had she not chosen the way that – according to Lirillo – would lead her through great peril, but also to a great destiny?

The most important question was: where were her abductors planning to take her? Umbar seemed the most logical answer – but not the only one. That treacherous minstrel could have acted on behalf of any stronger Haradric realm. The lords of both Bakshir and Zipangu were powerful enough to arrange something like this. Even more so was Kambaluk, at least in theory; but Kambaluk had no shared border with Gondor and therefore no immediate use of a royal hostage.

Well, sooner or later she would find her answers. They could not keep her in this cabin for the entire length of the journey; not if they wanted her to arrive healthy and alive, wherever they were heading. And once she was allowed to step out onto the deck, one glance at the ship itself would reveal to her where it had been built. She knew her ships and the way around them as well – or probably even better – as her little brother.

As if answering her thoughts, there was a firm yet polite knock on the cabin door. A gesture ridiculous in itself, seeing that she was a prisoner, but it showed respect. Curious.

“Enter,” she said in Westron. No need to reveal that she spoke Adûnaic fluently.

The door opened and in came a tall, wiry man whose ink-black braids were knotted together on top of his head in a manner that was considered the fashion of the Corsairs of Umbar… although the Corsairs were not the only ones wearing it, as it was eminently practical on board of any ship. The garb of the man, though, made of fine linen, revealed him as somebody of considerable rank and wealth. He had a hawkish profile and piercing black eyes; his deeply tanned skin also marked him as a seaman.

“Greetings, Princess Ivriniel,” he said in his deep voice, roughened by the long exposure to the salty air and the winds, and inclined his head in a respectful nod. “I apologise for the means we were forced to bring you aboard my ship. I am Captain Atanalcar. I command this vessel and would like to welcome you on board, despite the unfortunate circumstances.”

He spoke a slightly accented yet flawless Westron, and though his colouring and sharp features spoke of desert blood, there could be no doubt of his Dúnadan heritage; nor of the fact that he was a well-bred and well-educated man. Umbar, then. The only realm where sons of mixed blood could rise in the ranks as far as their personal abilities allowed. His name – and ancient Númenórean one – also clearly showed that he was no mere Corsair.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Captain,” replied Ivriniel politely, as if being abducted from the street had been something she were used to. One did not show fear when facing one’s jailor. “However, I could value it more, had I been invited first.”

A quick smile lit up the dark features for a moment.

“I certainly understand that, my lady,” he said. “I very much doubt that we could have persuaded you to come with us voluntarily, though, and circumstances forced us to act quickly.”

“Oh? And what circumstances, pray tell, would those be?” she asked, fairly sure that she would not get an answer; not yet.

She was not disappointed.

“I fear I am not at liberty to discuss them,” answered the captain apologetically. “Not at this time anyway. Once we reach our destination, however, my lords shall explain everything to you. I can promise you that much.”

“Our destination,” she repeated slowly. “That would be Umbar, would it not? You may have some Haradri blood, by your looks, but you do not appear like a desert chieftain to me.”

Atanalcar nodded. “Quite so, my lady. I am the Captain of the Haven of Umbar and have command over our entire Fleet.”

“You do not mean the merchant fleet, I presume,” she said with a cold little smile.

The Umbari returned the smile with a similar one of his own. “Nay, my lady, I do not.”

“I see.” Ivriniel fell silent.

The power structure of Umbar’s ruling class was well known in Dol Amroth, of course, as it had not changed much during the Third Age. Therefore, she knew that the man she was currently facing had to be the most powerful person of the realm, next to the two consuls. In wartime, when the fate of Umbar depended on the strength and battle skills of its Fleet, the admiral of the Fleet could even rise to the highest power.

Which could only mean one thing: her abduction must have been pre-meditated and ordered by the consuls themselves. This had to be a far-reaching plan with the potential of changing the fate of both, Umbar and Gondor.

Lirillo’s words suddenly began to make sense.

As if reading her thoughts, Atanalcar nodded again.

“As I said, my lady, I am not entitled to say more about this. But I wish to assure you: you are an honoured guest on my ship, not a prisoner.”

Ivriniel raised an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to leave then?”

Atanalcar grinned wolfishly. “I fear I cannot allow it at this time, my lady.”

