Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the middle of the town, there was a Life Tree. A large oak originally seeded from a sapling in Lindon, selected by a heartbroken Elf, and brought all the way here to be planted by those same heartbroken hands. The tree flourished and grew, the sapling had grown to stretch her branches and leaves across the town square, giving shade and a gathering place for all. From her many limbs hung brightly colored ribbons, bells and chimes, and small carved ornaments from decades of festivals, wishes, and memorials of those that were lost. The Life Tree’s thick trunk was surrounded by a wooden planter that held a mint ground cover which climbed where the sun shone the strongest. The citizens of the town, and a few guests, would often harvest the mint for teas, and the planter helped assist with collecting the thousands of acorns that fell every year to be used in flour or roasted with salt and butter.

Now, under the Life Tree stood the teacher. His deep, rough voice told the story of the tree to his students, who did their best not to look bored talking about a tree they saw dozens of times a day and they themselves had played under since they could walk. As the chimes and bells sang out when a breeze picked up, the teacher began.

“When this tree was planted, your home was still a dream…”

Angband Fortress

The War of Wrath

17:16 Years of Sun 552 

Adar grimaced as the high-piercing ringing in his ears reached a painful pitch making his eyes water. His master was angry. The favoured Morion had given Mairon very little access to his thoughts since the battle had begun. Only flashes of close quarters fighting, an image of retreating Elves, and hearing the orders he was barking in Black Speech to the Uruks were all that Adar would allow Mairon to see. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, permitting himself to embrace the agony of Mairon’s punishment for keeping him out of his head, then opened them again to find two of his lieutenants standing in front of him. He nodded, then signed with his hands that Mairon was not listening.

“We got a few Elven prisoners, Commander Adar. We brought them to you like you ordered instead of taking ‘em back like he wants us to.”

“Good, thank you lieutenants. Harry the retreating flank and take out any stragglers that you can. Remember, do not risk detection from Him.” Adar tapped his eye lid at the last word. Adar wanted to swear but every sound, every action, every breath was a measured and controlled one. Later he will have to feign innocence when Mairon rages at him for disobedience, but that was a problem for him should he survive this day. The temperamental lord will take his anger out on Commander Adar, but a few days of pain and humiliation will be worth keeping Mairon from crawling inside of him like a wintering rat seeking a corpse to nest in.

Adar turned his back to the fortress to take in the battlefield that they finally won after the disastrous attack this morning from the Elven vanguard when they breeched the lower dungeons. The other Moriondor commanders had rallied the denizens of the sub levels, which the Elven soldiers had not expected. Adar had held back his own Uruk, letting Morgoth's fell creations and half living slaves take all of the first and lingering casualties, serving to put an end to the miserable existence of those tortured souls and to finally break the Elven front, while sparing his own Uruks. The fields, river, and roads were covered in the dead and dying, each body seeping red and black blood into the ice and snow beneath it.  

Centuries ago, a lone meteorite had fallen and sank into the frozen waste of Forodwaith, witnessed only by Adar. He had harvested the opaque alloy from the fallen star and forged his black armour and broadsword in the heart of Thangorodrim by his own hand. Now Morgoth’s most triumphant commander strode along the carcass choked road towards his gathering soldiers. Each Uruk as loyal to Adar as he was disloyal to Marion in his heart. They rejoiced in driving back an Elvish assault and being one of the few soldier slaves to survive with little casualties amongst them. Having the Lord Father as a commander meant your body was not fodder, and your life had some meaning, as meager as it was.

Adar moved among them, catching snatches from the Silent Tongue they spoke with their hands wondering what was next and if this was hopefully the final assault from the Elves and Men. Adar took a deep breath, and then let the bellowing Mairon back in. He staggered on his feet for a moment in pain and one of his Uruk reached out to help steady him, as Adar took the brunt of the Maia’s fury clawing at the inside of his skull. Keeping his hands below his line of sight, he signed to the soldiers that Mairon was listening.

“We are chasing the harp players and dog eaters back to the sea! They will freeze in the snow before they even see their little wooden boats. Get back into formation and give them pursuit. Remember, there is a reward of an extra ration for every living Elf you bring back as prisoner, two rations if they are female.” Adar then tapped his eyelid and the Uruks gave him a well-rehearsed cheer. If all goes as planned, not a single prisoner will be taken by his children.

