Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for entertainment purposes only.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. 

A/N:  Okay, I had the Dwarf thing planned waaaaay before ‘The Two Towers’ movie came out.  There was just a slight delay between my imagination and getting it into print.  I suppose if I were crazy I could accuse Peter Jackson of stealing my thoughts, but alas, enough sanity is present to realize the impossibility of such claims.  And I have no desire to make myself paranoid.

This is probably the last light-hearted chapter before things get decidedly twisted.  As always, Happy Reading! :)

Character List

Bitaliel- the blind madwoman accompanying Aragorn and Bergil

Bergil- son of former Citadel Guard Beregond.  The boy Pippin befriended while in Gondor during the War of the Ring, now one of Aragorn’s guards.

Mortsdil-  Leader of the Corsairs of Umbar

Galathe-  Head figure of Umbar, is actually controlled by Mortsdil

Rìs-  female Dwarf and longtime acquaintance of Gimli

Halbarad-  Everyone’s favorite Other Ranger.  Longtime friend and lieutenant of Aragorn, slain at the Battle of Pelennor Fields during the War of the Ring.

Éomer

Aragorn

Legolas

Gimli

*              *                  *

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~ Chapter 13:  Chasing Past to Present ~

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A solitary grey horse swept over the hills, hoofs softly thumping the fertile grass as it journeyed westward.  The stallion bore a most curious burden: not one, but two riders, and a mismatched pair at that.  The tall, lithe figure nearest the steed’s head moved fluidly with the gait of his mount.  His hair streamed behind him like a banner and he was prone to cast curious glances over his shoulder, laughing merrily at his companion.  The second, of compact build and much shorter stature, lurched and teetered with every stride of the grey mount. 

Both, however, appeared very much at ease with their predicament, and if the Dwarf’s lack of equestrian talent upset the horse, the animal did not show it.

For Legolas and Gimli, it was reminiscent of times long since passed; of days when their purpose lay before them sharp and bright as the sun above.

It was easy to fall back into the old habits.  Indeed, it almost seemed as though they had never ceased following Aragorn over the Plains of Rohan.  Memories of Théoden and his Riders clung like wistful ghosts, the summer breeze bearing their proud cries and the distant thunder of Rohirrim steeds in passing sigh. 

And both Elf and Dwarf were more than content to pretend it was so. 

Gimli pitched forward, receiving a face full of quiver despite his best effort.  “Legolas,” the Dwarf bellowed, “would it not be possible for you to remove your quiver?”

“And where, Master Dwarf, would you have me put it?”  The Elf cast a glance over his shoulder and grinned at his harried companion.  Both were well aware the quiver would not be removed.  Such an act would be akin to Gimli ridding himself of the belt that secured his axe.

Gimli scowled as several locks of wind-blown elven hair whipped across his face.  “I have every intention of giving you a haircut once we stop for the evening.”  

Legolas laughed, eliciting several answering chirrups from diving meadowlarks above.  “Only if you are willing to rid yourself of that unsightly bush growing about your face, my friend.”

“I will have you know, Elf, this ‘bush’ as you so termed it is famous amongst even my kindred.  Such well-grown specimens are a rare find.  Be thankful you are able to reside in the presence of such an endowed Dwarf as myself.”  Gimli released one hand from the back of Legolas’ tunic to give his pride and joy a resolute tug.  He unbalanced himself in the process and was forced to hastily latch back on.  Pitching forward, his face again met the hard leather quiver.

Legolas stared at Findalen’s mane and somehow managed to curb his laughter.  Gimli’s muffled threats did not fail to reach his ears. 

“I am sure the maidens find you irresistible,” the Elf drawled.  He felt Gimli straighten with indignation.

“Far more tempting than Elves with hair longer than their own.”

Legolas dipped his head.  “I concede, Master Dwarf.  I do recall it was most difficult to wretch you from the claws of those clambering maidens within your Glittering Caves.”

“You mock me now,” answered the Dwarf, “but it is I and not you who could be married if I so wished.”  Gimli felt the Elf tighten and sit up a bit straighter, a sure sign his curiosity had been piqued.

 Legolas cast another glance over his shoulder; clear eyes alight with intrigue.  “Enlighten me, Master Dwarf.”

