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The Seekers * II - Flight from Mithlond

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woman-of-secret-shadow
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Posted: Tue 26 Apr , 2005 8:13 pm
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“So they have sailed.” The words hung in the chilled air of the bedroom, forming white clouds that sought the light streaming in from the window.

She turned to gaze down at him, and ran her hand along his chest. He fingers felt the small scars of millennia of abuse, the white traceries of a past that had never been filled with love, not for a long time. His mind flew back to a barely remembered past, and a woman who had bore him through pain and torment. He struggled for a moment, to try and picture her face, her name…anything. He could not, but for a moment the sadness gave him relief- Until sharp pain brought him back.

Icy wind whipped through the window and across the fresh welt on his chest. She stood up and walked to the window to gaze out over the sea.

“You know he is coming,” she said, turning to stare directly at Osgarcam, her lips curled up in a smile at the puzzled frown. “Dindraug, you do remember him don’t you?” She turned to the sea and breathed deeply. Below her, waves lashed the shore, pulling back pebbles from the island, pebbles that it had thrown up there in an eternal war.

“I did not know.” Said the man, his face expressionless. But she knew what was in his mind, she always did. A flash of memory, of happy smiles and friendly kisses then anger and loss followed by betrayal, murder, a duel in the ruins and a long bitter journey.

“You should stop living in the past, you should not dwell on him anymore.” He felt her hands gently take his face, and her lips softly kissed his eyes, and cheek, and lips pressing hard against him. Then she stood again, tiring of this game. She picked up a discarded robe and wrapping it around her shoulders, she swept from the room.


He lay on the bed for a time, unmoving, his eyes firmly closed against the reality that surrounded him. He ran his tongue along his lips, tasting the salt tang; of blood or spray from the open window he could not tell. He looked again, seeing the bindings that held him against the thin mattress and the cold carvings of the room. Shapes like great eagles, and carvings of trees and mountains long since sank beneath the waves, shapes whose stories he could barely remember. He shivered as he lay there, watching the sea spray turn to ice on the windowsill, as the sweat on his body froze.


It was an hour before she sent somebody to find him, to untie him. A shuffling petty dwarf, with vindictive eyes who pulled the leather taught as she untied him and resorting to a sharp little knife for one piece that would not separate. The blade nicked his skin, salt immediately finding the wound so he bellowed a curse. The dwarf backed off then fled, leaving the Prince of his people to free himself. He looked down at his hollow and battered form; he had ruled this land once. He had built this castle against the darkest foe imaginable, not realising what could be fouler still. A woman spurned is darker than the dark foe of the world, and he was her play piece.

He stretched out his limbs, feeling blood circulate painfully into the tired vessels, and stood. Crossing to the wall opposite his bed he took down the beautiful elfin blade and gazed at it. Long ago, his father had presented himself and his brothers with these blades, long and curved like flowing water and as cold as ice, and swore them to retrieve the gift. He had lost this before Thangorodrim, but she had kept it and given it to him when she saved him. He had been her servant since, slave to her as much as to the oath he had broken. Pushing his hand through his long hair, he saw the last of the summer sunlight turn it to burnished copper. He smiled briefly, remembering how popular that hair had made him, and fastened it back with a small silvery ring. He dressed himself, and looked out of the window, at the far off shore of Lindon.

He remembered when he had first seen her; a dark human queen riding with the clans of Uldor the accursed. She had stood proud like the empress of the world as fate and war had pushed them apart. He remembered the look in her eye, when he was forced to flee with what was left of his household. He was her possession.

He remembered how she had taken him finally, in a dark crevasse where the ruins of the fortress of her former master spewed lava onto the plains of Narthalf when in his last despair he had thrown himself into the pit, and she had caught him. She had kept him, and his prize. A gift, his father had called it; the last and most bitter fruit of Valinor.


He left the room and walked the short distance to the battlements, and stood there to face the full force of the wind. As rime frost coated his hauberk he looked intently across the dark sea, searching for the ship that he knew would soon be here.

Dindraug, the Avari betrayer. Emotions surfaced that had been hidden for a long time and his hand subconsciously slipped to the knife he kept on his leather belt. Long ago, in the birch woods of Nimbrethil, Dindraug and they had fought and Dindraug’s knife had been left in the Noldor’s leg. The fight had been unresolved, the issue had been undecided and in the end Eönwë himself stepped in and healed the bloody Avari and the battered Noldor. For an instant, Osgarcam remembered his past so vividly he could touch it. A single tear, like a bright crystal trickled from his eye, to be blown away in the howling wind.