“In that case I am a prisoner, even if my cage is gilded,” returned Ivriniel calmly. “Do not tell me white lies, Captain. I can endure being a prisoner. I can endure more than you would possibly believe. But I shall not have you lie to me. I was raised to become the heir apparent to the Prince of Dol Amroth; I deserve the truth. If you truly respect me as much as you pretend, you will tell me the truth… or not speak to me at all.”

The captain bowed. “As you wish, my lady. Nonetheless, I do consider you as my honoured guest, and if you give me your word that you will not try to flee or to throw yourself into the Sea in a gesture of defiance, I shall allow you to roam freely aboard my ship.”

Ivriniel considered her options for a moment. Getting to know the ship could be an advantage; one that would do her little immediate good, though, if she promised not to use it during their journey. However, it might prove useful later; and besides, she longed for the salty air of the Sea so much that it hurt. She doubted that she would be able to spend the journey shut into this cabin all the time without becoming ill.

“Very well,” she said. “But my promise is only valid until we reach our destination.”

Atanalcar bowed again. “Of course, my lady. I am relieved that we have come to an understanding. Your maid will be with you shortly.”

And with that, he left her alone again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The promised maid turned out to be a very young Umbari girl of twelve or thirteen years of age at most and bore the name Nithil, meaning simply girl in Adûnaic. She was clearly of Dúnadan stock, being tall for her age, slender, dark-haired and grey-eyed. She spoke Westron almost accent-free, was fluent in Adûnaic, of course, and even knew a little Sindarin, to Ivriniel’s surprise.

“I have been trained to serve in a noble house since the age of six,” she explained proudly. “The servants of the great families – especially those of the Consuls – are expected to be well-mannered and well-taught.”

She said no more, instead helping Ivriniel to wash and to put on clean clothes. Those were made in Umbari fashion and sent with the ship for that very purpose. They fit well enough and had obviously been made for a lady of high birth, based on the expensive fabric and the fine embroidery. Ivriniel found them more than acceptable.

Afterwards she was finally allowed to step out onto the deck, and she felt her heart and her lungs expand as she filled her senses with the salty air once again. The weather was especially fair, with a strong wind surging them forward and the waves rushed up to the flank of the ship as if it were a rock.

The ship itself… it was a true marvel. Ivriniel had grown up with the proud swanships of Dol Amroth, even travelled on the sleek Elven boats of Edhellond quite a few times, but none of them could compare with the magnificent vessel on the deck of which she was currently standing.

Ancient legends – forbidden ones, told in hushed tones with hands held before the storytellers’ mouth – said that the Númenóreans of old, in their prime the greatest mariners in the world, surpassing even the Elven shipwrights of Tol Eressëa, had been eager to contrive ships that could rise above the waters of the world and hold to the Upper Seas. They had tested their skills on that agenda – and failed.

What they had contrived instead were ships that would sail in the Air of Breath. And these ships, flying, had also come to the western shores of Middle-earth; and to the far East of the old world, within eyesight of the Gates of Morn. And the peoples dwelling on Middle-earth still would look up with fear and wonder seeing the Númenórean ships descend out of the sky with their black sails and scarlet and gold banners floating over the Sea like the wings of some giant sea birds.

Ivriniel knew, of course, that those legends were just that: legends. But she could well understand the fear and wonder of the simple folk, seeing those mighty vessels approach their shores, riding the high waves safely. It had to seem to them as if they had been flying in the air indeed.

And now, standing upon a worthy descendant of those legendary ships, she could understand it even better.

The ship was carvel-built and triple-masted like the great merchant vessels of old that had been called carrack or nau; and like those, presumably capable of sailing the open Sea. It had a high-rounded stern with large aftercastle, forecastle and bowsprit at the stem. The black sails, bearing the scarlet and golden emblem of Umbar, were square-rigged on the foremast and mainmast and lateen-rigged on the mizzenmast, enabling it to sail with just about any wind that might rise over the waves.

The prow of the ship was shaped like the horned head and the long, sinuous body of a sea serpent, covered with scale-like adornments of brass that had gained a greenish hue from the sea water surging against it all the time. The lower wooden parts of the prow were gilded and remained bright and gleaming. The slitted eyes of the serpent glittered deep red, being made of rubies, and the two long, sabre-like teeth that almost touched its curved neck must have been wrought of mithril, for they gleamed a flawless silver, defying wind and water.