Gimli wondered how he had been duped into speaking of Rìs.  “Rìs and I,” he began, noting how Legolas’ jaw went decidedly slack.  The look was wholly out-of-place on the fair face.  Gimli was thoroughly amused; it was difficult to shock an Elf.  “I suppose we could have been married at one time.  We have known each other since childhood, and have always been fond of one another.”

“Rìs?”  Legolas fairly choked.  “The Dwarf who kept you company most during my stay?”

Gimli nodded in faint bemusement, wondering what was so shocking about the fact.  “Yes.  Now, however…”  He trailed off with a resigned sigh.  Again speaking of his status as social pariah was not his wont.  However, Legolas’ stare of disbelief prompted him to continue.  “Rìs’ family would not approve of such a thing, nor would… nor would the rest of my kind.”

 “That is understandable.”  The Elf’s voice was laced with sympathy, causing Gimli to bristle slightly.  “From what you have told me,” Legolas continued, “the Dwarves do not look kindly upon such…  relationships.  But marriage, Gimli?  Even my kind does not engage in the sort.”  He shook his head in amazement.  “You surprise me, Master Dwarf.  I had oft taken you to abhor such affairs.”

Gimli was rendered momentarily speechless.  Years of friendship with Legolas gave him a profound understanding of the other, yet Gimli had the strange feeling they were speaking of completely different matters.  What on Arda was the Elf talking about?

“Legolas, Elves marry all the time!  And why would you have qualms against my marriage to Rìs?”  His face darkened as he drew his thick brows together.  “She is a fine and virtuous maiden, I assure you.”

Legolas’ eyes widened in shock.  ‘That is the second time in as many minutes,’ the Dwarf observed.

“She?”  The Elf’s musical voice sounded unnaturally shrill.  “Oh.”

Gimli narrowed his eyes suspiciously.  “Yes, what else would Rìs be?”

Legolas stiffened noticeably and quickly turned to face forward. 

“Legolas,” Gimli demanded.

“But Rìs had a beard,” the Elf replied, somewhat helplessly.     

“All Dwarven women have beards.  What is your point?”

 Legolas remained silent.  Gimli swore the Elf squirmed.

“Legolas!”  Gimli nearly fell off the horse in indignation.  “You--you--how could--you did not think Rìs was a--“

“But Rìs had a beard.”

“And all Elves have longish hair, yet I do not confuse Elf with Elf-maiden!”

*     *     *

Days passed, warm and lazy as only summer can be.  Purposely skirting villages and other small settlements that sprang from the green plains, the duo kept the violet peaks of Ered Nimrais always to their left.

“We head for the cliffs of Ras Morthil,” said Legolas.  The Elf at first wished to journey eastward, towards the forsaken lands of Utumno.  Gimli, however, concluded that the Western Sea was of the same waters as the East, not to mention within far shorter distance. 

“I have no qualms against journeying cross-country with you,” the Dwarf said.  “But our burden will grow no lighter, and I wish to rid ourselves of it as soon as possible.”  He was not sure of the Elf’s preoccupation with throwing the stone off a cliff, but Legolas seemed fairly set on the idea.

“It was first given to the Sea in such a manner,” said the Elf. “It ought to be returned as thus.”

Legolas adamantly refused to simply wade into the waters and toss the stone back—Gimli had even offered to do so himself.  ‘Then again,’ the Dwarf reasoned, ‘Elves always did have the need for pretentious flair.’  They turned even the simplest of tasks into elaborate rituals (Gimli had seen the way Legolas fashioned his arrows, not to mention the Elf’s borderline-obsessive grooming and packing habits).

The discovery of a budding flower was cause for full-blown festivals, as far as Elves were concerned.  It was only natural Legolas would find some way to make the task more difficult; it was the nature of his kind.

“And what happened to the Elf who threw the Silmaril into the sea?” Gimli asked, wishing to turn his attention from his sore and aching body.  It had been too long since he last sat atop a horse, let alone ridden one for prolonged distance.

Legolas’ shoulders rolled in graceful shrug.  “He departed.”

“He just turned around and left the cliffs?  Where did he go?”

“Astray,” the Elf replied with a vague sweep of his arm. 

“How so?”  Sooner or later, Gimli reasoned, the Elf would run out of ambiguous phrases.

“He wandered.”

“Did he die?”

