The evening was a soft one, with a balmy breeze that just kept the sails billowed nicely. The sea was relatively calm, and the Aeardelien rocked only a little more than she had while sitting in the harbor. Galion stretched his arms out widely and took a deep breath. He'd gotten used to the scent of salt air during his time in Avallonë; so other than the movement beneath his feet, he felt right at home.
Others, obviously, didn't feel quite as comfortable. At the bow of the ship stood Legolas, his arms folded tightly over his chest and his face folded into a frown. The resemblance between father and son struck Galion anew. Both had golden hair that glowed by whatever light illuminated it, and both had expressive brows that furled in exactly the same manner when they were discontent. And, by the looks of the pallor on the face of the son, he suffered some degree of his father's nervous digestive system on the water.
"If I did not know better, I would say you were planning your next move in battle," he said brightly, walking up to Legolas with an easy gait. "Are you deciding to go after the warg riders first, or the orcs?"
Legolas spared his father's old friend a withering glance before looking once more across the waves. "Very funny."
"Oh - do not tell me that you…" Galion grinned mischievously. He shifted to peer quite obviously into Legolas' face. "Your stomach, right?"
Another glance, equally glowering, answered him this time without words.
"I have to admit, your father was only mildly bothered when the Sea was this calm on his last trip. It was not until we crossed over onto the Straight Road, with all of the chaos and waves, that he ended up…"
"I thought he told you not to speak of that lest you end up digging latrines?" Legolas growled.
Galion chuckled. "You heard that, did you?"
"He was not exactly making any attempt to keep it quiet."
"No," Galion agreed. "He was more interested first in Elrond finding him something to settle the stomach; and then a little later, figuring out what that young lady was doing hiding down in the hold."
"Leave it to Elrohir to pick a woman who will not stay in a safer place," Legolas offered in a slightly less disgruntled tone. "Then again, I would not like to be Linnaew when Elrohir hears what she has done."
"You do not think that he will be pleased?"
Legolas shook his head and unfolded one arm to rub his forehead just above his nose. "None of the Peredhil takes the protection of their loved ones lightly, nor requests that they remain in a place without due reason. But I left hearing range before I heard the end of that discussion. How did Elrond take her reasons?"
"Her reasons were as sound for coming as were Elrohir's for leaving her behind," Galion stated, his teasing tone gone. "Even your father was amazed at what she had to say. If I were to guess, I would say that Elrond probably had his suspicions, and I doubt he was angry at her once he knew her story."
The ship made an unexpected movement, and Legolas groaned very softly while grabbing at his abdomen. "I was right; you are like your father," Galion returned to his teasing. "It is a good thing we're at sea, and no enemies surround us; in this shape, you would be barely able to handle your bow to be useful in a fight."
"I will have you know that I still bested you in the contest on the Pelennor, Gimli," Legolas shot back with a suddenly bold smile that faded as he recognized the one to whom he was still speaking. Any color that had remained despite the motion sickness washed immediately from his face, and the look of confusion and then intense grief that followed was almost painful to observe.
"Legolas?" Galion put out a hand to his King's son. "Legolas?"
"What are you two conspiring about?" Thranduil's voice, in tones infinitely more robust and healthy since Elrond had put the strange straps on his wrists, sounded behind Galion.
"He is gone," Legolas whispered, with his eyes brimming with tears. "They all are gone." His face furrowed into a deep frown and he bolted from where he stood, brushing almost rudely against Galion. He narrowly avoided colliding with Thranduil, who had come closer to join them at the railing. Galion's mouth dropped in shock as the younger royal disappeared below decks.
"What was all that about?" Thranduil demanded with a frown.
Galion shook his head. "I have not a single clue, except that in his last answer to me before he just… closed down… he called me by another name. Gim…" Galion felt the bottom fall out of his stomach when he finally recognized the name. "Oh no!"
Thranduil pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh no indeed. I was hoping we were finished with these spells."
"Spells?"
The King leaned both arms on the railing. "Something someone says will trigger a memory of one of his mortal friends from that damnable Quest of his; and it seems as if, for a moment, he is back with them and not with us here. Then, the moment he realizes what is happening, the reality that all of them - save Olórin - have stepped beyond the circles of the world overwhelms him. Even Olórin no longer resembles the kindly old Ithron he was in Ennor, you know..."
"Nuath!" If Galion had felt bad before, he felt horrible now. "I need to apologize…" A strong hand reached out and grabbed before he could take a step.