Although of a more narrow build than a carrack of old, the ship was large enough to be stable in heavy seas and roomy enough to carry great amounts of cargo. Therefore, it could be mistaken for a merchant ship – apparently even by the Harbour Master of Pelargir… a mistake for which the poor man would pay dearly. Lord Lorindol did not take such mistakes kindly.

However, Ivriniel had no doubt that as a rule this vessel transported one type of cargo and one alone: warriors. As she glanced down along the flanks, she spotted the huge, steel-tipped spur just below the prow, well-suited to scuttle enemy vessels, should they have the misfortune to get too close during battle; and the covered slits behind which the bowmen would stand. One might not think, but a proper Númenórean longbow could be used in sea battles very efficiently, given its range.

Which left only one conclusion…

“This is a warship,” she said quietly.

“She is more than that,” answered a familiar voice, and the minstrel Belzagar, now wearing the simple garb of Umbari mariners, walked up to her. “You are standing on board of the Azruphazgân, my lady, the Sea-conqueror: the flagship of our Fleet. The only ship Azrubêl the Shipwright could finish ere he died, taking the rediscovered secrets of our ancestors with him in the grave.”

The Sea-conqueror! Ivriniel was stunned. She was a legend among seamen; even the Elven mariners of Edhellond spoke of her in awe and respect. Her origins alone were worth a song; and indeed, more than just one song was sung again and again in harbour inns to tell her tale.

‘Twas said that an Umbari boatmaker had found some forgotten records about the art of Númenórean shipbuilding and spent the rest of his life trying to build a ship using their methods. After numerous setbacks, he finally built the Sea-conqueror, Umbar’s joy and pride – and died on the very day the ship first set sail. The records he had studied during his work were never found again.

Ivriniel, always a great lover of the Sea and everything that sailed on the waves, could hardly believe that she was indeed standing on the deck of that legend.

Her amazement, however, did not make her forget that she was a prisoner on this ship of legends; and who was to blame for that fact.

“Master Belzagar,” she said coldly. “I would keep my distance if I were you. I gave Captain Atanalcar my word that I shall not throw myself in the Sea; I said nought about not throwing anyone else overboard. Dishonest minstrels who poison me and have me abducted from the street in particular. And yet you dare to approach me. You must be very brave… or very foolish indeed. I would wager the latter.”

The minstrel gave her a mocking bow. “You believe you could throw me over board, Princess? I beg to differ.”

“Do not tempt me,” replied Ivriniel darkly. “You might be surprised,” she turned back to her maid. “Let us go back to the cabin, Nithil. Suddenly I do not feel like being outside at all.”

She refused to leave the cabin for the rest of their journey, except for short walks on the upper deck in the evening.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fortunately, as she knew from her studies, the journey between Pelargir and Umbar was not a long one; even less so travelling on the Sea. All they had to do was to manoeuvre carefully around the treacherous waters surrounding the Isle of Tolfalas, and then they could simply sail southwards along the coastline, passing by the new empty and barren lands of South Gondor… lands that had always been much fought for between Gondor and the Haradric realms.

Even if Captain Atanalcar was wary enough not to come within sight of the coasts, it should have been smooth sailing as soon as they had left Tolfalas behind them.

But the Bay of Belfalas was known of its sudden killer storms that could shatter the fairest, strongest ships within reach of a safe haven. Those storms rose up without warning and descended upon the Bay like some giant black dragon, made of water and air. Woe the ships that they caught on the open water! Not even the swan-ships of Edhellond could always escape their wrath, although the Elven mariners did have the special protection of Lord Ossë and Lady Uinen.

Therefore the heart of Ivriniel was filled with all too justified dread when she saw – standing on the deck after her evening walk and gazing at the dancing waves, lost in thought– a great rack of clouds building up in the West with amazing speed. She had seen something like that before, more than once, and she knew it meant nothing good.

“Go back to our cabin,” she said to the little maid, “and bolt the door behind you. I shall follow your shortly.”

Nithil was clearly concerned by that order – she was young, not stupid – but she did not dare to argue with the Princess and obeyed hurriedly. There was little she could have done anyway; she could not drag her lady to safety by force.

