The Light is Still There by Aldwen

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Chapter 30

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The further behind we leave Middle-earth, the more I notice a change in the former captives’ mood. Where there was hope and excitement before, fear settles in. I do what I can to reassure them, but my words are not enough. The conversations lift the subdued spirits only briefly, and after a while I again sigh in exasperation at the sight of worry-creased brows and averted eyes.

They are uneasy around the captain and the sailors, even though none of the Teleri ever addresses them otherwise than with kindness. Falmar is at a loss.

“I do not understand.” He shakes his head. “None would treat them harshly here, and surely they will receive aid when we arrive home. What do they fear?”

“They have had years of captivity, humiliation and pain, captain.” Ingwil’s eyes glint. “Some of them – decades and centuries of that. For all this time, none has treated them even close to kindly, none has treated them as people. How would any of us respond to the world after such suffering?”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” My cousin turns abruptly, enters his cabin and slams shut the door. He has not yet forgiven Falmar.

The captain frowns. “I will see what we can do about this.”

On the evening of the same day I walk along the deck to stretch my legs. Failwen stands by the railing, looking ahead with a fixed gaze. When I stop beside her, she swiftly turns and recoils, then averts her eyes.

“Forgive me the fright, my lady.”

Failwen grips the railing. “How long will it be like this?” she whispers bitterly. “How long shall I fear darkness, each sound, someone standing close to me?”

“It will pass,” I say softly. “After what you have endured… It will take time. But you are incredibly strong. You have already come a long way towards healing, Failwen.”

She has, indeed. She is no longer skin and bones; her wrists no longer look like twigs that might break in a stronger wind. She stands straight again and limps no longer. Her face has lost the greyish pallor, and the scar on her cheek is less visible. Still, the haunted expression in her eyes is slow to fade.

“It seemed the right decision to return.” Failwen is staring at the wide expanse of water that reflects the glow of the setting Sun. “But now… now I doubt it.”

“It was the right decision, my lady,” I say firmly. “You need healing. You need to leave behind the place harbouring evil memories.”

She sighs. “Not all memories are evil. I was happy in Endórë. We were happy. Had the Long Peace lasted, we would have had children. Gelmir… he wanted that so much… but I hesitated. I think, in my heart I did not believe the peace would last. And when it indeed ended… I was relieved that our children would not have to see the war. And also… that I could fight. Still… sometimes I think of sons and daughters we might have had, babies with their father’s eyes. Gelmir, he had eyes of the most beautiful shade of blue, like a mountain lake on a clear summer day reflecting the sky. When I first met him, I lost myself in his eyes. Forever.”

A tear slides over her cheek. Slowly, not to frighten her, I lay my hand on one of hers resting on the railing. She looks up. A ghost of a smile appears, then fades again on her lips.

“Thank you. You have been a true friend, Arafinwë. And I have done so little to return your kindness. I have burdened you only with the stories of my grief, even though there are other stories I might tell. About Nargothrond. About your children. If you would like that.”

“I would.” My voice breaks. “I… I would be immensely grateful if… if you could tell me of them.”

We sit down on the deck, and she speaks. She tells of Nargothrond and its beauty. She tells me of my children, and I learn to understand them better. Their reasons for leaving Aman. Their love for Middle-earth. Some of Failwen’s stories make me laugh, some bring tears to my eyes. I brush them away when she falls silent.

“I am most grateful to you, my lady. I feel like… like I had met them all in your tales.”

“I am glad.”

Night has fallen by now. Stars blaze in a cloudless sky overhead. The ship moves in a fresh breeze gliding smoothly over the waves, and foam sighs along the hull. We stand yet awhile by the railing in a quiet companionship when captain’s firm steps behind make us turn.

“I shall go now.” Failwen looks down and turns to leave.

“In truth, my lady, I was seeking you,” says Falmar. Alarmed, she raises her eyes towards him. “I have a favour to ask of you and your people. Perhaps you can help us.”

“Help you?” Failwen regards him uneasily.

“Yes.” Falmar nods. “You see, on our way here we encountered some rough seas. Much of the rigging was damaged, and we were able to carry out only the most urgent repairs ere leaving Endórë. But now I am afraid the weather might change again, and then we would sorely miss the spare sails and lines. So I was wondering – maybe you could help us mend them?”