“You dwell on the past too much my brave knight” said the sultry voice behind him. He turned to face her, hiding his anger.

“He is coming for you too, my Lady.” The Noldor’s voice was barely a whisper, but she heard, and she nodded.

“Yes, I have known him for a long time and hunted him for longer still. He is the last of his kin, and he hates me more than anything for that. I find that quite stimulating.” Her eyes flicked across the cold northern seas, ancient eyes that had once knelt before Morgoth as his most trusted servant. She smiled deeply, her mind flitting across the seas to the north where a lesser servant valiantly flew his ancient beast against the storm, and into the depths of her castle where another cringed in a dark room with the chest with that which all coveted; but none could face. He could sense his hatred in the dark, his anger, his angst; his impotence.

She looked out again, and laughed at the winds, and the world and the Doors of the Night where her former lover had been cast. And at the ship of fools who bravely faced the icy waters of the Northern Wastes to bring one who had escaped her for so long into her care.

The last of the Oathbrakers.


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Areanor
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Posted: Fri 29 Apr , 2005 2:51 am
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Areanor turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door. The small lamp in her hand didn’t spend that much light, and when she heaved it over her head, it didn’t get that much better. Beyond the circle of visibility she could make out shapes of barrels, sacks, crates and trunks, all of them obviously stored in a hurry. She let the light wander over the small open space that was left and found a crowbar hanging from a nail next to the door. Equipped with it, the Gondorian started to investigate the contents of the crate next to her that hadn’t a piece of paper attached to it.

Some time later she had discovered a barrel with salted pork and one with smoked bacon, a crate with carefully packed jars of honey, a trunk with baked cram, wrapped in leafes to keep it from turning to stone, and some kegs with rhum. After opening a barrel that contained apples, she found some sacks filled with potatoes. Areanor let her gaze wander around and wondered if there was ever an intention to leave the storage room in a way that would have enabled people to find things. Some of the provisions were labelled, others not. There were some rather small barrels stored between the bigger crates and the first one she looked at showed a hornblower as a brandmark and was labelled with “Southern Star”. She frowned and looked further into the chaotic heaps of the crates.

A narrow aisle had been left between some of the storage, so she could move through the room to investigate some more. There were some barrels labelled “water” which she didn’t open. The contents would be stale soon enough. And after opening some dusty crates that contained small bags with spices and dried herbs, she found a small crate without a label. She opened the crate and found an even smaller trunk in there, this one labelled with an adress. “To be sent to the Houses of Healing, Minas Tirith”. A faint smell of King’s Leaf tickled her nose. “Now I wonder…. What did he say? Fresh provisions, just stored? Where did he get that from?”

She closed her eyes and tried to remember what other ships had been in the harbour. “The Pride!” She wasn’t aware she had said that aloud. And while she was trying to remember the look of old Trumstick and if she had given her name back in the harbour bureau, her mind sorted out the creaks of the planks that surrounded her.

---------------------------

The short, stocky man, who by his looks should be a jolly fellow, very definitly wasn’t pleased. His always red-coloured face was even redder now with pure anger. “You don’t say the load has VANISHED! How can a full shipload of goods just VANISH?!?” The young man tried to join the clerk who had already shrunk behind his counter.

“You can’t tell me your men loaded the WRONG SHIP??!!” The exclamation marks hung nearly visible in the air. “HOW COULD THEY not distinguish the one Pride of Lebennin from a rotten corsair ship? There were things among the load that should have been delivered to Minas Tirith!” “But….” Trumstick cut the faint protest short and poked the unfortunate man with his finger. “How are you going to replace my freight? I’ve got to sail to-day! And who let these thieves sail? HM?” The attempt to lean threatingly over the counter failed miserably just for the missing height of the captain from Dol Amroth. “But the Agannâlô is sailing in service to the king! This woman…” “A WOMAN? You gave my freight away to a WOMAN?!” “Wwwell, she had papers. And she wore the messenger’s uniform!” A short silence filled the room. Then the short man exploded. “I’ve never heard of wimmen wearing the messenger’s uniform. I’ve never heard such a nonsense! I can’t believe you’ve been tricked so easily! Besides! Women on a ship!?! Ridiculous.”

It was going to be a long day for the harbour master’s assistants.
----------------------------


The Gondorian had finally decided to take potatoes up to the brazier. Together with some bacon, onions and some herbs it could be something called a meal. Slowly she traced her steps back onto deck, carrying half a sack of taters on her shoulder.