Ivriniel returned her attention to the black roof of clouds that seemed to close above their heads. It reminded her of Morgoth’s evil temple on Númenor, the silver dome of which had swiftly become black from the smoke that had risen from the altar within, where people – mostly those still faithful to the Valar – had been burned with great recklessness and cruelty. The dome now closing above them might lead to a similar fate; to death by water, though, instead of by fire.

A sudden wind rose up from the way in this very moment and tore a gap into the black dome of clouds, allowing the crimson-red sunset to pour through like spilled blood. The sailors exchanged worried looks, muttering about bad omens in Adûnaic; but again, sailors were always superstitious.

It was much more unsettling that the waves kept towering up behind them, their foam-crested peaks leaning forward as if trying to grab the ship. The Sea took on a dark, dirty green hue, like burned glass, and the water kept heaving and dancing more and more violently. The air grew cold, as it was always the case during the storms of the Bay, despite the fact that it lay so far to the south.

The Sea-Conqueror was buckling uneasily, as if she could feel the danger behind her. Perhaps she could indeed. No-one could tell what the Númenórean ships of old had truly been capable of, and she was the last of the line. Her black sails were flat and limp one moment, yet billowed up to full half-circles in the next, as if she would try to lift off, above the stormy Sea and escape to the upper air.

Ivriniel briefly wondered if she might actually be able to do so in the outmost peril. Perchance there was more truth behind the old legends than one would give them credit for.

As she was observing the signs of a truly awful storm racing towards them, noticing the sinister change that came over the howling of the wind, she heard the deep, rough voice of Captain Atanalcar crying out.

“All hands on desk! Get to the sails!”

In the next moment she spotted the man himself, in the same drab tunic as his sailors, hanging on to the rail. His men ran frantically to batten down the hatches, to put out the galley fire, to reef the sails. What somebody unused to sailing ships might see as hopeless chaos, Ivriniel’s experienced eyes recognised as the tightly organised work of a well-trained crew that knew exactly what they were doing and wasted no time or manpower on unnecessary things.

Nonetheless, the storm struck them ere they were able to finish their tasks. It appeared to Ivriniel as if a deep valley had opened in the angry green water, right before their bow, and if they were rushing down into it… deeper down than she would have believed possible. A gigantic grey-green wave, far higher than any of the masts, rushed up to meet them. For a moment she believed it would swallow them, as the Sea had swallowed Númenor three millennia ago, yet in the next moment they were tossed to the top of it as if by the hand of some terrible sea giant.

The great warship spun around, dancing on the crest of the wave like a nutshell. A cataract of ice-cold water swept over the deck, swallowing everything but poop and forecastle that stood out of the swirling maelstrom like two tiny islands. The sailors were lying out and along the yard, desperately trying to get control of the sails… and failing. The wind was too strong; the sails seemed to have gained a life of their own, flapping and tugging on the masts, threatening to knock them over.

A broken rope stood out sideways in the wind, as straight and stiff as a poker. Captain Atanalcar staggered across the flooded deck with an axe and hewed it down ere it could have skewered any of his men. It was a miracle that he could still remain on his feet, considering how the floor was heaving under him… and that he still had the presence of mind to spot the Princess in the middle of this chaos.

“Get below, my lady!” he bellowed. “This is no place for you!”

Ivriniel knew all too well that landsmen – and even more so landswomen – were but a nuisance for any crew in a situation as perilous as they were in right now. But she was not a landswoman. She was the Sea-Flower of Dol Amroth, with the blood of the greatest Númenórean mariners in her veins, and she knew the Sea like few others did.

She had her own ship back home – admittedly, a fragile little toy boat compared with the Sea-Conqueror, but it was Elf-made, and she had sailed along the coast of Belfalas aboard her often enough. Therefore, instead of obeying the captain, she looked around her, assessing their situation with the experienced eye of the sea-farer that she had been from her early childhood.

She had to admit that what she saw was not good. The Sea-Conqueror was leaning heavily to starboard, and the deck sloped like the roof of a house. Even if she had wanted to get below, it might no longer be possible. Still, she tried to get to a better position, clambering to the top of the ladder that led to the upper deck, holding to the rail with all her strength. There she had to stand back and let some of the men climb up. ‘Twas fortunate that she was already holding on tight, though, for at the foot of the ladder another wave surged across the deck, up to her shoulders.