Overhead, three fire drakes screeched and writhed above them, dipping low enough to send most of the Uruks scattering for safety. Sent by Mairon to remind Adar who his master is, the drakes roared and snatched at the dark Elf’s soldiers while he raised his broadsword to ward them off. He waited while one got close enough for a flailing claw to knock into the top of his helmet, then he lunged himself towards the dragon letting himself fall to his knees. Adar pretended to adjust his helmet, and then shoved Mairon back out of his head as if he were an unruly guest in a tavern getting dejected out the front door.

He stood back up and the drakes disappeared before Adar could call his archers on them. He watched his soldiers departing, wanting to whisper their names and wishing them to return unharmed, but knowing such sentiments could still be overheard and used against him later on, and not just by Mairon. 

Behind him, Adar was able to smell the Elven prisoners before they were dragged forward by their Uruk captors. They had the typical scent of Elves, but with a stronger aroma of the sea about them. Adar could see the three were Teleri Elves, curious, he thought. You usually do not see them far from their ships or the shore. The two ellons huddled close together seemed young, their uniforms did not indicate rank and both were too frightened to have the self control of officers. Adar looked down and saw they were gripping each other’s hands.

“Teleri. Are you both pair bonded then?” He stood before the two dark haired Elves whose tear streaked eyes looked up at him with the certain doom of deer facing the jaws of a wolf. One of the Elves nodded, then lifted his arm to pull his spouse closer to his chest.

“I will give you a moment to say goodbye to each other.” The Morion raised his sword and within seconds, the kissing heads of the Teleri Elves tumbled in the air, parting their lips only when they struck the ground, their long hair as wings of black swans taking flight.

Adar then approached the injured Elf who was leaning over on all fours while blood flowed from her body like mountain springs. He thought some of it was dripping from an unseen wound by her head but then realized her hair was the same bright red color and it was only her disheveled braids falling from her shoulders. He glanced down at her and saw there were still three broken Orc arrows under her armpit and bursting out the other side through her ribs. Using his sword, he lifted the ella’s chin to force her eyes up to his. Ice blue like the sky above them, dying but still demanding more life.

“I can give you a fast death, She-Elf. I promise you, the Halls of Mandos will be preferable to the fate that awaits you as a prisoner.” Adar dropped her chin then raised his sword one more time. He heard a bird call out from near the river and saw the Elf’s head turning towards it. He used that moment to bury his sword into the space between her neck and chest, running the thick metal through her heart and spine, then pulled it clean when her eyes fluttered shut. She gasped once, then said a word, a name he was certain, but could not hear her over the ringing in his ears. Adar shook the drops of blood from his sword and then sheathed it, as he followed his Uruks giving chase to the retreating Elves and Men. 

Veanelen felt the ground shake under her feet. The Teler officer reached out to grab hold of Panēle but she was not there. No, it was not the ground shaking, it was her. Veanelen was standing knee deep in the waters of a slow-moving river and she was trembling. The river was frigid and its waters were roiling with the black and red blood leaking from bodies bobbing around her. She was cold and had just been given the orders for a full retreat with three of her soldiers missing. Above the bank of the river only a few feet away she could hear the sounds of Orcs calling out to each other in their foul Black Speech.

“Courage, officer. Panēle will return. She will have both Intyo and Fendon back, and then we can leave this…hellish place.” Captain Andúno grabbed Veanelen under her arm and started to pull her with him out of the river. She wanted to yank her arm from his grip and run back across the water, but she had disobeyed his orders too many times this day trying to keep up with Panēle.

Once they made it to the shore, Captain Andúno suddenly pushed Veanelen down into the dirt and threw himself on top of her. Above, a bright orange fire drake dove into their direction, its clasping claws barely inches from the prone Elves. It dragged its tail and belly in the unclean water and then with a growl of frustration it rose back up into the sky to search for easier prey.

Standing up, covered in mud and freezing, polluted water, Veanelen gripped her sword in one hand and started to climb up the bank, looking behind her for any sign of Panēle and the others. She could see the full retreat of Men and Elves, thousands of them chased by Orcs or harried by the various black blooded monstrosities under Morgoth’s command. Smoke stung her eyes while she searched for any hint of crimson hair from the fleeing soldiers. The Admiral of the Lindari navy had orders from king Olwë to remain on their ships. But as a volunteer officer in the Sindari army, Veanelen had joined the vanguard of the Host of Valinor. Her company broke into the dungeons. They were expecting to liberate their kind, taken over the centuries as prisoners of war. They knew they would see evidence of torture, and of the twisted ways Morgoth’s hosts were made. Instead they found an organized legion resisting the Elven entrance to their stronghold. 