"Nay. Whatever you say now will not penetrate, and not for a little while yet. I will speak to him on your behalf eventually, once the shock of remembering the losses has dulled enough that he can actually hear me." Thrandul gave a great sigh, betraying his worry and weariness, and ran a hand down his face. "He has been doing so well of late. Since autumn, only two times has he retreated to his rooms and remained there inconsolable."
"Thranduil, you never told me Legolas was suffering in this way," Galion chided very gently. He didn't dare say more, for it was obvious that his King was almost as upset about this development as he was.
Thranduil gave him a quick glare, but then sighed again and turned his eyes to the distant horizon. "It is a very difficult thing to try to explain in a letter, is it not? One almost has to see it happen to understand the way his losses just take him, completely without warning."
"True." Galion sighed and leaned against the rail next to Thranduil. "What can be done for him?"
"Very little, actually. Even his mother despaired of his ever regaining a balanced perspective over the long-years they were together before I arrived. She understood very little about his life in Ennor or the Quest, and Legolas would tell her nothing. I believe Elladan or Elrohir did the best they could once, when they came to visit, but it took me days to tell her everything that had happened and how it had slowly worn him down."
"You mean, he was near fading, even here in Aman?"
Thranduil nodded. "Once Gimli went where Legolas could not follow, it became a question of when, not if."
Galion's mind couldn't help remembering the bright and happy youngster that had gotten into so much mischief in his youth, the brash and impudent young warrior with a penchant for practical jokes on his fellow unit-mates, and the kind and compassionate Elf that had returned from the Quest a hero of all free peoples. To think that such a bright light now foundered in grief…
"I am surprised you did not send him to Lórien…"
"He refused to go." Thranduil's voice grew tight and angry, but with a sigh returned to its previous, wistful tone. "I do what I can, and I hold hopes now where once I did not. Perhaps now that his life has greater purpose than appearing in archery tournaments and exhibitions, he will move beyond his many losses in the way his beloved Mortal friends did."
Galion turned and gazed at the darkened hatch that led down into the ship. "How long will you leave him be?"
"An hour or so at the very least. I know better than to approach too soon; such encounters leave us both far more upset than if I practice patience." Thranduil gave his old friend a sideways smile. "He has inherited my temper, and if I ever once doubted it, I have had ample reasons to reassess it in the last few decades."
A sad smile dawned on Galion's face. "I knew you had changed, my friend; I just had no idea why." He straightened. "You will let me know when I can tender my apologies myself and have them accepted without chancing a relapse?"
Thranduil nodded, his eyes trained on the dark line on the horizon that was Avathar.
Galion followed his King's gaze for a moment, and then with a pat on the shoulder, left to find his bed and try not to allow feelings of guilt to keep him awake all night.
oOoOo
The bunk that he had been assigned was more narrow than he was used to, but to Maglor, actually having padding between his body and the wooden planks was a pleasant change from the harsh conditions he'd enjoyed with his Telerin masters. Even the plain warrior's fare on wooden trenchers was better tasting than the sparse nourishment he'd received for three very long yeni.
A single voice began it - a warrior's song that he remembered his men singing in Beleriand - and soon many of the bunks that surrounded his were ringing with jovial, buoyant voices. If he closed his eyes, perhaps he could pretend that he was still on the plains
"Come on, Brondur, surely you know this one," came a laughing voice from his left. "Join us."
Maglor swallowed hard. It took him a moment to remember that "Brondur" was the epessë he had chosen for himself. It seemed fitting enough: "Enduring Darkness" was exactly what he was. But whether as Maglor or as this new, untried identity, the fact was that he had not opened his mouth willingly to sing a note in over an Age.
It didn't matter. The moment he tried to lift his voice, it cracked and then made him choke on the discomfort. He coughed and pounded his open hand on his chest to clear the congestion that threatened to suffocate him. "Sorry," he managed when at last he could breathe again,
"You do not have the accent of Imladris or Ithilien, nor of Mirkwood or Lothlórien, my friend." The owner of the voice propped himself up on one elbow. He was a silver blond warrior, from the way his clothing was cut, an archer. "So from whence do you hail?"
"Tirion," Maglor decided the best way to proceed was to be as honest as possible so as to have as few falsehoods to remember as he dared.
"Tirion? Really?" The archer pushed himself upright. "Were you ever in the East? In Ennor?"
"Yes." Again, it was the truth. How easy it was to mislead with the complete and utter truth!
The archer's face grew incredulous. "You do not say much, do you?"