When she passed a cabin with an open door, Areanor looked inside and her eyes met with those of Jaeniver. Leaving her load on the floor, the Gondorian stepped inside and looked down at the figure on the rest. “How is she?” Areanor asked. “I don’t like the look of that wound. It doesn’t seem to want to close and the bleeding won’t stop.” was the answer. The messenger hesitated. “Maybe… well, it’s worth a try.” Not heeding the questioning look from the elf, the tall woman turned on her heels and crossed the aisle to get to her room. Soon she returned, carrying a small wooden box with her. Engraved on the lid was a fire-breathing dragon, and as she opened it a sweet fragrance filled the air.

“It’s a very useful item I got back at the Houses of Healing. The liniment has athelas in it and it’s quite astounding what it can accomplish.” And with small and light movements, Areanor treated Legyviel’s wound. Both women were surprised to see how quick the tension in the body lying before them lessened. Even Legyviel’s hands that had been clenched to fists, opened now and seemed to relax. “Some days of resting will do her good. I’m really glad that we are journeying on a ship, so she can stay in bed.” The human and the elf smiled at each other and Jeaniver was just about to add something when a terrible moan wailed through the aisle.

“Oooooooooauauaoooooh.” Their smiles turned into a frown. “Uuuuuuuuhhhhoooooooohhh!”
Areanor’s hand flew up to cover her mouth just in time to hide a snerk, while Jeaniver looked around unsure. “That sounds like the voice of the halfling?” she ventured. “Might he be in distress?” The Gondorian nodded. “The last time I saw – or better heard – him, he seemed to be rather sea-sick. Let’s see if we can find out more?”

The elf’s gentle knock at the door wasn’t answered, so both women carefully opened it for a gap to lock through. Tibodom Tock was sitting on the bed, both hands pressed against his forehead. “Oioioohh. It’s movinig.” the perian moaned. “Everything is moving.” The elf stepped nearer and laid a hand light as a feather on the small head. The she looked inquiringly at the Gondorian and the box in her hand. “Nay, I don’t think the ointment would be of any use here. Fresh herbs instead….” And again she frowned and turned on her heels to vanish for some time.

Jaeniver tried to comfort the small person, who seemed to be inconsolable. “Oooohhh. Why did I ever had to leave the Shire? What did I do to deserve this? Aaauuuuuuooooohhh.” A long time seemed to pass, until the human returned, in her hands a big bowl, filled with onions, a big slice of bacon and some herbs.

“Onions and bacon?” Jeaniver looked with big eyes at the things Areanor was carrying. The Gondorian laughed. “Not for the Hobbit. This is for him.” She added, and held up the fresh foils, whose scent already started to fill the room. On the table there was a small bowl, half-filled with water and Areanor crumbled the green leaves into it. “Hot water would serve better, for it carries the scent better. I’ll be back with some as soon as the water for the potatoes is boiling.”

“I didn’t know you were a healer.” said Jeaniver. “I’m not a healer, nor do I have the hands of a healer, but I learned some things back at Emyn Arnen. And the scent of kings-foil is said to help drive away nausea. Fortunately I found a small supply among the storage. I wonder if this ship is holding more surprises for us.”

Though the water wasn’t steaming, a fresh scent as a reminder of dewy grass on a shaded glade filled the room. The Hobbit was gently pushed back to lie down and without opening his eyes he moaned again. Jaeniver sat beside his bed and wetted a cloth with the scented water. With tender care she dabbed his forehead, then looked up at Areanor. “I’ll be back with hot water as soon as possible. And when I’m finished with pretending to cook I can take a turn at nursing our patients for some time, if you agree?” the Gondorian asked. Jaeniver nodded and so the routine for the days to follow began.

That night was the first of many to come in which Areanor’s dreams were haunted.


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*Alandriel*
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Posted: Sat 30 Apr , 2005 3:45 pm
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Alandriel was as numb to the administrations of Dindraug and Maelgwn as she was unaware of their conversation or indeed the happenings on board. Previous worries of how the crew would survive the long trip with probably minimal supplies, how they would prepare for what she feared awaited them at Himring faded as she slipped deeper and deeper into darkness.

Her fate was, for the time being, in the hands of the Avari and peredhel; but also in the hands of beings of whose power she had but a faint notion. Little did she suspect of the consequences the shard embedded in her cheek would yield as it worked its way deeper and deeper during the long hours of her exhausted sleep, beginning to open avenues to her mind and soul hitherto unknown.

When she finally awoke the cabin was empty.