They had breached Angband, pushed Morgoth’s Orcs back into the fortress, and Veanelen had been one of those that led them into the dungeons with Panēle right behind her. They stormed the cells and expected to be freeing their own people. Panēle said it first, she yelled out “Who are they? What happened to them? Why are they like this?”

Panēle, please, I am so sorry. Please come back.

There. Veanelen finally got eyes on her, on the Elf that followed her into this nightmare, who confessed to her just before they left the ship that she was unsure of her heart. Intyo, Fendon, and Panēle were being dragged by a mob of Orcs towards a solitary figure donned in black armour. Veanelen turned to shout to Captain Andúno, but he was already at her back and spurring her on.

“Be silent! Get with the column and do not attract any attention until we get there.” He hissed in her ear.

“No! They are back there, I can see them. We can still-“

“You have your orders, officer! Lead them to the column, now!” Andúno shoved Veanelen ahead of him, and she intentionally dropped to her knees so she could slide back down the embankment away from him. She was splashing in the water with the captain right on her heels when she saw the three Orcs waiting for them on the shore.

“Admiral Veanelen, I just ordered you to retreat. You have put us all in danger. If you keep going, I will have no choice but to leave you behind.” Panting, Andúno stood at her side eyeing the Orcs sneering at both of them.

The Uruk in the middle was the first to fall with Veanelen’s sword splitting her open at the belly. The dying Uruk had slashed out and almost caught Captain Andúno’s chin with her blade. He kicked the dead Uruk from their path and nearly decapitated one of the others, his black blood splashing into Veanelen’s face and obscuring her from the last Uruk that started to turn and run. She ran her sword through his neck and pinned him to the side of the embankment, standing on his shoulder to wait for him to finally stop moving.

Using the dead Uruk as a launch, Veanelen leaped up the frozen bank and tripped over a clump of wiregrass. Captain Andúno dropped down next to her, and pushed her head down so she would not try to sit back up.

“They are right there, Veanelen. Do not move. Do not make a sound.” The captain held her head and arm in an iron vice, willing her the self-preservation not to give away their location. But it was not necessary. She could see what was before them just beyond the end of the embankment.

Hundreds of Orcs were gathered around the fallen prisoners, with their armoured leader holding his sword high, then bringing it down to end the lives of Intyo and Fendon in a single swing. The gathering Orcs cheered and laughed, then the tall warrior moved towards Panēle who was barely able to hold herself up.

“Do not watch, Veanelen. Look away.” The captain whispered, his hold on her relaxing and gathered her closer towards him in an embrace.

How can she? How can she leave her alone with a monster that was going to pitilessly end Panēle’s young life? Veanelen could no more look away than she could will her own heart to stop beating. Her whole body twisted with frustration of being so powerless, wanting desperately to be able to scream and to stop all of this from happening before it even started. Stop the things she saw in the dungeon just a few hours ago, keep Intyo and Fendon from fleeing at the horrors, convince Panēle to stay by her side and not chase after them… stop everything all the way back to the day that Panēle sky blue eyes met Veanelen’s mahogany ones in Círdan’s ship works.

Instead of screaming, or having the strength to reach the black armoured warrior, and keeping him from lifting his broadsword to end the rise and fall of Panēle’s chest, that Veanelen use to watch while she slept; the Teler officer opened her mouth and cried out as a fleeing petrel call taking flight.

Chapter Text

128 Nautical leagues West of coastal Grey Mountains

16:47 07 Narwain SA 3210

Sealord Father, the Morion dark Elf known as the Father of the Uruk Nation, and called Adar by those that had ripped him apart to reforged him into the commander that led his children from the Prison of Iron at Angband fortress, then into the accepting arms of the Sundering Seas was now sitting in a small cell on board of a Númenórean cruiser.