"I am sorry." Maglor could feel the heat in the tips of his ears, and hoped his embarrassment didn't show too much on his face as well. "It has been a long time since I have had such opportunities for companionable conversation."
The silver-haired Elf leaned his head back and laughed long and hard. "And when you do speak, you speak as if raised in the courts of the Kings. I am Rúmil of Lothlórien." He thrust out his hand.
Maglor hesitated and then shared his first warrior's grip since throwing the Silmaril into the ocean. "Brondur Nauronion. Well met, Rúmil of Lothlórien."
Rúmil turned his hand over so that he could take a closer look at Maglor's hand, and Maglor bore the inspection with a twinge of fear. Would he comment? Would he make an assumption that would lead to the full truth? "What happened here?"
"Burned
them," Maglor said more calmly than he felt and drew back the
moment Rúmil
released his hand, "badly enough that the healers weren't
certain that I would ever be able to use them again. It took me a
very long time to regain all my mobility."
"I
should imagine! Did it make it hard to use your sword?"
"A bit." Maglor hedged on the truth. In fact, he still hadn't actually tried to use his sword yet; when informed of his presence among the troops, and his condition, Glorfindel had stated that he would get his chance when drills began the moment they were back on dry land.
"Well, can you still roll a hand of bones with them, at least?" Rúmil grinned widely.
Despite his hesitancy, Maglor was having a hard time keeping a wistful grin from his face. His discussion with Círdan days earlier had been cordial enough, but still strained, as had facing Thranduil been. This friendly overture, by contrast, was like the first breath of fresh air – fresh, free air, – he'd had for longer than he cared to remember. "I have no idea," he admitted slowly. "I have had few with whom to practice of late. However, I must warn that I have very few belongings to wager."
"That is all right," Rúmil dismissed Maglor's concerns with a wave of the hand. "We never did more than wager with bits of shredded wood while on the fences of Lothlórien; I can see no reason to change that part of the game now." While Maglor breathed a silent sigh of relief, Rúmil turned behind him. "Cúronion! Bring those bones over here. We have a third at last!"
Another light-haired Elf rose and made his way down the row of bunks until he could plop his backside down next to Rúmil. "Cúronion," he offered along with his hand.
"Brondur," Maglor replied, enjoying the simple comraderie of a fellow warrior once more. He'd never realized how dear these kinds of moments could be when they had been plentiful; and he promised himself he'd never take them for granted again. Again he bore with the quick inspection of his scarred hands, and again sighed in relief when the only comment they caused was a shrug and a glance at his face.
"You have the stakes?" Cúronion asked Rúmil impatiently as he quickly unwrapped a soft piece of leather to uncover some relatively new-looking bones. These looked to be the anklebones of deer, each engraved on two sides with cirth.
Rúmil pulled out an even smaller packet of folded parchment tied with a length of string. "For as long as the two of us serve together, of course I have the stakes." He untied the packet and dumped out a fair number of short, sanded strips of wood, which he quickly divided into three equal lots.
"Be careful of this one," Cúronion warned as he rattled the bones in his large hand. "He cheats."
"I do not!" Rúmil's expression of outrage touched something deep inside Maglor, and he began to chuckle. "What? Whom do you want to believe?" Rúmil demanded as the laughter grew louder.
"I shall judge for myself," Maglor managed finally, gathering his stakes close and watching the way Cúronion was rattling the bones. "But I think I would be wise to watch you both."
"Suit yourself," Cúronion stated solemnly as he cast his first hand on the tightened blanket between himself and Rúmil. "Eight." He grinned and put two slivers of wood out. "Put up or shut up, my friends."
oOoOo
Laeriel glanced at her two cabin-mates, each perched, like her, on an upturned barrel or cask out of the way of the rest on deck, and knew they were no more contented than she was. They were definitely outsiders, wives of highly honored elf lords who normally would never be found anywhere in the vicinity. Around them, behaving almost as if the three women didn't exist, the eight fishermen went about their normal sea-faring business; and the wives and few children sat in small clumps mending nets and talking quietly among themselves beneath starry skies.
It wasn't that they were being ignored; come meal times, or as darkness closed around the little ship, the fisher-folk were very careful to make certain that the three of them were served on the smoothest of wooden trenchers, with the least bulky spoons, later to be escorted below with one of the tiniest of the Feanorean crystal lanterns held aloft so that they wouldn't trip. But other than those few times, they were left to their own devices; offers to help were always gently refused, and wary glances from shy women and children gave evidence that the fisher-folk weren't comfortable in their presence.