The bright sunlight pouring in through the cabin window made her squint and she averted her face. And then she blinked again, for, clearly illuminated by a beam of streaming light, on the rough cabin floor, was an open book, a page half torn out.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Far, and further still, to the North

Eldaraimo cackled noiselessly as his winged steed soared higher and higher, veering farther and farther away from the ruined castle that had served as an interim re-grouping base.

"I will show them!"

"I will show them all where true power lies."

"Especially her!"

The loathing the immortal held for the female easily transferred to his mount who doubled its efforts and urged on with even greater speed. But then, as the pair pierced the skies high above the billowing clouds leaving behind the world of black, icy and wind-whipped waters, he roared with laughter.

"You will never get what your black heart desires," he thundered into nothingness, "for you still have the remnants of a heart. You are weak!"

It was true. She, just like Lómiroquen, was still able to alter her appearances; to suit situations, to manipulate at will. That however was only possible because both still held a shred of uncorrupted power. Somewhere in their dark souls there yet was but a hint of compassion – something which he, Eldaraimo, had left behind long ago.

Long ago……….. The low, rhythmic 'thud', 'thud' of the massive wings slicing through the night air transported him back in time. Aeons, or so it seemed, back to the years of true power: the Great Years.

The Great Years, those had been his best; the times of the Black Lord's reign of sublime terror. Those had been the times when they – he himself - had stood on the very brink of total victory over the playground that was Arda.

Vast powers he had gained under the Black Lord's direct tutelage and guidance. He had been at the heart of the great task of creating armies of creatures more deadly with each generation bred.
How exhilarated he had been to finally, as was his due, his right, to hold this station, for he had been chief amongst those tracking down the Firstborn at the starlit inlet on the inland sea of Helcar. There, where the light of the cursed Trees was but a faint glow he had been greatest amongst those who had sowed fear, suspicion and discord. Mercilessly he had hunted, bringing the elves into bondage.

And so he had been named: Eldaraimo, Elf-Hunter. Tough he wore it proudly, it was but a single aspect of his being. And a small one at that.

The full glory of his being had been revealed later, when the Black Lord himself expressed Eldaraimo's most fervent desire: dominion over the coveted toys of the one whose work they had sworn to undo.

To pervert the misled Quendi, to begin their great transformation had been his task.

A cruel, condescending smile crept over his bloodless lips as he remembered.

Finding the creatures weakness had proved almost effortlessly elemental for they were full of innocent curiosity, striving with their impeccant hearts and minds to comprehend and saviour all. Like moths to a flame they were drawn to knowledge and power – and burn they did.

Using these interests he had found a way to twist their souls, to pervert their very essence, turning their blood dark and cold until they no longer were able to feel love, delight or merriment but only pain and glorious hate. He made them. He transformed them and his great achievement was glorious: Orcs.

Yet, that was not enough.

The most potent sorcery ever wielded in Arda also produced Balrogs, Dragons, Werewolves and Trolls - thousands of them. The breeding pits of Angband were an incredible, unparalleled achievement made possible due to the long, undisturbed years between the two victorious wars, aptly named by the vanquished Dagor Bragollach - Battle of Sudden Flame and Nirnaeth Arnoediad - Battle of Unnumbered Tears. It was during those fruitful years he had been able to perfect the transformation.

As the Quendi had been beautiful once, now they became truly terrible.

Their repulsive soft elven eyes now became pupil-less and red, their once gentle glow replaced by fire of hatred but retaining their capacity to see in starlight as Men see in the day.
Their voices, so full of sickly sweetness turned gruff, or shrill, halting, toneless, almost inarticulate and their mouths became fanged or tusked with great black tongues. Their once soft and unmarred skin turned dark, coarse, scarred and covered with patches of tough, stringy hair. Their forms became brute with massive skeletons and musculature, long arms and stout legs. Their minds dimmed, their hearts dulled.

And with each generation produced they became more perfect, complacent and efficient tools of terror.

Those had been the most glorious years of Eldaraimo's long existence and, raising a massive fist into the air, he swore to see those days return. And return they would, for what was needed was close, oh so close, soon within reach. And this time there would be a different War of Wrath!

The end of the Black Lord's realm, the ruin of the Ancient World had come with the War of Wrath. Yet even in defeat there had been victory - for as Beleriand sank in the aftermath of the battles and conflagrations so Forodwaith was shaped.

