As we approach the Hither Lands, my restlessness grows. I sleep fitfully and often wake long before the sunrise. This morning, too, I am already standing on the deck when the stars overhead slowly fade and the eastern sky colours golden in the anticipation of dawn. Seabirds circle around the ships now, a clear sign the land draws closer; some of them perch on the tall masts or land on the water beside us, amid the long, foaming waves. I watch them despondently.

I dread the moment of arrival, the moment of taking command in battle. The very thought that I shall have to send my people to death makes me cold. And whom shall we fight? Ëarendil and the Valar have told us much about Moringotto’s creatures – Orcs and Balrogs, Wargs and Werewolves. Dragons. Still, these are merely words. I do not know what to expect, I cannot truly imagine what these creatures are like. And there are Men in Endórë, some of them servants of the Enemy; we know as much. Maybe even some Elves are under the sway of Darkness… And if they are, we may have to fight them, too. Another Kinslaying… My thoughts run in tangled circles, now and then entwined with a surge of fear and bitter shame. A fine commander I shall be, no doubt. How pitiful.

A call interrupts my brooding. The lookout has noticed something on our course. Several others gather on the deck, and we peer in the distance, at the expanse of the water, glittering in the just-risen Sun. At the thought that we might already be in the sight of land I suddenly shiver in the morning breeze.

But it is not the shoreline the keen eyes of the Teleri have sighted, but a little boat ahead of us. It bears neither sails, nor oars, and the waves toss it about seemingly steerless.

“Go and see what is there,” the captain orders the sailors. “It looks empty, but we cannot know for certain. Take someone armed in your boat,” he then adds with apparent disgust.

Captain Falmar, commander of the fleet and owner of ‘The White Wave’, hates this journey. He hates the very thought of this war. He resents the Noldor; his son fell in Alqualondë. But he obeys his king; he would not go against Olwë’s orders. And he would not risk danger to his people, even if it meant they would have to sit in the same boat with an armed Noldo.

“I can go,” I offer, to dispel the tension.

“Thank you, lord Arafinwë. That would be most kind.”

While Falmar has spoken maybe a few dozen words to Artanar and others from Tirion throughout the voyage, towards me he bears no ill will. He treats me respectfully, like he does my cousin. Apparently, he counts me among the Vanyar, not among the Noldor.

I go to fetch my sword and my dagger. When I return, the boat is already rocking in the waves beside the ship. With little grace I descend the rope ladder and sit down, firmly holding to the gunwale. The little shell seems to me tiny and fragile, until the calm bearing and experienced movements of the two sailors who are with me appease my concern.

The other boat is quite far; it takes more than quarter of an hour to reach it. And when we are close, we gasp in astonishment, for it is not empty, as had seemed from the distance.

One could easily mistake the Elf who lies therein for a Telerin sailor. Silver hair clings to his face in damp strands. His eyes are closed, and at first we fear that life has left him, but as we move him to our boat, a sigh escapes his lips. They are dry and chipped, and his skin is sore and blistered, burned by the Sun. He is clad in rags. His boat has been painted white once, but now most of the paint is gone revealing cracked wood; it is a wonder the vessel is still afloat. It is empty otherwise; there are neither packs, nor weapons there. We release it to the waves and return to the ship.

Many have come on the deck and now reach out to aid us. Falmar lifts the still senseless stranger over the railing, carries him to one of the empty cabins and lays abed there. A healer comes quickly. He tends the stranger and assures us that the Elf will recover. He should be allowed to rest and given water and food when he wakes.

“Who might he be, I wonder?” Falmar’s face is thoughtful.

“A survivor of a shipwreck, captain?” suggests one of the sailors who took part in the rescue. “He has been tossed about on the Sea for a long time, apparently. And he had nothing with him in that boat.”

“I doubt it.” The other one shakes his head. “It was a fisherman’s boat, not one usually taken on the big vessels, if I know aught of boats. And an old and shabby one, besides. Nay, he must have set out from the coast. But the lack of gear and provisions I cannot explain. None who has enough reason and some knowledge of the Sea would venture out like this. And without any water.”

“Water…”

We turn towards the bed. The stranger’s eyes are still closed, but his lips tremble.

“Water,” he whispers again.

I raise a cup to his lips, supporting his head. With the first drops of water trickling in his mouth he suddenly opens his eyes, recoils and stares at us, terrified.

“Do not be afraid.” I keep my voice calm and quiet. “You are among friends. Drink, your body needs it.”

Either my words or our looks calm him, and he reaches for the cup. Only when there is not a drop of water left, he sinks back in the pillows and looks at us with eyes full of wonder, in silence.

“We are friends,” I repeat. “You are aboard ‘The White Wave’, captain Falmar’s ship.” The captain bows his head in greeting. “My name is Arafinwë. Who are you?”

Now an even greater confusion appears on stranger’s face. I fall silent, unsure what to think, and when he starts to talk, I exchange dismayed glances with the others. The silver-haired Elf speaks an entirely strange language. Some words sound vaguely similar to Quenya, but all else is different – the rhythm, the pacing, the melody of speech. It seems such a silly failure now, but with all our careful planning, we have overlooked the matter of language. Ëarendil, the messenger, spoke Quenya, after all, and we had no reason to think the others would not.

Seeing our bewilderment, the stranger falls silent.

A thought crosses my mind. “I shall try ósanwe. Maybe my skill will be sufficient.”