She coughed and spat out in disgust the salty water that had got in her mouth. She was already thoroughly wet from the spray and the rain that had begun falling but moments ago; yet this was colder. Much colder. For a moment she wondered if she was about to catch the lung fever, should they survive the storm after all, but she soon realised that getting ill was the least of her concerns right now.

They were rushing into the combined darkness of wind, rain and whipped-up waves with alarming speed. The ship was creaking and groaning and snapping and clappering under the onslaught of the elements, as if it would fall apart beneath their feet any moment now; and there was a very good possibility that it would happen… and soon.

She was racking her brain to find something she could do to help save the ship; but truly, what could she possibly achieve? These were the best mariners of Umbar, a realm depending almost entirely on its fleet; and this was the best ship ever built since the Fall of Númenor. And she was but a woman. A rather capable one, true, but she could not compare herself with these seamen, neither in strength nor in experience. Was there anything she could do?

Well… mayhap there was. She was the progeny of Imrazôr and Mithrellas, a princess of Númenórean blood and an Elf-friend. She could try to appeal to the Powers, could she not? Her ancestors had been among the Elendili and had sailed back to Middle-earth before the Fall, under the tutelage of Lord Ulmo’s vassals.

It was a vague hope and perchance a foolish one, true. But what could she lose by giving it a try? They were about to drown within moments anyway.

Thus she held onto the rail with both hands, raised her voice as she had been taught to make herself heard even in the middle of a sea battle if she had to, and tried out amongst all the booming and roaring of the storm.

“Is this how Lord Ossë honours his allegiance to the House of Imrazôr the Númenórean?”

She shouted her question in Quenya first, then repeated it in Sindarin, then in Westron, and finally in Adûnaic, so that the sailors could understand, too; and they stared at her in stark terror. Challenging the Lord of the Waves who, in their eyes, was something akin a sea god, counted as foolish at best and as suicidal and blasphemous at worst. They clearly feared that they would all be punished with death for her recklessness and sent together to the bottom of the Sea, with their ship going down with them.And indeed, the towering wave before them began to swell up even higher, as if some enormous sea beast were about to emerge. As they watched, petrified with fear, the surface broke like a tearing canvas and Ossë, the Lord of the Waves, came rolling through the tear as if he were a wave himself, and loomed over the ship, while the waves came to a halt, standing like trembling, shimmering curtains all around the ship.

The Maia towered over them, his head, at least forty feet above the masts, seemed to touch the dome of black clouds. His skin, smooth and glistening somewhere between blue and green like turquoise, seemed almost liquid and the outline of his body appeared to be in constant change, like the waves change their shape constantly. His hair, untamed and white like sea-foam, trailed behind him like a wild crest.

His face, as she glared down at the Princess from huge, slightly slanted eyes, made to see in the darkest depths of the Sea, was fair beyond imagination. Fair enough to make the strong men, used to fight his wrath on the open waters, tremble with fear, even without the expression darkening it.

“Who dares to challenge the Lord of the Waves?” he demanded in a deep voice, deep and rumbling like the melodious echo of a far thunder. The Umbari mariners fell to their knees and covered their faces with their hands, shaking with fear.Ivriniel, though, did not back off one step. She turned her face upward and glared back at the enraged Maia fearlessly.

“It is I, Ivriniel of Dol Amroth, of the blood of Imrazôr the Númenórean, whose ship you helped to a safe harbour a long time ago. You swore eternal friendship to Imrazôr’s progeny on that long-gone day and have held it through all those millennia… ‘til today. So why are you going back on your word now, after all that time?”

"Foolish child!” the voice of the Maia was like a hiss, like that of a sea serpent. “I have promised Imrazôr to protect his progeny, and that is the very thing I am doing now, can you not see it?”

“By sending the most wondrous ship built by Men in the Third age to the bottom of the Sea, with the entire crew and myself on board?” asked Ivriniel dryly. “They have worshipped you all their lives – this is how you repay them?”

Ossë shifted a little, and for a moment Ivriniel though that he would surge over them like a huge wave; then she got the strange feeling as if the fearsome Sea Lord were… embarrassed?

“I would never allow you to come to harm,” he rumbled. “The waves would have washed you ashore in Pelargir again, unharmed.”