Legolas paused.  “He ceased to live long before the stone was cast into the Sea.  His spirit was much grieved.”

“O for the love of—“  Gimli sighed in irritation.  “That is not what I asked.”

“Death comes in many guises,” came the Elf’s glib response. 

“Legolas, there is no variation of Death.  Death is Death.  You are either dead, or you are not.  It is simple as that.”

“Nay my small-minded friend, there are many variations of Death.  Death of soul, Death of body, Death of heart, Death of mind.”

Gimli snorted.  ‘…Death of Elf,’ he mentally added.  ‘Death of Elf by Axe...’

*     *     *

Supple waves heaved and withdrew against the hull of the great ship Umbra.  Amidst the painfully blue sky and sun-capped waters, the black vessel appeared sorely out of place.  A flat and hollow beat echoed from deep within the ship’s bowels.  Its lengthy oars arose dripping with water, surged forward, dipped down, and then sculled back to the steady one-two one-two of the driver’s pacing drum. 

Seagulls wheeled and keened, hovering just above the masts on invisible currents.  Crewmen went about their business below, oblivious to the rock and pitch of the ship as they tended rigging, sail, and deck.  Subtle wisps of grey could be seen to the east, the sands of Belfalas appearing nothing more than low-lying clouds to those not familiar with the Sea’s illusions.  The slave-ships of Umbar were not built for the rough, open waters of Belegaer—the Great Sea—as were the crafts of the departing Elves.  Only by accident would the Corsairs wander beyond Middle-earth’s hospitable waterways. 

Mortsdil, feared Admiral of the City of Corsairs, retreated aft-deck to his personal cabin.  He locked the door and closed all shutters, isolating himself inside the stuffy room.  In the heat and darkness, the scent of dry wood and brine was almost suffocating.  Lighting several tallow candles, the corsair set about gathering various materials from surrounding chests and drawers.  

Scrying was a woman’s art, or so the men who dabbled in magicks claimed.  “Let the women play with their water-mirrors,” they laughed in disdain, “and we shall summon the more worthwhile powers.”

Mortsdil knew better.  True, scrying was simple enough; all one required was a basin, a few choice herbs, and a basic knowledge of spell casting.  But simplicity, as Mortsdil was well aware, did not imply uselessness.

Squinting in the flickering candlelight, the corsair peered at the images swirling about the shallow stone dish atop his desk. 

A lithe figure swathed in loose beige robes galloped down the Harad Road, flying over the heat-shimmering slopes of South Ithilien.  Sunlight glinted blue off the rider’s coal colored steed.  Red and gold tassels adorned the animal’s mane and bridle, flapping gaily in the summer wind. 

Mortsdil narrowed his eyes.  Who was this person whom did not belong in Gondor?  The man’s turban concealed his features, though Mortsdil could just make out the high cheekbones and deep brown eyes.

The corsair bent his concentration on the man until the watery image gave way to a second scene.  Galathe—‘Loyal Galathe,’ Mortsdil silently sneered—was speaking to the man within his private chambers.  Without the turban tails concealing his face, Mortsdil immediately recognized Hadeem of the Bh’dul. 

‘Well, well.  It seems my little puppet is pulling his own strings.’  The sandy-haired corsair drummed his fingers on the desktop and frowned.  He wished he could hear what the two men spoke of, but scrying did not allow such insight.

No matter, he had plenty of spies. 

Mortsdil did not pay others to be his ears.  If a man was willing to sell information to him, there was no telling whom else the man might inform for the right price.  Employed spies were not to be trusted.  Mortsdil’s spies were the hardworking peasants, the poor merchants, and the low-ranking servants and soldiers.  Simply threaten the death or enslavement of loved ones, send a “thank you” every few months or so—perhaps a loaf of white bread or glass beads—and they were his for life.  Every so often he would randomly slay a family member or two, or send the pathetic souls to the galleys.  Just as a reminder to his spies they served him, and him alone.

The spies reported dutifully, every week.  Their findings were presented to an appointed officer, who recorded the news and sent it to Mortsdil via falcon.  The sentimental fools were loyal to their families up to a fault, and Mortsdil preyed upon it.  They would not betray him; they were too fearful of the consequences.

Muttering words in the Black Tongue, Mortsdil waved his hand over the dish.  The water rippled and cleared.  The corsair closed his eyes in concentration, ignoring the blood pounding in his ears.  Morgoth had become far too demanding in past weeks. 

