Cradle of Stars by Dawn Felagund, Elleth

Burn It Down

The fleet of swanships had once been the marvel of Alqualondë, scrubbed so white by industrious mariners that they were nearly luminous; a forest of masts swaying against the star-bright sky. I'd been aboard the ships before, with Eärwen's brothers, and knew the feeling of elation that came with soaring across the water at the speed of the wind.

The boats dragged down to the beach by the fishermen Eärwen had recruited were so pathetic in comparison that I felt a sting of shame that, after being robbed by my husband's people, his wife should witness this moment of their shame. Rowboats, barges, a few children's sailboats, two oared sculls that were used for navigating beyond the mouths of rivers. And as we stood in a clump and surveyed our "fleet," the unspoken plight: Most of the nets had been aboard the ships in the harbor, the ships my husband's people had stolen.

"It is a beginning," I offered at last, feeling I must say something. Eärwen strode away, down the beach, to inspect the boats. The fishermen began to shift from foot to foot, looking at their hands, and I knew they sought a way to disperse.

I followed Eärwen. "Are they seaworthy?" I asked. She was inspecting one of the sculls, her hands on her hips and biting her lip. She shrugged and moved to the next scull, lifting its bow and dropping it almost disdainfully back to the sand.

I remembered earlier (that day? who knew, without the Trees), when we looked over the diagrams together, the feeling of her at my side: her hip against mine, the warmth of her body. She hadn't been the Eärwen I remembered and loved, but how could she be? Nonetheless, as we pointed to the same place on the page and our hands brushed, there was hope, wasn't there? That the love between us hadn’t been irreparably destroyed by my husband and his half-brother?

I was less sure of that now. She turned to face the sea, her back to the boats. Desperately, I pressed on, running my hands over the scull as though I knew what I was assessing. "If they are in disrepair, I will send my fastest rider back to Tirion. We have woodworkers, and they are not shipbuilders, but a enough of your shipbuilders survived that my woodworkers could act as apprentices, as assistants, and—"

"No." Her voice was abrupt in a way I'd never known Eärwen capable of speaking, sharp as a slap. "My people can never be indebted to your people again. You see how it served us last time."

She progressed down the row of boats, lifting some or tipping them to inspect their hulls. Stung by her words, I hung back. She had reached a tiny sailboat, big enough for maybe three children. Even in the dimness, I could see that it had been brightly painted, although the paint had chipped with age and enthusiastic use. Its stern was labeled with a name: Seahawk, childishly simple, although the script was an elaborate, swirling Tengwar, not the Sarati that many of the Teleri still used when required to write.

Eärwen dropped to her knees, shoulders shaking, beside the boat. Made wary by her earlier outburst, I edged quietly behind her. She sobbed now into arms folded onto the side of the boat. "I cherish this little ancient thing," she wept. "And I want to burn it down."