“And who says that I want to return to Pelargir?” she asked calmly. “When I visited Ulmo’s Well, I was promised a great destiny; mayhap one shrouded in peril, yet one that could change the fate of Middle-earth. I accepted, and that is why I am aboard this ship right now. I may not have come voluntarily, but my chosen way lies before me, not behind me.”

Ossë shook his head minutely, sending a warm spray all over them.

“That cannot be. No-one of us has been sent to the Well to speak with you, child.”

“Then Lirillo must have come on his own volition,” replied Ivriniel with a shrug. She was shivering in her wet clothes, but she forced herself to ignore it. There was more at stake here than her comfort.

“Lirillo?” repeated Ossë in visible shock; she never thought the Powers could ever sound like that. “You met Lirillo? But he… he was lost, Ages ago!”

“Apparently not as lost as the Powers believed,” said Ivriniel dryly. “And he seems to know a great deal about what might or might not happen in the years that lie before us.”

“He always had the gift to see aforehead,” said Ossë thoughtfully. “Only Lord Námo could see the future even better. You understand, though, that the future is not set in stone? All he can offer you – all any of us can offer you – are possibilities.”

Ivriniel nodded, trying to smooth the wet hair out of her face.

“I know. But ‘tis my choice. And I chose the perilous path instead of wilting safely away in my father’s castle, forgotten and without purpose. Can you still this storm and let us go on our way?”

“’Tis not that simple,” answered Ossë. “I have not summoned this storm; the winds are under the order of Lord Manwë and only he can call them back. All I can do is to keep hold on the waves; but I shall have to release them eventually. You know as well as any mariner that such storms belong to the nature of the Bay of Belfalas. And we are not allowed to go against the laws of nature.”

“But if you release the waves again, we shall all die,” cried Ivriniel in dismay.

Ossë shifted again, this time in agreement.

“That seems very likely,” he admitted. “But if you are truly determined to remain aboard this vessel, I may be able to do something about that.” And with that, he reached down under the ship, taking it in his huge, watery hands and lifted it from the water.

“I cannot stop the storm for the winds would not listen to me,” he added, lifting them to the upper airs and setting the ship down on the waters-above. “But I can set you off on a safe journey above them. The upper waters shall release you into the Bay of Umbar as soon as the storm is over.”

He trailed his fingers over Ivriniel’s face in a lingering caress – perchance a blessing of some sort – and then he closed his eyes and dropped slowly, silently back into the raging waters. As soon as he did, they felt a great surge from behind the ship, and the Sea-Conqueror bounded forward at great speed, south again on the upper waters above the coast.

Captain Atanalcar stood on the upper deck of his ship, his braids undone and as soaked with salty water as his garb; and he looked around himself in awe. The celestial waves kept surging them forward swiftly, without the help of any winds, for the upper air was calm and undisturbed, and it seemed to him that he only needed to extend his arm to touch the firmament above.

“No-one,” he said hoarsely; then he cleared his throat and began again. “No one will ever believe this.”

“And yet the songs about the only ship that had sailed on the upper waters since the rise of the Star Island shall be sung until the last minstrel looses hold of his harp,” replied Master Belzagar quietly.

He, too, was wearing the drab tunic of the sailors; clearly having tried his best to help save the ship. For Black Númenóreans the Umbari might be called by the people of Gondor, but the Sea was in their blood, like in that of their distant ancestors, and they would all fight to their last breath to save a ship as magnificent as the Sea-Conqueror.

And so it happened that a couple of days later the people of Umbarlond got to see the ancient legends come true. For a great ship with black sails, bearing the golden sign of long-gone Kings, came flying in the air of breath like Ancalagon the Black had once flown in the skies, in the Elder Days, at the end of the War of Wrath; and it descended in a curtain of shimmering rain. And when it finally settled upon the waves of the Bay of Umbar, backlit by the red sunset, the people finally recognised the Sea-Conqueror and their hearts were filled with awe and dread. For no-one had ever seen anything like that before, and no-one had truly believed the legends of old… until now.

And while some of the people saw it as a good omen, a sign sent by the Powers that Umbar might return to its old grace in the not-too-distant future, the ones who had pledged their lives to the service of Agannâlo were dismayed and sent urgent messages to their dark Lord to ask for guidance.

Ivriniel, though, hidden away in her luxurious cabin, allowed herself a moment of weakness and wept, mourning her old life ere she would gather her strength to face the challenges that lay before her.

~TBC~