“I… we… We would be glad to help, captain, certainly,” she says at length. “But we do not have the skill. None of us is a sailor, I am afraid.”

“I am most grateful to you, lady Failwen.” Falmar offers her a smile of apparent relief. “Fear not about the lack of skill – this is not a difficult task, and my sailors would show you all you need to know.”

Failwen nods. “I shall speak to the others. We can start tomorrow morning.”

When she has left, I raise my eyes to the clear sky, then look closely at Falmar. “So there is a storm coming, captain?”

Falmar smiles and shrugs. “There might be. Lady Uinen is so unpredictable. It is always good to be prepared.”

Next morning, the deck is crowded. Torn sails, coils of frayed rope, balls of waxed thread lie everywhere. The Telerin sailors gather the Noldor in small companies and show them how to splice the ropes, how to repair the sails.

“Do you care to join us, King Arafinwë?” The captain’s first mate waves his hand at me, and in a while I am holding a splicing needle and a rope with a frayed end. 

The Sun is long up when the door of my cousin’s cabin opens. Ingwil stands on the threshold and stretches, then steps on the deck, eyes wide at the unusual sight.

“What is happening?”

“There is a storm approaching, lord Ingwil,” explains one of the exiles. “So we help to repair the spare sails and ropes.”

Ingwil raises his eyes towards the sky without one single cloud. He looks at the heads bent over busy hands, eyes intent on the work. Then he nods vigorously. “Yes, certainly. A wise decision.” Now, he turns towards me with a grin. “How is it going, Arafinwë? As easy as drawing houses?”

I glare at him. “Far more difficult, in truth. But I suggest you try for yourself. Maybe it is easier than writing verses.”

Some quiet chuckles sound around. Ingwil, too, laughs. “Very well, I accept your challenge, cousin! Here is a thing I have never done before. Let us see how long it takes for me to master it.”

He joins a company of six Elves beside me. They are repairing sails. The Telerin sailor hands him a palm, a needle and a thread, and shows the stitches. Brow furrowed in concentration, Ingwil sets to work.

To my half-acknowledged satisfaction, he fails miserably. After less than an hour he drops the sail and the tools on the deck, springs to his feet and throws his arms up in exasperation.

“One cannot be gifted at everything! I shall have to find another way to be of use. What do you say to a song?” He looks around with question.

“Ingwil…” I look at him closely. “You never sing.”

“But today I have a mind to!”

“Spare us the trial, cousin. You cannot sing. You said yourself - one cannot be gifted at everything. Sadly.”

He throws back his head. “We shall see!”

Our banter brings smiles to the serious faces, and when Ingwil starts an off-key tune, several voices join at once, to keep the melody on track. Other songs follow the first one – ethereal hymns of the Vanyar, lilting ballads of the Teleri, even some rhythmical chants of the Silvan Elves of Endórë. And lays of the Noldor composed in exile.

Within a few days, all sails are repaired, all ropes neatly spliced. The storm, of course, never comes. But the returning exiles and the Telerin sailors do not avoid one another any longer. The common work, conversations and singing together have brought forth friendship and understanding where there was distance before.

“Thank you, captain,” I say as we stand on the deck watching the unfolding day. “It was a wise plan.”

The captain smiles. “The whole fleet has repaired sails and spliced ropes now.”

“Can you talk to the other ships then?”

“I can.” Smile lingers on his lips as he raises his eyes towards a great seabird circling around the masts.

A great bird sits on the railing beside Falmar also when our journey draws to the end. We are one day away from passing Tol Eressëa.

“Are we going to Alqualondë, captain?” asks one of the exiles. His voice is calm, but he stands very still, back straight, hands firmly clasped together.

Falmar shakes his head. “No, we shall stop at the island first. You must be weary from the journey and willing to tread a solid ground as soon as possible. You may rest on Tol Eressëa, then travel further to the mainland.”

“Very well.” The posture of the Noldo visibly relaxes. He even smiles faintly. “We are indeed weary of the Sea, captain. No offence intended.”

“None taken, my friend,” the captain replies amiably. “Not everyone can be a sailor.”