F.A. 540

Nearly a full year of the Sun passes ere we depart. We have spent it in making plans, in building ships, in preparing supplies, in forging weapons. In learning or remembering how to use them. Some of us have trained in swordfight at the time before Darkness fell, and now I find it takes only a little effort to recall my skill. In a way, this is terrifying, and even more so because I understand – this time I will have to put my sword to use. While I enjoy sparring and archery for sport, I loathe bloodshed. I even hunt seldom. Now when practicing, I push aside the thought of battles to come, with varying degree of success.

Despite the seemingly long delay, the moment of parting comes all too soon. On a bright spring morning we are ready to sail. Twelve dozen great ships are moored in the havens. Their timbers gleam white; the wind sings shrill in the rigging. Each vessel is to carry at least three hundred warriors, the largest – twice the number. It must be enough to prevail over the Darkness in Endórë. Surely, it must be enough?

I took leave from my mother in Valmar some days ago. Now it is time to say farewell to Ëarwen and her father on the white pier of Alqualondë.

“You will do what is right.” Olwë lays his hand on my shoulder.

“I will do my best.”

With effort, my voice sounds calm and assured, yet I cannot banish the uncomfortable feeling that I do not know what the King of the Teleri thinks of this war. He spoke no word against it at the council, and he agreed to provide ships without objection – though on a condition that his sailors would not join fighting. But we have not spoken of deeper things than the arrangements for the journey. Olwë is a quiet one; he keeps his thoughts to himself. In truth, I do not rightly know what he thinks of me either. Perhaps he justly considers me a fateful mistake his daughter has made, yet, unwilling to upset her, has reconciled himself with my presence in her life. An uninvited sigh escapes my lips.

Olwë considers me closely for a while. “It is maybe too late to give you any advice,” he then slowly says. “I should have done that long ago. But I would say it now, nonetheless. Trust in yourself, Arafinwë. Trust in yourself more.” Taken aback, I merely nod. He draws me in embrace. “Go with my blessing, son.”

Then he turns abruptly and strides away ere I have thought of a fitting reply. Now I must take leave from Ëarwen; a moment I have been dreading for weeks. I must forsake her again; I did not want it then and I do not want it now. Yet I have to. I have to.

“Yes, you have to.” She looks up at me, clearly reading my unguarded thoughts. “You must take part in this, Arafinwë. It is your duty. For the sake of your brothers’ memory.” Her words surprise me. She smiles sadly. “I never acknowledged your love towards them. I wanted you all to myself. I was so very selfish. But now I have learned to accept that you might love others too, no less than you love me.”

“I have never loved anyone as deeply as I love you, Ëarwen,” I say quietly. “I will not disappoint you, beloved.”

“Certainly not.” She is blinking away tears. “Just come back, and there will be no disappointment.” She hugs me fiercely and hides her face in my chest. “Please, return to me. Please.”

“I will do all I can to return. I promise.”

Ëarwen looks up; she has lost the battle with tears. I kiss her trembling lips, I kiss her eyes, and then I tear myself away from her and turn towards the ship that is to bear me away, towards danger and violence, towards uncertain future, maybe towards death. I do not fear to die, or so I think. But I fear the long, lonely years without her in the Halls of Waiting.

I am already on the deck when my cousin Ingwil takes leave from his family below, beside the gangway.

“I will make you proud, father!” His clear voice rings loud over all others. “We will shatter the might of the Black Foe, and our deeds shall be worthy of a song!”

A song you yourself will write, no doubt, I think with irritation. Ingwil is an accomplished poet and, I must admit, justly praised as one of the best. Yet I find it impossible to understand how someone who writes such beautiful and moving verses may be so aloof and arrogant. We have never been friends. Aware of disdain hidden beneath his flowery words, I have always avoided him; not too difficult when living in different cities. But now, it seems, my luck is at an end. Ingwil ascends the gangway.

“That brat could take another ship,” mutters a quiet voice beside me.

Artanar is my friend and a master builder; many of the houses I have drawn have been later raised under his direction. I trust him like I trust only few others, and in this war he is to be my herald. He shares my thoughts of Ingwil, nay, even more: if I am irritated by my cousin’s bearing, Artanar wholeheartedly detests him.

“I doubt he would be content with any other.” I smile faintly despite the sadness of parting. “’The White Wave’ is, after all, the vessel of the chief of Olwë’s captains.” Artanar snorts, and I look at him with half-earnest warning. “No quarrels, Artanar. This is a command.”

“Yes, Aranya,” my herald replies with a sigh.

I shake my head in frustration but say nothing. Stubbornly he insists on calling me by title now. Wondering whether one day we would again return to the life we once knew, I turn towards Ëarwen who bravely fights tears and smiles to me with encouragement.

The lines are cast off. A fresh breeze fills the sails, and the ship leaves the dock and swiftly gains speed, gliding towards the arch of stone that marks the entrance to the harbour. I stand at the stern, gripping the railing until my fingers feel numb. My eyes are locked with Ëarwen’s eyes until the distance becomes too great to see her face clearly and there is only her slender form crowned with silver hair gleaming in the Sun, and then that too fades to a misty blur.

We are on the open Sea, close to the coasts of Tol Eressëa, when the inevitable happens – my cousin comes to talk with me. Even if I had the slightest hope he was doing it out of courtesy and kindness, I would be in no mood to appreciate that now. When he stands beside me smiling, I only nod curtly and direct my gaze towards the Sea, hoping he would respect my wish to be alone.

“Arafinwë, why the despondent face?” Ingwil’s smile grows wider. “Surely you too desire to put an end to Moringotto’s reign and to gain glory thereat?”

My hope for solitude was vain, apparently. “I wish to see the Black Foe vanquished,” I reply. “But the glory? I understand not of what you speak.”

His eyes widen in a mocking surprise. “Why, the glory of victory, what else? Is it not your wish to hear your deeds praised by minstrels?”

“No.”

“No?” He laughs. “You surprise me, cousin. But then – maybe not. Maybe you are not made for greatness.”

“I care not for greatness. And you know nothing of war.”

“Oh, indeed?” His eyes narrow. “But you know nothing of war either, my dear Arafinwë!”

“You know nothing of bloodshed. I have at least seen that. You have not.”

I turn abruptly and stride away, followed by his disdainful laughter. As I enter my cabin, I hear him calling after me, “What are you doing here at all?”

I slam shut the door and cast myself on the narrow bed. Maybe his question is just. What am I doing here?

I attempt to avoid my kinsman for the rest of the journey. With little success, for even the largest ship of Olwë’s fleet is not enough for that, and Ingwil seems to find genuine pleasure in taunting me. Artanar is seething with rage for my sake; several times it comes close to blows, and it takes all my authority to restrain my friend and herald from violence. Therefore, I heave a relieved sigh when captain Falmar announces that the coast of Endórë is within ten days’ journey. We have made a good speed. If the fair wind will hold, we shall reach the Isle of Balar, the appointed place of meeting with Eönwë, the herald of the Elder King, three weeks before the agreed time.