The Sun is already high in the sky when, after a few short hours of rest, I leave my cabin. Súlion and Ingwil are right in front of me, sitting on the deck in the shade of the mainsail and talking. I make a step towards them, but then halt. My cousin would hardly welcome my presence, after our exchange last evening.

“Are they indeed able to hold a conversation already?” Falmar stands beside me and looks at them in wonder. “This is incredible!”

“They are.” I confirm, and then admit rather grudgingly, “My cousin has great gift for languages and words.”

Falmar laughs; he has clearly not missed the tone of my voice. “And you do not like it one bit, my lord Arafinwë.”

“I do not like how he is indulging in the sound of his own voice,” I retort.

Falmar laughs again, then becomes serious. “We should learn more about Súlion. There is something weird about him. An air of… I do not know, maybe of guilt? Of shame? Did he tell you what he was fleeing from?”

I shake my head. “We did not speak of it. At first my question distressed him, and then there was the language learning.”

“We shall have to ask now. We should know the peril that awaits us.”

Resolutely the captain walks towards Súlion and Ingwil, and I follow him. They return our greeting, even though at the sight of me my cousin frowns and presses his lips together.

“Lord Ingwil, I am most impressed by your skill,” says Falmar. “I would speak with our new friend. Would you be so kind to translate?”

Irritation fades from Ingwil’s face; captain’s appraisal has clearly brightened his mood. “Certainly, captain Falmar,” he replies. “What would you like to tell him?”

“First, say that a good fortune has brought us together. That we are glad of the meeting, regardless of the circumstances.”

Ingwil translates, Súlion replies with similar pleasantries, and I note with satisfaction that I can understand their phrases nearly word for word. The night study of my cousin’s notes has not been in vain.

Falmar is not one for long empty conversations. “Ask him how come that he was alone in an empty boat many miles from the coast.”

“I fled from Orcs.” When Ingwil translates, Súlion looks down at his hands clasped together in his lap. “I fled from Orcs,” he quietly repeats, still looking down at his clenched hands. “They chased us through the woodland for days, for their cruel sport. Me and my brother. My brother… he was not fast enough. They caught him. They caught him, and… But I escaped. I escaped, and, as I ran, I heard him screaming. They…”

He falls silent and sits with downcast eyes, his trembling hands grip the hem of his shirt. Ingwil grows pale as he translates, and compassion appears on Falmar’s face. We have heard about the vileness of Moringotto’s creatures from Ëarendil and the Valar, but it is so much worse to listen to someone who has encountered the Orcs mere days ago. I shiver. I not only understand what Súlion says, but also, maybe through some lingering bond of ósanwe, perceive some of his thoughts and memories. A frantic flight. Yells of triumph, uttered by harsh voices. A sound of ripping cloth, desperate screams, cruel laughter. I feel sickened by what he said, and even more, by what he did not say. What kind of place are we approaching? What kind of creatures dwell there?

Súlion raises his head, but at the sight of our dismayed faces lowers his eyes again.

“I abandoned him. I abandoned my brother to cruel torment and death. I should have stayed. I should have died together with him.” He hides his face in his hands and sobs quietly.

Hesitantly, Ingwil lays his hand on Súlion’s shoulder.

“No, my friend,” my cousin says with a compassion I did not believe he was capable of. “Do not reproach yourself. It was not your fault. It was them, those vile creatures.” Anger flickers in his eyes. “That is why we are here. To cleanse Endórë of this filth.”

Slowly Súlion’s sobs subside. He raises his eyes, wipes away tears and continues his story.

“I escaped but halted on my way overcome by grief and weariness, so they picked up my trail again. They chased me all the way to the Sea, and I knew I would rather cast myself in the waves than allow them to capture me. There was that boat, old and long abandoned. Orcs hate water, they even avoid crossing rivers, so I knew - even if I was going to an almost certain death on the Sea, they would not get me. At first I feared that the waves might throw me ashore, so I desperately rowed away from the coast as far as I could. The current caught me and carried me further. After some days, I lost the oars in my weariness, and then there were just the waves, the wind and the cruel Sun overhead. I had no water. There was no hope.”

Falmar frowns.

“Forgive me,” he then says. “I should not have questioned you so.”

“Nay, captain.” Súlion shakes his head after Ingwil has translated the apology. “You had the right to ask, and it was my obligation to answer you truthfully. I owe you my life, worthless as it is, the life of a coward and a traitor.”

“We do not judge you to be either,” quietly says Falmar. “And you owe us nothing. We would be grateful for more knowledge about the land we are approaching, however.”

“All the knowledge I have I shall gladly share.”

“Good.” Falmar rises to his feet. “Let us go inside; we shall need maps.”

Not a long while later we gather in Falmar’s cabin. Artanar is there too and several other Noldor from Tirion, despite the captain’s frown which is far from welcoming. Several maps are spread on the table. Ëarendil made them for us ere we departed. Súlion recognizes them instantly.

“Ah, Ëarendil’s maps,” he says with no small degree of reverence. “Prized and coveted among the mariners of Endor!”

