Village of Windton, Southern Rills, the North of Westeros
Dawn, 297 AC
Dawn came reluctantly, as though the sun itself were loath to rise above these grey lands. The sky brightened slowly, and in that wan light Aerindir stood at the threshold of Hobb's cottage, watching the thin line of the horizon barely visible through the morning fog.
He had not slept. Not at all. For the first time in millennia, sleep had passed him by - not by choice, but by necessity. Each time his eyelids closed, faces rose before his mind's eye. Kirael, whose sword sang in battle and whose tongue sang over a cup of wine. Aranfil, who read verse by the campfire after a long march and urged him to sail for Aman. To leave behind the wars, the watches, the endless shadow. Saeron - the quiet archer, whose eyes missed no movement even in twilight. Ecthelion - young, named for the one who slew the Balrog at the gates of Gondolin, and who bore that name with such gravity it seemed less a gift than an oath. Fifty names. Fifty lives, each measured in centuries. Where were they? Dead? Alive?
Behind him the door creaked. Marda came out, wrapped in a worn shawl, holding a small bundle.
"M'lord" she called softly, so as not to wake Torr. "Here - take this. Dried fish and flatbread. It isn't much, but..."
Aerindir turned and accepted the bundle in both hands, bowing his head in thanks. The gesture, carried out with a king's dignity, made the woman flush and look away.
"My thanks, mistress. Your kindness warms better than the hearth."
Marda nodded hastily and disappeared inside. A moment later Hobb, Olden, and Will came round the corner, dressed in rough woolen cloaks and tall boots of old leather.
"Ready, m'lord?" Hobb cinched his belt tighter and slung a coil of rope over his shoulder. "Long day ahead. Let's get to the boats."
They set off through the village. A lone rooster crowed somewhere, announcing the day. A door creaked, and two men stepped from a low hovel, pulling on sheepskin jackets and talking drowsily. At the hitching post a thin lad was saddling a horse, yawning so wide it looked as if he might dislocate his jaw. Somewhere behind a byre, someone was retching loudly and cursing the morning.
Aerindir walked last, and with every step the grimy sheepskin coat seemed heavier, though it weighed less than mithril. But every fiber of it whispered: you are no longer there. You are here, in another world.
They descended a narrow path to a small cove where fishing boats sat on the shingle: flat-bottomed, tarred, patched in a dozen places.
"This one's ours" Hobb said, patting the nearest hull. "Old, but sound. Doesn't leak, oars are whole. Can't ask for more."
When the boat touched the water, Aerindir leapt aboard. Too lightly - almost weightlessly. The craft barely rocked, as though it had taken on a child rather than a warrior in full armor. Will, clambering in after him, nearly capsized them both with a single clumsy move.
"You're light, m'lord" the lad muttered, grabbing the gunwale. "And all that iron on you..."
"Weight is not always measured in iron, Will" Aerindir answered quietly, not looking at him. He seated himself at the prow, legs crossed, his gaze fixed on the shore fading into the mist.
Hobb and Olden took up the oars. The boat slid across the water, cutting the glassy surface. Will settled at the stern. The sea met them with silence.
* * *
They rowed slowly along the coastline. Aerindir did not take his eyes from the shore, scanning every crevice, every shoal and cluster of rock.
His vision, keen as an eagle's, picked out what the men could not: the faintest ripple on the water, a shadow beneath the surface, the gleam of something white among the rocks. But each time his heart clenched in hope, it proved to be nothing more than a seal's bone. A scrap of an old boat. A piece of wood bleached by salt.
The sun climbed, but the light did not grow. The fog refused to lift, only shifting in shade from grey to white and back again. In that stifling monotony, every mile of shore seemed a copy of the last.
"M'lord" Olden called, wiping sweat from his brow with a dirty hand. "Look there, by those rocks. Something white."
Aerindir's head snapped around. His heart beat faster. Between the dark, weed-covered boulders, something pale did indeed flicker.
"Closer" he commanded, and steel rang in his voice. "Faster!"
Hobb and Olden heaved on the oars. The boat surged forward, bouncing over the small waves. Aerindir rose to his full height, heedless of the dangerous rocking, eyes locked on the target. White. Oblong. Snagged on a sharp rock, swaying in the swell.
They drew alongside. Aerindir leaned over the gunwale, reached out - and went still.
