A Trickle of Hope by Luxa

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Chapter 1

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They ease the boat into the water gently, Amarië looking over at Elenwë with a new kind of admiration. The woman’s dark hair was pulled into a tight bun, retired and well-hidden guns strapped to her waist, dressed in a blouse still stained with blood from the last time she had worn it and black riding pants. Her eyes are narrowed in determination as the boat creates countless ripples in the water, and Amarië remembers herself and pushes with her.

The swan ship is still as beautiful as the day it was crafted, back when they could trust the Teleri, back when the Teleri could trust them. Amarië is not proud of the thievery, but they must leave the island somehow, and the last time a Noldor asked a Teleri for ships there was bloodshed.

“We’re doing this,” whispers Elenwe. “We’re going to sail away.” And never come back are the words on the tip of her tongue, but she can’t bring herself to say it. Elenwë has never been one to lie. Amarië climbs into the boat and waits for the other woman, stretching her arm out to help pull her up.

The swan ship is too big for them, and when she is on it she wonders how they’re ever going to manage taking care of it.

“Don’t worry,” says Elenwë. “It’s Teleri made. It practically takes care of itself.”

 

Her words prove true as she takes control of the steering, standing on the prow looking regal and proud and strong, not at all like Amarië feels, because they have just stolen a swan ship, the kind of action that means you will no longer be allowed to live in a pretty mansion on an empty street, your fate changed in warped tapestry (rumored to be made with chained and bloodied fingers, but since no one has seen her in yeas who can say) in Mandos’ halls. Amarië fears that future, and urges Elenwë to steer the ship faster.

They move through dark waters in silence, the waves parting for them as they urge the boat forward. Amarië stands, pacing the ship, sliding her shoes off because the cold surface of the perfect wood feels better and more right against her soles than her tight warm boots. She peers beneath deck and wishes she hadn’t. This was one of the ships that Fëanor had almost may it out of the bay with. She leans down, wondering if her grasping fingers will brush against what she is looking for or if the dim glow is only her imagination. Her breath shoots out in relief when her hand hits a lantern. Fëanor really did make it here.

She shakes it alive and lets the bright glow illuminate the room. There are bloodstains on every wall, but no bodies. She does not know every detail about the slaughter that happened when the Fëanorians tried to leave (they swore an Oath, she thinks, or did they? She can never remember), but she does know that when the Fëanorians arrived at the shore they never even made it to the Teleri before the doom of Mandos came upon them and they fell beneath Tulkas’s mighty fists. Some rumors said the Teleri had not all been on the side of the Valar, but that some had fallen with Fëanor’s people in their attempt to flee. She wonders if any of the handprints on the wall belong to them.

You are always free to go, said the Valar when they thought no one would ever try. Amarië wishes Fëanor never had. Now the Valar do not even pretend.

She walks further into the hold, wondering what’s in the crates stacked in the center. There is dust in the air here, enough to coat her throat when she breathes. She pulls the lid off a crate and finds that it is filled with ammo, enough to supply the guns they have smuggled away for a long time. She pulls off another lid and finds more ammo. The third reveals dried food, likely still good. She sees something crumbled between two packages of food and pulls out a creased and yellowed sheet of paper. She angles the lamp over it so she can read it.

It is a propaganda poster, one of the ones of Maitimo. He is tied to a whipping post, blood dripping from his gored back in rivulets. He is so thin she can see every rib, and his shaved head is bowed in shame. She has seen the image before; they all have. A single word adorns the bottom of the page- Surrender.

There is more though. She looks down and sees that someone has written on the page in red ink. We’ll find you, brother. We’ll get you back.

She drops the paper, hands shaking. “Elenwë!” she calls, her voice cracking as she raises it. “Elenwë, please!”

Elenwë appears at the door to the hold, silhouetted by the night sky, the stars crackling far, far above them. “I can’t leave the steering long,” she says. “What’s wrong?”

“The Fëanorians were here, she says,” reaching down and picking up the crumpled page. “They must have used the ship as a hideout before- before…”

“Yes,” says Elenwë, rubbing a thumb over the red ink. “I picked this boat it was closest to the water. They must have done the same, hiding where no one would think to look.”

Amarië thinks of the bloody handprints on the wall. She reaches for Elenwë, dropping the lantern as she stumbles for her. Elenwë catches her. She always does. They walk back up together, and Amarië’s foot has hardly reached the last step when the ship begins to tip.

“What’s going on?” she yells, fear thrumming in her veins, images of Maitimo’s torture flashing in front of her, of the gunshots in the past, the blood-rain that had washed over Tiron the night of the final battle. She stands her ground, gripping Elenwë’s hand, but it’s not enough, and she reaches for her, pressing their lips together in an unquenchable impulse spurned by terror. It feels like her first act as a free woman. It feels like her last.

Waves crash over the ship, and they topple back into the side, gripping the smooth railings with iron fury. A figure raises from the water, a majestic, terrible figure crowned with seaweed and adorned with shells, his beard the color of the ocean floor, his eyes the sharp flint of jutting rocks. He is a figure of nightmare, but not Amarië’s, and she lets out a cry of joy.

“I am sorry to frighten you,” says the figure, voice so much softer than you would think. “This is no longer a world of gentleness; I have forgotten it.”

“We do not need it,” says Elenwë. “Ulmo, what do you ask of us?”

The sea god disappeared long ago, sinking into the deepest waters when the rebellions started. Amarië long worried that he had forsaken them for letting their factories drip oil into his seas, but the Valar have not changed that in their reign, and here he is.

“This was supposed to be different,” he says, his eyes focused beyond them. “I was supposed to warn different people, help others. You two were not part of the tale.”

“We are now,” says Elenwë, drawing a gun and shooting a bullet into the air. Ulmo’s gaze refocuses.

“You are impulsive,” he says. “Rash.”

“I have to be,” she says, the poster of Maitimo crumpled in Amarië’s fist. “We are all that’s left. We fight for them too.”

Ulmo almost smiles at that, a hint of humor under a dark sky. “I understand. But see that you do not end the way they did, trapped in the halls of Mandos or worse.”

“We won’t,” says Amarië, standing back up. “What do you ask of us?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Except that you succeed. I am here to warn you, and to help.”

The words weigh on them heavily. Amarië feels tears prick at her eyes. Elenwë smiles.

“If you keep going this directions, their patrols will find you. Their mountains will block you.”

“What should we do instead?” asks Elenwë.

He grins, and Amarië sees a fish swimming between his teeth. “I will cloak you. Let it not be said that Ulmo did not do his part in reclaiming what is lost. You do not need to do anything for now. Rest, because that will change.”

The air around them thickens and the stars blink out one by one. The waters below them clear, and Amarië can see their depths when she leans over the railing. She watches fish swim leagues below them and looks back at Elenwë. “This is happening,” she says.”

“Yes,” says Elenwë. “It is. Thank you, Ulmo. Thank you.”

“Do not thank me,” he says. “Win.”

“That’s dramatic,” says Elenwë, smiling slightly.

He laughs, and it is booming and big and good to hear. “You’re welcome,” he says, amending his statement. “You will know when it is safe again. I do not think I will be able to return. Ossë hunts me even now. May whatever light there is be with you.”

He sinks into the water so quickly that the ship is rocked again. Elenwë approaches the steering wheel only to discover that Ulmo has set the course.

“Well then,” she says. “I suppose we do as he says and we relax.”

It is hard with the ghosts of the rebellion beneath him, but they lay on the deck together, backs against the rail, and they hold each other, each praying to a maker they believe has abandoned them.