‘One moment!’  Mortsdil snarled, wiping the thin trickle of blood from his ear in irritation.  Eternity had done nothing for the fallen Vala’s patience.

Taking a deep breath, he again focused his concentration on the dish.  He was looking for an Elf. 

A mysterious treasure had been stolen from King Elessar by his own Elf-friend, and the King had set forth to retrieve it.  Mortsdil’s spies had told him as much, though the whispered rumors flying rampant over the land spoke the same.  There were many speculations as to what this treasure was: gold, silver, gems, perhaps mithril armor or an enchanted sword. 

High-ranking officials of Gondor quelled such stories, claiming the king departed on a diplomatic mission to foreign lands.  Still, the rumors could not be entirely quashed.  They were far too fantastic and intriguing to ignore.

Disregarding the blood dripping from his nose, Mortsdil sought the Elf. 

The Elf would have the jewel.

*     *     *

Grasshoppers rasped cheerfully under the bright morning sun.  Bergil smiled as he secured his bedroll; it was going to be a beautiful day.  Warm golden sunlight sent heavy prickles of warmth down his arms and back.  The emerald Plains of Rohan were still dew-laden, and the scent of moist soil and grasses was intoxicating. 

Hoisting the bedroll over his shoulder, Bergil fought the urge to sing at the top of his lungs.  Fevered blood rushed through his veins like fire.  He wanted to jump, to dance, to laugh until his gut ached.  He wanted to leap into the saddle and gallop over the Plains, riding so fast and furious he was out of breath and his body numbed by the wind.  Perhaps, if he wished hard enough, he would even be able to fly—soaring into the vast blue sky to even greater adventures.  Anything was possible.

Aragorn watched the son of Beregond out of the corner of his eye, not missing the guard’s jaunty stride that nearly bordered a skip, or the blissful grin on the young man’s open face.  The former Ranger gave his steed an affectionate slap on the neck and smiled to himself.  How many mornings had he woken up just as youthfully jubilant in his younger days?  Though he would not relinquish a single morning of Arwen’s warm body and gentle kisses, memories of old Ranger camps stirred a special fondness in his soul. 

It was truly an experience to sleep beneath the skies of Arda and awaken in her fresh and dewy summer mornings.  Such dawns were full of hope and promise.  For a few short hours, even the oldest man or beast was allowed to once again view the world with the innocent, wondering eyes of youth.

~*~*~*~

“What are you doing?”

Aragorn spun around and flushed, embarrassed at having been caught dancing.  He was supposed to be adjusting Foliar’s tack; the Rangers’ journey would be a long one this day.  But the morning sun had been so pleasant and the birdsong so sweet. . .  What started as humming the simple tune Elladan taught him grew into full-blown choreography.

Shamefaced, Aragorn went back to tightening the saddle strap.  “It was nothing,” he quietly replied, glancing at the tousle-haired Ranger before him.  Noting the other’s cocky stance and youthful face, which lacked the dark glower and tense lines of veteran Rangers, Aragorn decided they were of similar ages.

The young man nonchalantly pushed aside his steed’s head as the horse nudged him.  “Did the Elves teach you that?”

Aragorn nodded stiffly.  He was still unused to residing solely in the company of Men.  Men lacked the elegance and soft-spoken ways of the Elder.  Their voices were harsher, their movements less controlled, and their emotions more jagged and raw.  Loud, scruffy, and brutish they seemed. 

Aragorn wondered if his kin—Nay, he corrected himself, the Elves—saw him in a similar manner.

“Did they teach you to stare like that as well?”

Aragorn blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

“If your gaze turns any more severe, I fear you shall burn holes into my head.”

Aragorn placed one hand over his heart and bowed.  “I apologize, Master Ranger.  It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

The young man’s lips curled into an amused smirk.  “And polite, too!”  He absently ran a hand through his dark and tousled hair.  “If I had but half the manners you possess, my mother would be reduced to tears.”

Aragorn frowned.  “You would rather I be rude?”

The other peered over the shoulder of his mount and blinked.  “I did not say that.”

“But you implied such a wish.”

“Did I?”

Aragorn nodded.