An old sail. Rotted, eaten by salt and time, torn to shreds. Not elven cloth, which does not decay for centuries, but plain, coarse canvas, already many years old. The elf's fingers slowly uncurled, and the sail slipped back into the water.
"That's not" Will began.
"No" Aerindir cut him off, sitting down again. "We go on."
But something inside him faltered. The first crack in the wall of hope.
* * *
By midday a dim but palpable sun broke through the clouds. And with its warmth Aerindir felt something strange. Hunger.
Not the mild, almost pleasant prompting that came once every few days on campaign across Beleriand. This was something more insistent. A hollowness in the stomach that nagged and pulled at the attention. He frowned. I ate yesterday. Not long ago. Why...
Hobb handed the oar to Will and settled comfortably at the stern, producing food from a cloth bundle. He glanced at the elf and read the cause of his brooding at once. Men knew that look all too well - when the emptiness in the gut begins to crowd out every other thought.
"M'lord." Hobb held out a crust of bread. "Have a bite. Long day."
Aerindir took the bread mechanically and bit into it. The taste was middling: coarse flour, underbaked dough, a bitter tang of ash. Yet the strange thing was - it seemed... pleasant. His mouth watered, his stomach tightened in anticipation. He ate the bread to the last crumb. Then he drew the dried fish from his own bundle and set about it unhurriedly. By the time he stopped, the bundle was noticeably lighter.
Will stared at the elf with unconcealed surprise.
"Well now, m'lord. Turns out you like your food. I thought fine lords ate like sparrows."
Aerindir did not answer, trying to understand what had happened.
I have eaten more than I would normally eat in an entire day.
In Arda, a single piece of lembas sufficed for a long march, and so modest a meal would have sustained an elf for a full day. But here he had eaten everything to the last morsel and still did not feel truly sated.
What is this? The aftermath of the storm? Or...
The thought was troubling, but he pushed it away. Not now.
"There" he said, pointing toward a distant headland. "We round the rocks. There may be a cove beyond."
The fishermen exchanged glances. They had known this shore since childhood and could have walked it blindfold. But the stranger spoke with the assurance of one accustomed to giving orders. No one argued.
They rowed on. And with every stroke of the oars, Aerindir felt more keenly that something was wrong. That something had changed.
He recalled the moment they had pushed off from shore. A damp, piercing wind had blown in from the sea, and the elf had shivered involuntarily. A strange sensation. The Eldar did not know such cold. At the time he had put it down to the storm and the long immersion in freezing water. How long he had lain on the shore he still did not know.
But now, with this strange, unfamiliar hunger added to it, the doubt grew stronger.
His fëa was silent. The stars were alien. The world did not answer him as it once had.
And perhaps all of it was part of the same thing.
* * *
By evening they had reached the place where the fishermen had found Aerindir.
"Right here, m'lord" Hobb said, steering the boat toward the familiar shingle beach. "You were lying over there, by that piece of driftwood."
Aerindir ordered them to put in and studied the shore carefully. Leaping onto the shingle, the elf straightened and looked at the spot where he had been found. Here his new life had begun. Or his new death - depending on how one looked at it.
He walked the area slowly, examining every inch of shore. He searched for wreckage: planks, rope, scraps of sail - anything. The fishermen spread out across the shingle too, turning over stones and peering into crevices.
Nothing. The shore was pristine. Even the rocks, which usually collect debris in their cracks, were empty. As though the sea had licked everything clean, leaving not a trace.
"This is wrong" Aerindir murmured, dropping to his knees at the water's edge. He thrust his hands into the shingle, letting the pebbles sift through his fingers. "The sea always returns something. Always."
Olden, standing a little apart, coughed uncertainly.
"M'lord... I've seen many wrecks. When a boat smashes on the rocks, planks wash up for weeks after. But here... it's as though there never was a ship at all."
"There was a ship" Aerindir said quietly but firmly. "I remember the deck beneath my feet. I remember the cries of my brothers. I remember the smell of the creature's blood when it tore the mast apart."
He rose and brushed off his hands. Pebbles fell from the gauntlets with a faint ringing.
"But you are right, Olden. As though it never existed." He looked at the fisherman. "What might this mean in your lands? Are there curses that erase all trace? Magic that devours memory?"
The three fishermen exchanged glances. Hobb scratched his chin, thinking long.