A tiny girl toddled unsteadily in their direction, her mother engrossed in caring for an older sibling and speaking to a nearby friend. Laeriel smiled at the child, and Faerlinn murmured comforting words; and yet, the moment the mother noted what her daughter was up to, a sharp word called the girl away. "I never had a daughter," Laeriel mused sadly, watching the child cast a curious look over her shoulder even as she obeyed her mother.
"I did not either," Faerlinn agreed with a sigh. "My Maenol is aboard the Gwaelaer with his father.
"Thranduil and Legolas are on the Aeardelien." Laeriel wiggled her fingers at the girl, who shot her a shy smile even while snuggling against her mother's arm.
"And your men are all grown warriors." Faerlinn chuckled as the child tried to imitate the finger movement of the fancy lady she was forbidden to approach.
"I have two older sisters and one brother," Linnaew offered, amused by the wordless exchange going on despite the mother's best efforts. "My father betrothed my sisters to Elves who could advance his standing in the court, and I have not seen them for a long time."
"And he intended the same for you, I take it?" Laeriel asked with a resigned sigh as the fisherwoman gathered her daughter up into her arms and carried her below. She turned a curious look on the youngest of the three "noble outcasts", as she thought of them. "Is that the way with your people?"
Slowly Linnaew's head dipped in a nod. "Especially since Atar would like to have a position of greater influence in King Ingwë's court. Even before Elrohir began courting me, Atar could not stop talking about Lord Minaringwë, how handsome he was, how skilled he was with the flute and in calligraphy. He had done much the same with my sisters."
Faerlinn nodded. "So you knew what was coming."
"I also had seen Lord Minaringwë several times when Atar would take me to court for celebrations. He is so self-absorbed, he barely pays attention to the ladies already vying for his eye; and it looked as if he wished not to be bothered with any of them." Linnaew shrugged. "He is the younger son of a younger son of a daughter of Ingwion himself."
"I have heard of him as well," Laeriel nodded with a grimace. "News of that court does travel, even unto Alqualondë. Ingwion has little time for him, as he is quite dissolute and uninterested in diplomacy or anything else political. Your father was intending to betroth you to that?"
Linnaew's face folded into disgust even as she nodded.
"And in the defiance of your father's wishes, you began to see the son of the Peredhel himself instead?" Faerlinn's smile was wide. "That must not have gone over well."
"It did not. Atar ordered his seneschal, Ilsafindil, to watch over me while I packed, and then lock me in my room to await my escort to Vanyamar. Atar forgets that I used to climb down the bougainvillea vine when I was a child and Amil had locked me in my room for being naughty." Linnaew's face showed that these were not necessarily fond or humorous memories.
"And he underestimated you once again…" Faerlinn began, only to have her attention caught by a stir in the knot of women nearest the hatch that led to the interior of the little fishing vessel. "Something is wrong, I think," she commented in a low voice, nodding in the direction of the hatch. The other two immediately looked over.
"Gentle Estë, no!" Laeriel gasped and bounded to her feet as the small body of a child was borne out of the depths of the ship by a sobbing and terrified Silivien, the wife of the captain of the fishing vessel she was on. The eyes of the distraught mother were bouncing in desperation from face to face, and finding no comfort in what she saw; while the other women of the fisher-folk tutted concern and resigned inactivity. Laeriel pushed through the crowd to Silivien. "What has happened?" she demanded, staring into the little face that was turning a ghastly color.
"He swallowed…" was all Silivien was able to say before Laeriel had her hands out to her.
"Give me the child."
Silivien merely stared at her dumbly. "He needs a healer, and there are none…"
"I trained as a healer," Laeriel interrupted with a wave of impatience. "Quickly, now, let me help him."
She waited for the brief moment her demand was considered by a desperate mother, and then Silivien held out the child. "Help him, please!"
Laeriel went to her knees immediately and placed the toddler on her outspread skirt. She opened the little mouth and peeked inside, and then carefully felt about the throat from just below the chin downward. "Did you see what he swallowed?" she asked, once more looking up at Silivien.
The young woman's eyes widened. "I was mending some of Dinenon's clothes, sewing buttons…"
With that, Laeriel nodded and rose quickly with the babe in her arms. She grasped the feet firmly with one hand and then suspended the baby upside down to administer two sharp whacks to the little back. The crowd surrounding her began to murmur in growing anger, but a third blow made the child's mouth fly open and a small, round, black object drop. The little boy drew in a breath - the first since Laeriel had taken charge of him - and then let out a thin wail that slowly grew in strength and volume.