Much of the western reaches close to Angband collapsed into the engulfing sea and sunk beneath the waves. Many mighty peaks of the Iron Mountains were laid low. All that remained was the slag and ruin which became the peninsular Cape of Forochel.
Eastwards, the crumbled and battered stones of the Iron Mountains eventually settled their shifting mass to become open tundra, leaving broad passages in their wake which now united rather than separated Forodwaith from the lands to the South.

The Valar had, effectively, opened the Northern Wastes.

And while he had searched and found refuge, Yvanna had come.

How he despised the self-styled Earth Mistress and her infatuation of growing things! She was the one responsible of calling forth light where death's shadow reigned, casting seeds upon the barren ground, melting ice with the awakening of spring.

But there were limitations, even for her, for the Valar were no longer permitted to alter the fate of Arda by direct imposition of their will for they now feared to interrupt the natural balance. The Valar were weak and made a poor choice: Elves and Men and free people now roamed Middle Earth and it fell to them to tell its tale.

One of the first to share in this task had beenThilgon, a proud Noldor of Finarfin's pathetic household.

A rasping sound escaped Eldaraimo's throat as he reminisced on Thilgon's brother Hirgon, who had been captured and imprisoned in Angband during the Wars of Beleriand. It had been a challenge to transform him, an unfruitful test and a wasted effort in the end.

Thilgon had fought like few others in the War of Wrath but was unsuccessful in finding his brother amongst the prisoners. Neither did the broken armouries of Angband yield the sword of his father which Hirgon had wielded in the hour of his capture. For these reasons, poor, miserable Thilgon could not avail himself of the Valar's pardon to return to Aman. Instead, he vowed to search the length and breadth of Forodwaith until he would find his brother and the heirloom of his house or perish in the attempt.

Nearly half a millennium went by, before the tumults of ice and stone subsided enough for the Firstborn to set foot in Forodwaith. Long and hard years Eldaraimo recalled, years he spent trying to regroup their widely scattered and beaten forces; with some success but also with set-backs.

One day Thilgon finally set forth from Lindon with his paltry companions to search out the shattered lands. He undertook several forays over many years into the Waste, exploring what remained of the ancient realm of the Dark Lord, yet always without finding what he sought.

Then, one day, Thilgon strayed from his companions and was lost. Many days the Noldor lamented and searched in vein for their missing leader until at last Thilgon himself returned to them, a strange light on his face. In his hands he clasped seeds; seeds that had been gifted to him of Kementári and Irmo from the fields of Yvanna.

A set-back.

Soon thereafter Thilgon undertook a long journey, leading the Noldor as one with foreknowledge directly to the edge of a great break in the earth whence deadly vapours rose, red with the glow of subterranean fires: Eithel Morgoth – Morgoth's Well, which had once been a great outlying forge of Angband. One of the last refuges of the dark forces.

There, Thingol declared, his brother and many other kinsmen had been enthralled and he was right. Eldaraimo, still barely begun recovering his strength had watched as Thilgon's eager companions descended into the rift, even to the edge of the Lake of fire at its heart but the Noldor held them back saying: "First we must fulfil the charge that has been laid upon us". Then Thilgon descended into Morgoth's Well and began to plant on its slopes the seeds he had. The seeds sprouted swiftly, growing into trees, reclaiming the scorched earth with root and branch, hedging the nameless evil that lurked below.

Another set-back… but not entirely so.

When their task was accomplished, Thilgon led his companions into the lower reaches where the fires of hell blazed undiminished. There, on the brink of the Red Veils, Thilgon found his father's sword, but knew then that Hirgon, his brother, was lost for as he took the sword into his hand, Thilgon beheld the countenance of his brother's bane, rising in wrath from the lake of fire. Terror seized his companions and they fled but he, fool as he was, stood undaunted by the horror, challenging it to single combat, knowing that he would soon walk again beside his brother and father in the Halls of Waiting.

They came back for his body and sword and buried him in the upper regions of the Well, a sleepless sentinel against the power below. The Noldor departed full of sorrow, not only for the passing of their beloved leader but also because the mystery of the seed seemed forever lost. Yet, as Eldaraimo later discerned, one seed they had spared and when the company returned to Lindon it passed onto Thilgon's wife. But she, besotted with grief soon thereafter chose exile and took ship for the Undying Lands, bestowing the seed upon Óleth her daughter.

More than a thousand years would pass before Thilgon's labour in the North was renewed.
During those long centuries the slow greening of the North continued yet the Dark Forces also gained strength, gathered.

And strength there would be again; power and dominion.