"Only the gods know that, m'lord... old or new... or the Drowned God, maybe. But it's strange. Very strange."
Olden nodded slowly.
The elf did not reply. He walked to the very edge of the water. The grey sea rolled heavy waves onto the shingle shore. The wind tugged at his coat, smelling of salt and cold.
The fishermen exchanged glances behind his back. Olden gave Hobb a slight nod toward the elf.
"M'lord?" Hobb called cautiously. "Are you all right?"
No. This is impossible. The ship was sinking far to the south of Belegaer. No current could have carried me so far. And if one did... where is the wreckage? Where are the bodies? The sea always returns what it takes.
He raised his head sharply. His face was an expressionless mask.
"I am well. We continue. Further south."
Then he sat down slowly. Hobb laid a hand on his shoulder but said nothing. When the sun began to set, staining the sky in troubled shades of crimson, the old fisherman suggested they turn back.
"Getting dark, m'lord. In the dark we won't see a thing - just wreck the boat. We'll go back to the village, warm up, and head out again at first light, all the way to the far rocks."
In answer, only a slow nod.
The return passed in near silence. The boat slid heavily over dark water; the oars creaked softly in the rowlocks. The fishermen spoke in low voices, but the elf barely heard them.
Belegaer.
That storm - the shattered mast - the cries of men on deck.
The Sea of Arda was vast, but not without limit. Even the strongest currents could not have carried me so far, so fast. And yet here I am. On a foreign shore, beneath foreign stars.
Unknown lands?
In the ancient days they spoke of distant shores, lying beyond the seas, where no foot of elf or man had trod.
Or something else entirely.
Perhaps the darkness of that creature I fought was older than I believed. A curse that warped the very fabric of the world.
The thought slid further still. To a place he did not wish it to go.
Mandos.
Could this place be some strange threshold between worlds? A passage where souls wander before finding their way to the Halls of Doom?
No. I breathe. I feel cold, salt, weariness. Therefore I am alive.
Later, sitting by the dying hearth and wrapped in the sheepskin coat, he brooded on what had happened. The cold felt different now - not an outward threat, but something that seeped inward. Not tormenting, but... present. Constant.
"Úvanya nómë. A strange place" he said softly into the dark, watching the coals turn to ash.
* * *
On the evening of the second day, as the sun sank below the edge of the world and stained the water the color of old blood, the thing happened that nearly broke Aerindir for good.
Will, who had been dozing at the stern, cried out suddenly and jabbed a finger at the water.
"M'lord! There! Something's glinting in the water!"
Aerindir sprang up so sharply the boat tilted dangerously. Olden swore, clutching the gunwale, but the elf paid no heed. Every fiber of his being focused on a single point. There, twenty paces out, something bobbed on the surface. Metal. Polished, catching the last rays of the sun. Armor.
"There!" he shouted, and his voice broke into a cry. For the first time. "Faster! Row!"
Hobb and Olden threw themselves at the oars. The boat surged forward, leaping over the waves. Aerindir stood at the prow, gripping the gunwale, neither breathing nor blinking. Aranfil wore a pauldron bearing the star. Taldor - a helm with a wing-shaped crest. It could be...
The boat closed the distance slowly, until Aerindir, leaning far over the side, reached out and seized the object. He lifted it carefully above the water and went still.
It was not armor. It was... a barrel lid. Old, copper, crusted with rust and barnacles. The very thing that had gleamed in the sunlight, creating the illusion of a knight's shield.
Absolute silence fell, broken only by the timid lap of water and a far-off, mournful cry of a bird.
Aerindir stared at the wretched scrap of copper in his hands, noting the rust hopelessly eaten into the metal, the ragged, broken edge. Something inside him - something that had held for two days on will alone - cracked and collapsed. The lid slipped from his slackening fingers and sank into the water with a quiet splash.
"M'lord..." Hobb began.
"Enough searching" he said. His voice was level, but in it rang an emptiness more terrible than any scream. "We will find nothing more."
Hobb looked at him with sympathy. The old fisherman had seen much grief. He knew that look.
"Don't blame yourself, m'lord" he said hoarsely. "And don't give up hope entirely. The sea... it's a strange thing. Maybe the currents carried them far to the north, to the Stony Shore, or even south to Saltspear. The coast is long - no end to it. People survive. Sometimes they come back a month later, when they've already been mourned. The sea is cruel, but it doesn't always take everyone."