Laeriel gathered him up into her arms more properly again, satisfied to see the bluish tinge to his cheeks fading quickly, and then immediately returned him to the embrace of his mother. "It is better to keep buttons and small things that babes can put into their mouths away from them until they are older," she advised with a smile.
The tears continued to run down Silivien's face, but her smile as she worked to shush her little one was brilliant. "Oh! Thank you, my Lady! I thought… I was sure…"
"He looks like a healthy, happy boy," Faerlinn commented, finally drawing near as the urgency of the situation released it's hold on the other fisher-folk. "I remember my son spending his first year putting everything he could get his hands on into his mouth. I had to put everything up and out of his reach."
"Silivien…" The women parted at the sound of Dinenon's distressed voice to allow him to see that his wife and his son were well. "What happened?"
"Your son is an adventurous little warrior," Laeriel answered with a chuckle. "I foresee the both of you sharing many moments of both pride and terror as he grows."
"She is a healer," Silivien said shakily, her tears having ceased. "Breglim swallowed a button and began to turn blue, and she knew what to do. I thought… I thought he was going to..." She lowered her head and leaned heavily into the arms of her husband.
Dinenon turned to Laeriel. "A healer?"
She nodded. "I trained with the Sisters of Estë while awaiting my husband and son."
Faerlinn stared about her. "Are there no other healers on this ship?"
A quiet, bitter voice sounded from behind her. "As if any would bother to come help the likes of us. Healers are only for the nobles, or the merchants, not Felasel."
"It is not right," Linnaew nodded, drawing the increasingly horrified gaze of Laeriel to her, "but it is the way things have been done in Eldamar."
"Well, we are not in Eldamar anymore, and so it stops now," Laeriel declared firmly and angrily. "I have never heard such nonsense; and if I had known this to be the case here, in the so-called "Blessed" lands, I would have abandoned Eryn Díthen and made myself into a fisher-woman to await Thranduil while serving as a healer."
"Thranduil?" Dinenon's eyes widened in surprise. "You know him?"
"That is her husband," Linnaew replied calmly.
"Your people will have a healer to tend them from now on, one way or another," Laeriel continued in as regal and determined a voice as she could manage. "I will speak to my husband - and to Elrond, who was the greatest of healers back in Ennor. To hear the tales told, Elrond never turned away anyone who came to him for aid. And my husband never begrudged the services of a healer to even the least of his people in Eryn Galen."
"Lady?" A gentle and hesitant touch to her back made Laeriel turn. "If you are truly a healer, could you please see to my daughter? She fell and broke her leg nearly a year ago, and yet it pains her to walk still."
Laeriel looked out over the eyes trained on her, wary and yet hopeful, and then nodded. "I dare say that you will be kept busy from now on," Faerlinn commented at her new friend's back.
"That is well," was the response.
Faerlinn felt a very tiny tug on her skirt and looked down to see a small girl running her hand over the fine linen overskirt. She smiled and picked the child up. "And what is your name, little one?"
Linnaew smiled as she could see the gazes of the fisher folk around her grow slowly warmer and more accepting even as they disbursed back to the tasks that had occupied them earlier. A trio of women had gone back to sitting in a circle, working on what looked like netting. She walked over to them and crouched. "I would like to help, if you would show me what you are doing."
The three gazed back at her in surprise, and then one of them shifted to the side. "I am Nellwen," a second said as she, too, moved in the opposite direction.
"I am Linnaew."
"Manadheth." The second waited until Linnaew had made herself comfortable. "What we are doing is mending the net so it can be used again. Sometimes the nets catch on the rocks - or the fish are strong enough to tear it to escape. Let me show you…"
oOoOo
Thranduil straightened from where he had been leaning against the railing of the ship and gave a tug on the leather straps that now decorated his wrists. Where Elrond could possibly have uncovered the unlikely answer to his motion sickness troubles, he had no idea; but the snug straps and the small metal discs they held firmly against his skin had done the impossible. He had enjoyed his evening meal - a bland and simple one of bread and cheese - without a single twinge of complaint from his stomach.