I look closely at the stranger. “Language hinders us. I would speak with you mind-to-mind if you would allow me.”

His eyes widen, but then he nods slowly and answers in the same way. “I would. Who are you? Your speech is the speech of those who crossed the Sea to Hither Lands centuries ago.”

“We are akin to them. We come from Valinórë. We come to deliver Middle-earth from the Black Enemy.”

“Deliver us…” His lips tremble, a tear slides down his cheek. “So the Lords of the West have not forgotten Endor.”

“No, they have not forgotten it,” I assure him. “We come with a strong force of Vanyar and Noldor. I lead the latter; my name is Arafinwë.”

“I am Súlion. I thank you for saving me, beyond all hope.”

“How did you end up in an empty boat so far from the land?”

“I… fled.”

The question clearly distresses him. He looks away avoiding my gaze; his hands that lie upon the coverlet start trembling. Opening of the door interrupts the awkward moment; a sailor enters, bearing a tray with food and more water.

“Eat in peace, Súlion.”

Relief flickers in stranger’s eyes. Hesitantly he reaches for the tray. He eats slowly, savouring every bite of the plain sailors’ fare with nearly reverent attention, and there is not a morsel left on the plate, nor a drop in the cup when he has finished. He looks at us then, lays his hand over his heart and bows his head in gratitude. Disquiet creeps back to his gaze. And weariness. He keeps his eyes open only with considerable effort.

“Rest now, friend,” I speak to his mind again. “We shall talk later, when you regain your strength.”

With a sigh Súlion sinks back in the pillows and soon he is already fast asleep.

“What did he say?” Falmar, who has watched us from a chair in the corner, now rises to his feet and looks at me with question.

“Not much. His name is Súlion. He was fleeing from something, but he did not tell more yet. I shall speak to him again when he is rested.”

“Who would have thought that the speech of the Elves in Endórë could change so much,” the captain muses when we have left the cabin and stand at the railing on the deck. “It is fortunate you have the gift of the mind-talk, lord Arafinwë.”

“I have not used it for a long time,” I reply quietly after a while of silence. I have not used it since I am sundered from my children. It is with them I often spoke without words. They all had the gift, and some of them – Artanis and Findaráto – to a much greater extent than I have. But only my daughter still walks upon this earth; and only painful emptiness remains in my heart where the bond with my sons has been. Of five children, only one… I push away the sudden wave of grief and return to the conversation. “The matter of language, though… It is curious, yet maybe not so unexpected. There have been scholarly writings aiming to predict what would happen to a language of the same people, were they sundered for a long time.”

That these are Fëanáro’s writings, I keep to myself, for I doubt Falmar would appreciate to know it. But someone else has heard our conversation.

“It is certainly some comfort to know your half-brother was not entirely wrong about everything, is it not so, Arafinwë?” I spin around to find myself face-to-face with my cousin’s disdainful smile. The anger in my eyes must be obvious, for Ingwil takes a step back and raises his hands in a placating gesture. “No offence intended, cousin. I heard you had had quite an adventure this morning. Will you not tell more?”

While I look in vain for enough composure to counter his insolence with cool tone and calm words, Falmar has already told him about the stranger. Ingwil’s eyes kindle in excitement.

“An Elf of Endórë? He could tell us much about the land, about what to expect when arriving! That language of theirs, it cannot be too hard to understand. I shall try…” He half-turns towards the cabin.

“You shall leave him in peace and allow him some rest, Ingwil,” I say sharply.

Ingwil looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes narrow. “You may perhaps order your herald and your Noldor, Arafinwë. Not me. Your orders mean nothing to me.”

“I give commands on this ship, lord Ingwil.” Falmar now bars his way and looks at him sternly. “You may see that stranger and try to speak with him – after he has rested. I will let you know when that will be.”

An overbearing fool though my cousin is, he does not risk quarrelling with Falmar. “As you say, captain.”

He slightly bows and leaves, with the last scornful glance at me.

“He does that on purpose.” Falmar looks after my kinsman’s retreating figure. “To anger you. Why?”

I relax my clenched fists and glance at the captain with challenge.

“Maybe because he is an arrogant, wilful, presumptuous creature who cares about none save himself?”

Falmar laughs. “I wonder. Maybe you see him in worse light than he truly is. Arrogant he is, certainly; none who knows him would deny it. But the rest? I am not so certain. And he has a brilliant mind. Conversation with him is a delight.”

I shrug sullenly. “I would not know that.” My conversations with Ingwil resemble an uneven sparring match, with him constantly attacking and me fending off his attacks. Far from delightful, at least for me.

Falmar regards me thoughtfully. “I think you care too much what others think of you, lord Arafinwë.”

He then leaves, but I remain on the deck, taken aback by his words. Falmar is mistaken. I care nothing about the opinion of others, I have never… The train of my thought stops as I suddenly see before me my eldest brother’s face, grey eyes blazing with contempt, lips pressed together. “So you would turn back. You would betray our father’s memory, betray me? But then, I did not expect much of you anyway.” His voice rings cold in my ears, and my chest tightens. I certainly cared what Fëanáro thought of me. I always cared.

Notes.

Word for “water” is the same in Sindarin and in Quenya (“nen”).

I keep to the version where Arafinwë has five children: Finrod (Findaráto) , Orodreth (Artaresto), Angrod (Angaráto), Aegnor (Aikanáro) and Galadriel (Artanis).