A faint tremor ran through Eldaraimo's steed. He was as eager as the immortal to reach their destination. It was a long flight yet and so, as the first faint glow on the eastern horizon heralded a new day, Eldaraimo guided his mount towards a mountain rage peaking through the haze. The beast needed a respite and he had someone to summon out of an age long slumber.


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Areanor
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Posted: Wed 03 Aug , 2005 11:58 pm
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“I really wonder if there are rats on board. I hear strange sounds at night when I try to sleep.” the halfling said. “Well, rats are common passengers on ships like these.” Areanor answered.

With slow movements the young woman polished her sword. The stainless steel sent sparks in the air whenever a beam of light touched the blade. As soon as she considered the task done, her gaze wandered along the sharp sides until it reached the fine tip of the sword. The blade wouldn’t cut a silken scarf into half but for her it was definitly sufficient. Areanor had kept her hands busy while she sat and watched the perian treating the heap of potatoes she had peeled for him just a while earlier.

The Gondorian sheathed her sword and hung it up carefully. Then she straightened her limbs and standing up, she smiled down at the halfling who was concentrating on coping with kitchen equipment that was made for much taller folk than he was. “I think that tea is ready, I’ll take it up to Alandriel’s cabin.” While she was taking a cup and filling it up, Tibodom nodded and said: “I need a break and a bit of fresh air, too. I’m coming up with you.”

Together they climbed up the stairs and reached the deck where they found Kalin yelling orders at the squint-eyed scum he had found at the havens. The Hobbit went over to exchange some words with him and while the message rider turned into the opposite direction to head to the biggest cabin aboard, she couldn’t help but wonder about how quickly the perian had found his sea-legs.

A gently tap on the door received no answer and slowly the Gondorian opened the door and stepped into the silent room. At first glance the cabin looked empty and it was easy to overlook the frail figure on the bed, covered with a heavy blanket. The red-haired woman didn’t stir at Areanor’s entrance, but she could see the blanket moving up and down with the deep breaths Alandriel took. Only the Gondorians soft footfalls and the muffled shouts from outside disturbed the silence of the sunlit room. Gently the young woman placed the cup filled with the aromatic liquid onto the table next to the bed.

If Alandriel was sleeping, she would need to and the messenger wouldn’t want to wake her. And if the other woman faked sleep for some reason or other, Areanor would respect that decision likewise. During the last few days while the Agannâlô made her way through the bay of Lhûn the redhaired woman had slept most of the time, while Dindraug had watched over her sleep. Areanor wondered for a short moment why he wasn’t around now; as she traced her steps back out on deck.

When her gaze wandered around, it found the young Master Took next to Jaeniver peering over the stern rail, and with long strides she went over to join them. “Look at these big fishes that acccompany us!” he exclaimed. Areanor grinned and while she listened to Jaenivers explanation about dolphins and their doings she scanned the horizon behind them. The bay seemed to get narrower and the montains on each side loomed over it as if they wanted to enclose the ship into the gulf, not making way for it to get into the Belegaer. Slowly her hair began to catch the upcoming wind and she turned her face to warm it in the westering sun. When her maroon-colored strands were blown back by the wind, she frowned.

Narrowing her eyes, she could see a dark speck on the horizon, followed by an even darker cloud. “Jae, what would you make of that?” she asked, pointing with her outstretched arm. “A ship, though I can’t decide whether the sails are black or of dark blue.” The elvish woman turned around, but Kalin had already noticed their change of interest and came to join them. He cursed under his breath and shook his fist at the crow’s nest. “If this rat has taken rhum up to his watch again, I’ll flog him!” Not heeding the shocked look on the halfling’s face Kalin turned and yelled at the men, while he took the rudder in his own hands. “Get up you lazy fools! Set every sail, I want to get us through to the open sea before the storm hits us and throws us onto the shore! And prepare to reef them at my command! It will be a close thing!”

Tibodom looked with big eyes at Areanor who just started to get out of her boots. “What did Master Dineen mean? A storm?” “Yay. These black clouds far behind will be nigh us soon. And he hopes to get us out of the bay before it hits our ship. I would advise you to get below deck and secure everything that might come loose. And would you please take my boots down with you? I won’t need them now.” Areanor was glad that she had left most of her gear safely stored in her cabin. Only clothed into her white blouse and the long trouser it was easier for her to climb the shrouds and perform the tasks she had learned to do in some hot summer some years ago.

And leaving the Halfling with her boots in the hands gawping after her and Jaeniver watching the horizon, she started to climb up and help one of the men setting the mizzen-sail, that had been idle up to now.


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