It was well, because he had other matters that were just as unsettling to deal with, and the time to face them was at hand. He had given Legolas his time to regain a little of his emotional stability, but knew that the discussion to come was one that had been put off for far too long. At first he had avoided speaking of the losses that had driven Legolas across the Sundering Sea out of the simple joy of merely being back with his wife and son. As time had gone by, opportunities to discuss the matter had been shut down by his son, either through a fit similar to the one he'd had this evening or through stubborn refusal to even entertain the topic.
Legolas had walked away from sharing his pain for too long; even Elrond, when consulted, agreed with that assessment. So Thranduil rotated his head on his neck to work out the kinks, took a deep breath, and headed to the interior of the ship, where he shared a small cabin with his son. He closed his eyes, thought a quick prayer to whatever Valar might care to hear him that he was doing the right thing, then knocked on the door and pushed through. "Legolas?"
"I do not wish to talk about it," was the sullen answer from the darkness.
Thranduil made his way to the wall where hung one of the Feanárean crystal lamps and waved it into action. Not surprisingly, he found Legolas sitting up in his bunk, his chin on his knees and his arms around his legs, curled tightly. "I do," he answered with a calmness he truly didn't feel, "and I think that the time has come for us to deal with this properly. Galion is very concerned…"
"The error was mine," Legolas interrupted, closing his eyes and turning his face away from his father. "I will apologize, in time…"
"Good, for Galion scolded me for not having shared with him your distress so that he could know how not to speak and make things worse. I deserved it, but it occurred to me after he left that even I do not understand what sets you off." He walked over to his bunk and sat down, and then leaned his elbows on his knees to gaze at Legolas. "And I want to understand."
"Is it not enough to know that you were right to warn me against allowing myself to get too close to Mortals?" Legolas sighed eventually.
"I did not warn you against that to prevent your friendships, my son…" Thranduil began.
"I thought I would be strong enough to bear it; and I nearly was." Thranduil blinked; his son was talking, and his tone of voice made him believe that whatever had been festering in his son's heart was finally going to come out, welcome or no. "It was more difficult than I imagined, watching the hobbits age so quickly." Legolas turned his face back to his father. "Such merry characters - light-hearted. You remember Bilbo…"
"Yes, I remember him." Thranduil could still see in his mind's eye the small figure with the hair-covered feet, with eyes as bright as gemstones that sparkled with intelligence and curiosity. "A very singular character."
"Merry and Pippin were even more pleasurable to be around, and they became grand hobbits of authority when their turns came. Both never lost their sense of fun, but…" Legolas swallowed hard. "I visited Minas Tirith not long after they arrived for their final visit with Aragorn. Their hair was sparse and shining silver, even on their feet; their hands - the skin had turned so clear that one could see their veins. They were the same little imps, but housed in aging and failing bodies. And they grieved the loss of their ladies, who had stepped beyond before them."
"Legolas…"
"Did I tell you I spoke with Merry the night before he died? Pippin had left us about a week before, and we were sitting in front of a fire in Aragorn's apartments. He turned to me and told me, 'I hope I go tonight. I am so tired, Legolas.' And he did, that very night."
Legolas glanced at his father's face and dashed away a tear that had begun to escape. "And so it happened each and every time. Éowyn, Éomer, Lothiriel, Faramir. People whose lives blazed like bonfires and then sputtered out. And I could see the fire leaving Aragorn months before he…"
Thranduil put a hand on his son's shoulders. "How did you bear it? Aragorn's death?" he clarified when Legolas turned an agonized stare his direction.
"He made me… I promised…" Legolas wiped both eyes this time. "He knew how the Sea had torn at me. He made me promise to seek healing…"
"But you did not do as you promised?" Thranduil reminded him softly.
Legolas answered with a sad smile. "Aragorn was certain that just being here would help, so my promise was to sail without any delays when nothing remained in Ennor to hold me. And Gimli made certain that I kept my word."
Thranduil smiled in memories. The dwarf who was his son's brother-of-the-heart had, over the years, become a familiar face in Eryn Lasgalen. The two of them had even had a quiet, private meeting not long before Legolas had sailed, one in which Thranduil's own fears for his son's welfare were aired. Once the air had been cleared between them, the Elvenking and the son of a Naugren troublemaker had been friends. And despite the dangers inherent in a mortal Dwarf stepping foot on the Blessed Lands, Gimli had evidently been granted leave by the Belain and even received in Aulë's halls. "Your brother-of-the-heart was determined to take good care of you."
"And he did. I could tell he was as uncomfortable as a fish out of water as we sailed the Sundering Sea - and yet ever did he try to raise my spirits. I was miserable; I'd forgotten how sick I would get on the river, and I kept having to hang my head over the side. Between bouts, he would try to distract me by bringing up old points of contention between us."