“That was not my intention,” replied the young Ranger.  “And that is well, for I do not think you would be any good at it.”  He shook his head in exasperation.  “You have an odd way of manipulating the words of others.”

Aragorn stiffened.  “I do not seek to manipulate others.”

“See!  You are doing it again.”

“You are mistaken.  If I truly sought to—“

The young Ranger crossed his arms over his chest and snorted.  “Poor soul.  You argue like an Elf.  What did they do to you?”

Aragorn paused, wondering if he ought to take offense to the remark.  Men were sometimes so blunt it was painful—this Man in particular.  And how did this one know of his association with Elves?  “You speak of the Elves,” Aragorn began, approaching the topic of his upbringing with caution.

“Indeed I do.”  The Ranger moved to help Aragorn tie his bedroll to the back Foliar’s saddle.  He craned his neck over the horse’s back, a mischievous light in his grey eyes.  Aragorn was vaguely alarmed.  Such looks never played out to his favor when Elladan and Elrohir were involved.

“I know who you are,” the Ranger whispered furtively.  “Aragorn son of Arathorn—Heir of Isildur!”

Aragorn drew in a sharp breath and snapped upright to glare at the man.  His hand instinctively went to his sword.  “How do you know of my name?  I have told no one but the chief of our order.”  Was this Ranger a spy?

The tousle-haired Ranger took several steps backward, somewhat alarmed by Aragorn’s reaction.  He held out his hands in submission.  “Calm yourself!  I spoke of it to no one, nor is it my intention to do so.”  The self-assured smirk Aragorn had begun to associate with the man again flickered over his face.  “I passed by old Guttarion’s tent the night you and the Elves arrived.”  He winked cheekily.  “And I happen to have very good ears, you know.”

“Do you?”  Aragorn shook his head in exasperation, smiling in spite of himself.  He was not sure which left him more amusingly perplexed:  the fact the young man referred to the Dúnedain chief Guttarion as “old Guttarion,” or that he openly admitted to eavesdropping.  Aragorn could very well grow to like him. 

The Ranger grinned and stuck out his hand.  “Halbarad.”

Aragorn, upon remembering the customary warriors’ greeting among Men, grasped the other’s forearm.  “Well met, Halbarad.”

Halbarad clapped him on the back in delight.  “Come, I smell the breakfast sausage.”  He sniffed the morning air appreciatively.  “If I am not mistaken, Malthus will be calling us to eat in a moment or two.”

As if on cue, a gruff shout to join the morning meal echoed throughout the glen.  Halbarad turned to Aragorn, mouth quirking as though to say, “See, I told you so.”

Trained to obey commands the moment they were received, Aragorn immediately turned towards the Dúnedain camp.

“O for love of the Valar!”

Aragorn stopped abruptly and glanced over his shoulder at Halbarad’s oath.

“Aragorn, you must not walk in that manner.”

The Heir of Isildur turned, brow furrowing in confusion.  “What is wrong with the way I walk?  I have always walked as thus.”

Halbarad washed a hand over his face and groaned.  “You shall need some work.”  He shook his head and pulled a face.  “Elves may be able to walk in that manner, but Rangers, my friend, do not prance.”

“I do not prance.”

Halbarad snorted.  “If you say so.  Come along, Strider.  I do not wish to miss breakfast.”

“I do NOT prance!”

~*~*~*~

Aragorn chuckled.  When they returned, he would have to tell Halbard of Bergil’s antics.  His old friend would—

Aragorn grimaced.  Over ten years had passed, yet still he occasionally forgot Halbarad no longer resided in the realm of the living.  Every once in a while, when amidst large groups, he would see the Ranger’s face in the crowd.  ‘Ah, there he is,’ Aragorn would think, and make a mental note to ask Halbarad about some minor affair of the day.  This was quickly followed by the jolting realization Halbarad was dead.  Though now reduced to gentle sorrow—like pressing a faded bruise—the Ranger’s passing still seemed strange and out of place.

“Awaken, my fairest Blinky!  The day has dawned anew and still you lie buried beneath your blankets.”

Bergil’s joyous greeting elicited only a grumpy whine from Bitaliel. 

“Awake!  Awake!  The sun has arisen, the flowers are blooming!  The birds are a-chirping and—“

“—and if you do not cease your croaking,” Bitaliel snarled, “you will never again witness another morning.   What do I care of rising suns or blooming flowers?  I can see neither.”