“Are they accurate?” I ask. “He warned us that the shoreline and the depths may change somewhat with time.”

Súlion looks at them closely. “They are the best there are. Still very precise.”

“We know that havens on these two rivers have been in the hands of the enemies.” Falmar points at two places on the map, and I assume the role of translator. “Has anything changed? Or maybe there is a landing for large ships somewhere further north?”

“No, regretfully. There is no port on the mainland our people still hold.” Súlion shakes his head. “Brithombar and Eglarest were taken decades ago, and enemies still infest them.”

Ingwil sits silent, tapping a rhythm on the armrest of his chair, intently looking at the maps. Then he rises to his feet abruptly.

“We could retake them.”

The din of voices around the table falls silent, many pairs of eyes turn towards him.

“We could retake the ports,” my cousin repeats. “Those two you mentioned, Brithombar and Eglarest. That would be a sensible thing to do.”

“As I recall, lord Ingwil, we were instructed to head for the Isle of Balar.” Artanar’s voice is biting. “To my mind, most sensible would be to obey the orders.”

“To head for the Isle of Balar is the easy way.” Ingwil casts a scornful glance at him. “I do not suggest disobeying the Valar. But there are nearly three weeks until the appointed meeting time. If we could do something meaningful by then…” He looks around, meeting our eyes. “As we made plans for landing, we did not have the most recent knowledge. But now, with Súlion here, we have it! And the enemies would not expect an attack from the Sea. If we came swiftly, with force…”

“Forget it, lord Ingwil.” Falmar interrupts him, voice cold and sharp. “I shall risk neither my crew, nor my ships for this war of yours. We agreed to ferry you over, not to spill our blood on this shore. The Teleri shall not fight!”

His tone is not one to be argued with, and my cousin relents. He takes one of the maps and studies it with a frown. He clearly finds it incomplete.

“The shoreline and the depths may be accurate, but what of inland?” he mutters. “Surely, there must be smaller streams, woodlands, hillocks? None of that shows here.”

“This is a sea map, lord Ingwil.” Falmar’s eyes flash in annoyance.

“Yes, yes, I understand that.” Ingwil dismisses the captain’s words with a wave of his hand, studies the other sheets on the table, then turns towards Súlion who has been standing silent during the exchange of words. “My friend, do you have a good knowledge of the land? Not only the shore but also further away from it?”

“I believe I do.” Súlion nods.

“Could you draw the streams, the forests, the hills that are not shown on these maps?”

“I can, but my drawing skill is not great.”

“Please, do so.” Ingwil gets the inkpot and quill and sets one of the charts before our guest. “Right here.”

Súlion looks half-terrified to be asked to draw on Ëarendil’s map, yet he says nothing but sets to work. When he has finished there is so much more on it: threads of rivers, clusters of forest, marshlands, ravines and hillocks.

“Thank you, friend.”

Ingwil takes up the sheet and looks at it closely for a long while. Then he raises his eyes and looks at us all in turn.

“Very well.” His voice is calm and resolute, yet it quivers with a hint of excitement. “There will be no attack from the Sea and no sailors fighting. Still, we can do this. We can land unseen beyond this cape. Stay on anchor in the bay. Take the soldiers ashore in boats. Advance quietly through the forest, divide our forces here, attack from three sides and drive the enemies into the river. We can free those two cities from the sway of the Enemy and secure landing for our ships on mainland, much closer to Moringotto’s fortress!”

He sets the map on the table and explains how he has envisioned it. He translates it to Sindarin and asks Súlion to clarify things about the layout of the land. When he ceases speaking, Artanar steps forward.

“This is folly, lords, surely you see it? To rush headlong against enemies we know nothing about.” He casts a disdainful glance towards my cousin, then looks at me. “Surely, Aranya, you too perceive how reckless this is?”

Falmar folds his arms on his chest. “I do see the benefit of landing further northward, lord Ingwil, but I tend to agree with Artanar. You will have to decide for yourselves, though. I am not the one to offer advice about fighting.”

Some other Telerin sailors nod in agreement. The Noldor look at me, awaiting my judgement. The temptation to dismiss my cousin’s suggestion is great, and yet… I study the map, picturing Ingwil’s plan in action. It is bold and daring, certainly. But it is not reckless. Artanar has spoken but out of dislike towards my kinsman. The features of the land provide cover and support, and if what we have learned from Súlion about the Orcs is true…

“What do you think of this?” I turn towards Súlion. “Can this be done?”

“I…” He shifts in his stance and looks down at his clasped hands. “I would not presume to offer my advice on a war council. But if you ask…” He looks up, and his eyes flash resolutely. “If you ask me – yes, you could do that. With seven or eight hundred men, you could retake the ports.”

I nod slowly and look at the others. “I think so too. This time, I do not agree with you, Artanar. In truth, I think this is a good plan. It can be done, and we should attempt it.”

For a moment Ingwil stares at me as if I had suddenly grown a second head. Then he bows his head slightly. I turn away. I care nothing for his gratitude. But I truly think we can do this.