Thranduil nodded. "You two so often sounded as if you were going to slaughter each other that half of my time was spent reassuring my warriors that the Dwarf was no danger to you or to the realm."
"His favorite argument was always over the… competition we had during the Ring War…"
Thranduil's brows rose. "Competition?"
"Indeed." Legolas' face grew soft and sad with memory. "He was convinced that he had taken down more of the Enemy with his axe than I did with either my bow or my knives." He sniffed and rubbed beneath his nose. "When Galion made his comment about my being too sick to handle my bow in a fight, it was as if Gimli had been reborn at my side for a brief moment."
The only thing Thranduil could think to do was tighten the hold he had on his son's shoulder.
"He lived for such a brief time in Aman, and yet managed to have his fondest life-wish fulfilled."
"Oh?"
Legolas grinned despite the new tears. "He was utterly besotted by the Lady Galadriel. And she received him in her home in Tirion and with Naneth helped arrange his visit with Aulë. He saw me home and into my mother's care, and then did everything he had ever dreamed of." His eyes grew distant. "I miss him, Ada. Nothing in Eldamar was comfortable or right after he…"
"Legolas…"
"No!" Finally Legolas found the spirit to unfold himself, and he brushed away his father's hand to rise and pace back and forth in the tiny space between the bunks, making Thranduil draw his feet up onto the bunk as much out of self-defense as anything else. "Always I felt that I had somehow failed as an Elf for remaining in Ennor as long as I did, for allying myself with Mortals for as long as I did, for not being utterly enchanted and healed just by walking on jewel-strewn sand. I was not jesting back when I told you that the only time I felt accepted by any other than Naneth and then you was at an archery tournament or exhibit, when I would be surrounded by other warriors."
"Son…"
"I have wanted away from that place, with Elves who think they are better than any other merely because of the date, location and/or circumstances of their birth, practically from the moment I got here. I had even taken a trip to Tol Eressëa to see if I could relocate the boat that Gimli and I used."
Thranduil frowned. "Where were you thinking of going?"
"I was not worried about that. All I wanted was to get away - to get back on the boat that I had shared with Gimli and…" The pacing ceased, and Legolas sat back down on his bunk abruptly. "I do not regret a single moment I spent with my Mortal brothers, Ada. But I resent the fact that they have gone where I cannot follow. And I miss them desperately sometimes," he added with a slight hitch in his voice.
"Perhaps being away from Eldamar, and doing things that you have done your whole life will heal you in ways you could not have before," Thranduil offered, slowly shifting to Legolas' bunk and putting a comforting arm around him. "But if you feel the need to grieve - or just to talk - I am more than willing to listen."
Legolas allowed himself to be leaned into his father's embrace. "I did not wish to cause you any…"
"Oh, hush!" Thranduil shook his head and held his son closer. "I am no more fragile now than I was in Eryn Lasgalen, watching you be a lord of your own realm in Ithilien. And I have the time now, and great interest in all that you have to say." His hand patted the tense shoulder. "We shall investigate and tame these new lands, and in doing so, you will more closely honor the spirit of your promise to Aragorn to heal. And perhaps we shall find some way to honor Gimli - who knows what kinds of caves await a daring explorer."
He could feel Legolas nod against him. "I think Gimli would have appreciated that." He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the closeness he had finally managed to re-establish with his son after all this time. Eventually, however, Legolas pushed himself upright again. "I really should go apologize to Galion."
"He sleeps now," Thranduil shook his head, "and you should as well. There will be time, in the morning, for apologies." He rose and shifted to his own bunk. "Rest. With any luck, we will have gone our hundred leagues and can begin to search out a landing in which to start our new lives."
Legolas nodded wearily. "Thank you, Ada."
"You are most welcome."
oOoOo
Rúmil tucked the little envelope of wood back into his belt pouch. "You play a mean game of bones."
Maglor grinned. He hadn't played the game for well over an Age, but evidently the rules were as unchanging as the sky over Tirion. "I come from a family of boys, all of whom were warriors. Believe me when I say that I learned to win out of self-defense."
"You too?" Rúmil chuckled. "I have two brothers - one older and one younger - and I was like you: if I did not play to win, I would never have any gold at all."
"What do your brothers think of your joining this cause?"
