I keep drawing by the firelight until the dawn. The flames have dwindled to embers when I rise and put the sketchbook in my pocket, shivering in the morning chill. The Eldar should not feel cold like this. Yet I do.

But inside the harbour house I find hope. The healers’ weary faces are smiling. There have been no more deaths; those injured most grievously are peacefully sleeping, those with lighter wounds sit up, some are even about to rise. I leave the place, somewhat comforted.

We hold a council an hour later, the Noldor and the Vanyar, to decide our further course. The decision is easy. With so many recovering, we cannot risk the road back to Brithombar. We must wait for the ships to arrive here.

“What of the Valar?” hesitantly asks one of Ingwil’s captains. “Should we not send a message to the Isle of Balar? About… all this?”

I sigh. “Believe me, the Valar know. With so many who have passed to the Halls… And we do not have enough men to divide our forces further. Let us hope none will assault us here while we wait.”

Waiting for the ships, we explore the harbour and make certain that no debris block the way for the ships. We repair the harbour lights. We clear away rubble from the streets and make some of the houses habitable. We fill our hands and minds with work, to escape thoughts about our failure. About the burial mound in the shade of evergreens.

Five days later, white sails appear on the skyline, and after a few hours ‘The White Wave’ docks in the harbour. We stand on the pier. Ingwil is there, too, a little apart, silent, with unreadable face.

The vessel lowers the gangway, and at once I feel light-headed; my heart is pounding heavily in my chest. Beside me, Artanar draws a sharp breath. Some of the Valar are here, clad in their raiment of Arda. Oromë. Aulë. Irmo and Estë. Nienna and Yavanna. And Eönwë too. They descend on the pier, approach us and halt, measuring us with timeless, otherworldly eyes.

“You were to head for the Isle of Balar.”  Eönwë’s tone is level but there are undercurrents. As the one currently in command I am about to reply, but Manwë’s herald raises his hand and turns towards my cousin. “Lord Ingwil, explain.”

Ingwil straightens gathering courage, then looks at Eönwë and the Valar unflinching. “We were about to arrive three weeks before the appointed meeting time. As we were nearing the shore of Endórë, we received new knowledge about the Hither Lands.” He briefly describes Súlion’s rescue. “With better maps and sufficient forces, we decided to retake the ports of Brithombar and Eglarest and to secure landing for the ships on mainland, closer to our destination that lies north. Conquering Brithombar was a question of hours. But then…” He falls silent searching for words.

“Then…?” Eönwë pierces him with his eyes.

“Then…” Ingwil draws a deep breath. “…I grew overconfident. After leaving three hundred warriors to guard the city and sending back hundred more with the message, I still deemed our strength sufficient to take Eglarest. I erred.”

“Ëarendil warned you about the perils of this land.” The air around us suddenly grows cold, and I shiver.  Oromë’s voice sounds like the crack of a whip. “We warned you. About the Orcs. About the poisoned weapons they wield. What made you disregard all warnings?”

“Our first encounter with them, lord.” Ingwil lowers his eyes. “They seemed no more than beasts, those we drove away from Brithombar.”

Eönwë’s eyes narrow. “Those you…what? You…drove them away?”

“Just so I understand correctly, lord Ingwil, - you allowed the enemies simply to leave?” Oromë’s eyes now throw green lightnings. “The Orcs?”

“It seemed wrong to kill those clearly defeated and fleeing,” my cousin replies in a slightly trembling voice.

“Wrong?” Lord of Forests bellows. “You disobey orders, you lead your people to disaster and now you tell me you thought killing Orcs was wrong?”

Ingwil winces and looks down but otherwise remains standing stone-still.

“Compassion led them to do so.” Nienna steps forth and lays her hand on Oromë’s arm. “Shall we judge compassion as a mistake, even if directed towards the enemies? They had warning but no true knowledge.”

“Compassion…! Towards Orcs!” Oromë snorts but says no more.

“They would have had both warning and knowledge, had they held by what was decided earlier,” Eönwë says gravely. “Our meeting on the Isle of Balar was not foreseen without a reason, lord Ingwil. Had you obeyed us, you would have met people who have been fighting the same fight on these shores for centuries, people who have experience. You would have learned many useful things about Endórë before going to the first battle. You would have known better than to rush ahead blindly with a single guide.”

“All you say is true, lords.” Ingwil raises his head and looks Eönwë and the Valar into the eyes. “My rash counsel has cost lives. I have failed as a commander, so I lay down my authority and ask you to judge me as you see fit. I take the blame upon myself fully.”

This I cannot allow.

“I do not agree.” I take a step forward. All faces turn towards me. “I share the blame. I supported lord Ingwil’s plan to retake the cities. I thought it a good plan and, truth be told, I still think so. Brithombar proves this. Our mistake was pressing on, without waiting for reinforcements. Had we acted more wisely, we would have taken both ports without losses and we could have met on the Isle of Balar at the appointed time. But Ingwil is not the one solely responsible. As I followed his overconfident move, I am to blame also, for I command the Noldor. Therefore, I will share the punishment you choose to deal him and lay down my authority of command too.”

Eönwë considers us both closely. “So you would relinquish your duty?”

“I would not relinquish it.” Ingwil’s eyes flash briefly. “I would fight as any soldier, die in battle if that be my fate. But I am not fit to lead people, obviously.”

He looks away. I recall his excitement at the prospect of leading the Vanyar to victory.

“And you, King Arafinwë?” Manwë’s herald now turns toward me.

“I too have failed as commander. I shall likewise fight, but command is clearly above me.” I keep to myself that I do not want to be my kinsman’s rival, to retain command while he loses it.

Eönwë and the Valar look at one another; thoughts pass between them like barely perceptible flashes of light, incomprehensible to us.

“We shall later decide on your judgement,” the herald of Manwë then says. “Show us the harbour and the city now.”

“And I would tend those who sustained injuries in battle,” Estë steps forward.

“If you would follow me, my lady.” Artanar bows before her. “Most have almost recovered. Only a few need some more days of rest.”

He leads her to the harbour house where our people are still recovering. Irmo and Nienna join them, but Eönwë, the other Valar and captain Falmar follow us.

“Those who built the place knew their craft well.” The captain nods with appreciation as we walk through the harbour. “And you have done well with the repairs, even though you are no sailors.”

Aulë sets his broad palm to the wall of a house, then nods. “Good stone and outstanding craftsmanship. It is good the filth of Moringotto do not infest this place any longer.”

Their words lighten my heart. A little.

As we walk along the streets, the Valar question us about the battle. I tell truthfully what I remember, but that is mostly a confused blur of forms and weapons, shrieks and clashing steel. In wonder I listen to what others recall. Someone hesitantly mentions Ingwil saving his life. Another has seen my cousin standing guard over a wounded soldier. Some speak of me commanding and leading a counterattack, freeing a passage, killing an Orc captain. I recall none of this, despite it happened but a few days ago; how miserable is that? I follow, dragging my feet, keeping my eyes on the pavestones. They deserve a more capable leader.

“How many enemies there were?” asks Oromë suddenly.

Silence falls, and I raise my eyes to find that all others are far ahead, and the Lord of the Forests clearly expects a reply from me. “Two thousand three hundred eighty-four.” We know the number. We counted the bodies ere burying them in an abandoned quarry.

“Two thousand three hundred eighty-four,” Oromë slowly repeats.