Bergil yanked away her covers with a flourish.  Bitaliel’s grumpy mood would not affect him this glorious day.  “Ah, but you may feel the sun’s warmth, smell the flower’s perfume, and hear the chirping birds.  And that is cause enough to smile.”

“My guard speaks truth,” said Aragorn with a chuckle.  Perhaps he saw some of Halbarad, too, in young Bergil.  ‘Though,’ the Ranger thought wryly, ‘Halbarad was never quite so cheerful in the morning.’

Bitaliel sat up and scowled.  “You folk of the morning sicken me.”

Bergil grinned as he rolled up her blankets.  “My lord Elessar, I do believe this is her most cheerful morning yet.”

For the first time in many days, Aragorn laughed heartily.

Following a quick meal, the trio set out over the Plains of Rohan at a generous clip.  They had visited the Glittering Caves the previous week, only to find Gimli had departed with Legolas several days prior.

“Should we not turn back?” Bergil asked. 

“Yes,” Bitaliel had said.

Aragorn shook his head.  “Nay.  We press on.”

It was then Bergil posed a most perplexing question:  “My Lord… Why?”

Aragorn answered it was out of concern for the safety of the Elf and Dwarf.  Bitaliel had snorted in disbelief, and even Bergil appeared uncomfortable believing the king’s claim.  However, the young guard was too loyal to say otherwise.

In truth, Aragorn did not quite believe himself. 

Bergil, cheeks flushed and hair disheveled from the wind, came charging headlong over the loping hill. 

The irrepressible guard had pestered Bitaliel with questions all morning, until he mistakenly asked of the woman’s husband. 

Screaming, “He is dead!” Bitaliel actually threw herself from the saddle and had nearly been trampled to death.  It took several minutes to calm the horses, and even longer to calm Bitaliel.  After a full-blown tantrum, the woman reverted to her gibbering nonsense.  Not even Aragorn was able to draw her from the protective shell of insanity.

Spirits immensely dampened, Bergil had slipped into silent agitation.  At last his miserable, incessant fidgeting became too much for Aragorn, and so the king suggested he scout ahead.  Bergil’s mood immediately improved.

“My lord!”  Breathless and panting, Bergil reined in his steed. 

Aragorn raised an eyebrow and regarded the other patiently.  “Your report, soldier?”

Flushed and excited, the young man threw back his shoulders and saluted as he had been taught.  “Riders, my liege!  Twenty or so.  They approach from the East, bearing the standard of the Riddermark.”  His grey eyes glowed.  “The famed Riders of Rohan!  I could see their long spears, and the precision of their formation was like none I have ever witnessed.”

Aragorn rode to the hillcrest as Bergil continued his animated babble.  Helms and spear blades flashing white in the bright sunlight, twenty-odd Rohirrim pounded over the hillside.  Their emerald banners streamed behind in proud, rippling waves.

Aragorn squinted at the lead rider.  “Bergil?”

Bergil stopped mid-sentence.  “My lord?”

“Ride to Bitaliel and see that she does not become overly excited.  I would not have her unintentionally cause harm, be it to herself or others.”

Bergil sighed and cast a wistful glance at the swiftly approaching riders.  “As my lord commands.”  He saluted and turned to ride warily toward the madwoman, who was serene and calm by all outward appearances.

Aragorn lifted an arm to hail the Riders.  The lead Rider responded in similar greeting.

“Hail, Aragorn Elessar!”  Pulling up to an impressive halt, the Rider removed his horse-tailed helm.  “I heard rumor you had gone off adventuring without me.  Did my liege truly believe he could leave me sit idle?”

Aragorn smiled at the tall, broad-shouldered man.  “Well met, Éomer, my friend.  Well met indeed.” 

*     *     *

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The Paths Our Heroes Must Walk:  Okay guys, pull out your maps!  We begin with Legolas in Ithilien, then travel on over to Minas Tirith.  From there, we head west to Gimli’s Glittering Caves.  Then westward still and slightly to the south as we head towards the sea.  Legolas and Gimli have opted to travel on the western side of the Ered Nimrais mountain chain, which hooks southwest and out to the peninsula Andrast (or Ras Morthil).  Ras Morthil is the north-most tip of the Bay of Belfalas.

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