Rúmil shrugged. "My older brother, Haldir, was the one who spoke to me about it. As for Orophin…" Maglor glanced up at his pause to see the blond warrior jerk his thumb at a lounging warrior with hair nearly the same silver resting nearby. He put his hands behind his neck and stretched out on his bunk. "What about your brothers?"
Maglor shook his head. "They are all in Bannoth, I fear."
"All six of them."
Maglor's stomach turned over, and he slowly turned his head. "I beg your pardon?"
The grey eyes of his new companion gazed at him evenly. "Brondur. Did you decide on that yourself, or is that someone else's commentary?"
"It was my choice." The muscle in Maglor's jaw began to work hard. "If you wish, I will speak to Glorfindel and ask to be transferred…"
"That will not be necessary, at least, not on my account. That I know of, none of mine were ever harmed by you or your family - or your Oath. I will keep your secret."
Maglor clenched and unclenched his hands. "I should have known these would give me away."
"Perhaps. I have seen others with scars that did not completely fade: some of Thranduil's people were not so lucky as to escape the Enemy's flames." Rúmil sounded very casual about the entire idea. "But the question in my mind is what in all of Eru's Eä are you doing onboard a ship heading off into the unknown?"
A quick, assessing glance told Maglor that the question was asked in pure curiosity. He gave a sigh, almost relieved that his identity had been uncovered and still not caused him any problems, and sprawled on his side on his own bunk, facing Rúmil. "I am leaving all that I was, and all that could connect me to what happened all those Ages ago behind."
Rúmil nodded slowly. "I guess I can understand some of that. I heard what task the Belain had set you. I would imagine getting as far from any Teler as you could might be high on your list."
"They are a good people," Maglor said immediately. "They did not deserve what was done to them, no matter what my father said. What they did to me in return was nothing less than justice."
"Harsh justice, if some of the stories I have heard are true…"
Maglor shrugged. "They were… creative… in their efforts to teach me the error of my ways.
"I heard that if there was a job that no one else wanted to do, you were required to do it - alone."
"That is so."
"I heard that they once forced you to sing as loudly as you could until you had no more voice - and then they beat you for stopping."
Maglor shrugged. "That was one of the least painful things to happen."
"But surely you must have someone in Tirion - someone who would speak for you, take you in…"
Just the thought of seeing the streets of Tirion again were enough to make the flesh rise on Maglor's arms. "I have no desire to see Tirion again. Everything, everyone I ever loved there is gone."
"What of your mother?"
"My mother is in Lórien. I went to the gates and asked to be allowed to see her, during the little time allowed me between standing in the Máhanaxar and being taken away by the Telerrim. She would not come to the gate, nor allow me in to see her." Maglor's forefinger traced a line of stitching in the fabric of the thin mattress on which he stretched. "She is there, but inaccessible to me. She might as well be in Bannoth." He sighed. "Besides, there is another, very good reason for me to join this enterprise."
"Oh?"
Maglor nodded and sat up with head bowed. "Now that I am free to go where I please, I would rather never have the opportunity to travel to where I would chance to meet Eärendil."
That made Rúmil's arms drop and his head twist to stare across the narrow aisle between the bunks. "Say what?"
"I may have been foresworn when I threw… it… into the Sea," Maglor said very softly, "but one of them yet exists - and exists in Eldamar. For all that I know the suffering and anguish the Oath caused, and wish that I could forget I ever uttered the words, I could still be tempted to…" He looked over at his new friend, wishing he could make this young man understand. "I left Eldamar to save what was left of my honor - not that there is much to protect - and to protect a symbol of hope for all of Arda."
"Do you honestly think that you would try to do something to Eärendil, after all this time?" Rúmil rolled up on an elbow.
"I do not know," was the honest reply, "and I do not wish to know. I have put everything I have known and all that I have ever been behind me so that I might never have to find out." He paused, marshalling his thoughts, and then declared with stern determination. "I have left Eldamar for the last time, and I have no intention of ever going back. Even if this venture ultimately fails, I will never go back."
"Never?"
Maglor shook his head firmly and the determination in his gaze pinned Rúmil where he lay. "No. Never. That life is dead - everything that came before is finished. All that is left to me is Brondur and whatever good that might come of him."
Elvish Vocabulary
Aeardelien - Sea Sport - a transport vessel
amil - Q. mother
atar - Q. father
Bannoth - S. the halls to which Elven souls go upon death of the body (Q. Mandos)
epessë - Q. nickname
Ithron - S. wizard (Q. Istar)
nuath - S. Shadows! (an epithet)