Aerindir slowly turned his head. He saw the kindness in the old man's eyes. He knew Hobb said it to comfort him. There was no real chance - currents meant nothing when ancient evil was at work. But he would not shatter that simple faith. He himself needed something to cling to, if only to keep from going mad with loneliness right here, in the middle of a foreign sea.
"Perhaps you are right, Hobb" he answered quietly, though his heart knew the truth. "Perhaps the waters showed them mercy." He looked once more at the horizon. But deep within, where his ancient intuition dwelled, he felt an icy, absolute emptiness. He was alone. Alone in all this vast, grey, magicless world. The last spark of a dying flame. And now he would have to learn to burn alone, among strangers and stranger gods.
"Let us go home" he said, turning from the sea. "There is nothing left to find here."
* * *
That evening Aerindir sat by the hearth in Hobb's cottage, staring into the fire. The flames danced, casting shadows on the soot-blackened walls, but gave almost no warmth - or perhaps he had forgotten how to feel it.
Torr tried to engage him, asking about the sword and the far-off lands, but the elf answered in monosyllables, scarcely hearing the questions. Marda clicked her tongue in reproach at the boy and led him off to bed, casting a worried glance at the guest.
Hobb was silent a long while, mending a net. His gnarled fingers worked the tangle of cord with practiced ease, but his eyes kept drifting to the motionless figure by the fire. At last the old fisherman set aside his work, sighed heavily, and spoke.
"You know, m'lord... When the sea took my brother, I walked down to the shore every day for a month. Every day. Searching. For a bone. A scrap of clothing. Anything - so I could bury him proper, with a prayer to the Old Gods."
His voice faltered, but he went on.
"Found nothing. The water took him as though he'd never been. I was angry. At the sea. At the gods. At myself, for not sailing with him that day. Maybe I'd have saved him. Maybe I'd have drowned alongside. But at least I wouldn't have been alone."
Aerindir raised his gaze, truly looking at the man for the first time that evening. He saw the lines on the old fisherman's face, the lived years in every crease. He saw a pain that never fully leaves - only dulls with time. Hobb continued.
"But what was I to do? I had a wife. Torr was a babe then. Nets don't mend themselves. Fish won't come if you don't put the boat out. Life's like that, m'lord. It doesn't wait for you to mourn the dead. It drags you on, whether you want it to or not."
He poured himself water from the jug and took a sip.
"And you know what helped? I decided to live so my brother wouldn't be ashamed. So that if he's watching me from somewhere - from the halls of the Drowned God, or wherever souls look down from - he'd know: his brother didn't break. Hobb goes on rowing. Hauling nets. Feeding his family. Honoring the memory, but not dying with the dead."
Silence fell. Only the crackle of peat in the hearth, and somewhere outside a dog's howl.
Aerindir studied the old fisherman for a long time. This man had lived perhaps forty or fifty years - a negligible instant by the measure of elves. He had never seen wonders, never heard the songs of the Valar, never known magic. But in his plain words there was wisdom, won through pain. To live so they would not be ashamed. So simple a thought. And so hard.
"Wise words, Hobb" the elf said at last, and in his voice rang genuine respect. "For your people... No. Simply wise words. Thank you."
The old fisherman nodded, clearly taken aback by such praise. Aerindir straightened, and something of his former bearing showed through. Not arrogance - but dignity.
"Tell me, Hobb. Is there an elder in your village, or someone of the kind? I need to speak with one who knows these lands better than most."
Hobb brightened, glad that the guest was speaking of tomorrow rather than yesterday.
"There is, m'lord. Old Garret. Served under the late Lord Ryswell, traveled far and wide. Retired now, but he steers the village and gives counsel. A wise man, if a stern one."
"I must meet with him" Aerindir said. "Tomorrow. In the morning, if he will receive me."
"He'll receive you" Hobb nodded with confidence. "Garret's a curious sort. A guest like you - he'll want to see for himself. I'll take you there myself."
"My thanks."
He looked into the fire once more, but this time his gaze held not the abyss, but a quiet, steely resolve. I do not know how to return home. I do not even know if that home still exists. But I am alive. And as long as I live, I will seek the way. That is what they would have done.
The flames cast their light across his face, tracing the sculpted features where exhaustion mingled with the unbending will of the Firstborn. Tomorrow a new path would begin. The path of the last star in an alien sky.