Adar easily could have made it back to his ship, the Kartart-Burguul*, and led the Sea Guard right into the waiting swords and tridents of his Uruk crew. But he did not have a full head count of the Númenóreans. Once attacked, they had a clear path back to their own ship and reinforcements, and Adar did not want to risk high casualties just to take a cruiser. Instead the Sealord Father signed to his quartermaster Vrath to allow Adar to be trapped by the Sea Guard and to send a message for the fleet to come for him in a day. That should be enough time to cut the throats of every Númenórean on the cruiser and have a new ship for the fleet.

Adar’s wrists were still shackled, and the middle chain was attached to a slightly longer one that only allowed him to stand or sit on the wooden floor but gave him no freedom of movement in the cell. He leaned against the wall, his chest and sides aching from the beating and feeling certain one or two of his ribs were cracked. His black blood ceased trickling from his nose a while ago and the slash across his shoulder had already stopped hurting, as his Elven body was healing itself.

The guards posted to him, unfortunately, look neither young nor bored. Captain Bawbuthor had seen to it that his most trusted soldiers were keeping watch on the “Ghost Elf.” Adar looked up at the barred vent port hole near the top of his cell and watched daylight give way to a bright pink and blue dusk. He considered speaking to the guards, getting them to react in anger and storm his cell so he could get his hands on a sword or hostage, maybe both. But then he heard the hatch to the hold creak open, and a confident set of boots descend the stairs. Ah, good. My captor is here to make a mistake, he suppressed a grin and leaned his head forward out of the shadow so that Bawbuthor could see his entire scarred Moriondor face.

Captain Bawbuthor was not typical of the Sea Guard that Adar had dealings with. He was short and wide, his uniform ill-fitted and wrinkled, but still had the chiseled good looks of your typical petty lesser noble. He was more like a lamp oil merchant than a Númenórean officer. He had heard that Sea Guards sometimes let positions be purchased by wealthy families for their less than capable sons and daughters. Adar knew he was looking right at one of those purchases. The Sea Guard captain smiled at Adar with sincere pleasure, and why not? Bringing the scourge of the Sundering Seas, the Ghost Elf, back to the island nation in chains was the promotion, and guaranteed lordship Bawbuthor had been waiting for his whole life. The fool actually congratulated himself at the ease of capturing the Uruk pirate king.

“Well met, Sealord Father.” Bawbuthor said Adar’s title as if it was a personal joke between them. The familiarity of it annoyed Adar more than the disrespect, but he remained stoic. The dark Elf looked forward to knocking the Sea Guard captain’s teeth out with the hilt of his own sword.

“I do hope your accommodations meet the standards of your rank. I would hate to be a rude host to a Sealord of your reputation,” Bawbuthor chuckled. He pulled up a stool so that he could sit closer to the bars of the cell, but Adar noticed that despite being shackled to the floor, the Númenórean still kept his distance. Smarter than he looks, or his rat brain instincts were keeping him alive.

“What do you say we talk about where your crew took your ship. They abandoned you and surely you would like some kind of revenge, no?”

“No” his deep voice, cold and flat, managed to drop the temperature in the hold by a few degrees. One of the guards suppressed a shudder.

“Are you under the impression that they will come for you? Those Orcs? They are probably already killing each other trying to decide who their captain is now. I do not see a pack of leaderless animals saving you any time soon.”

Adar continued to watch the Sea Guard captain impassively, as if he were a predatory beast that figured out Bawbuthor was a harmless, inedible carrot. He was barely listening to the prepared speech the man was rattling off when, through the vent port, a breeze had picked up the scent of something he did not expect. It took all his self-discipline to keep from turning his face towards the vent and inhaling deeply to capture the aroma that was strong one moment, then all but disappeared the next. Adar was certain it was not coming from the ship, but just outside of it. Not his own crew of Uruks. Someone was following them and whoever it was, they were able to keep up with the ship. The scent was unmistakably Elven, but the base note kept fading and was replaced by sweat, and something like black honey. Well, let us see how this plays out, and Adar settled into is place against the wall.

“So that is it then? I can help you, you know. Take you to the Elves instead of the King’s justice. I am sure they would pay to have one of their… people …back.” In the time that the Númenórean buffoon was enjoying the sound of his own voice the sun had set, and the smell had only gotten stronger.

Adar wanted him gone so he could find out who was tailing the ship. He waited until the Sea Captain finished with more predictable threats and offers of rewards that he had no power to grant. Then the dark Elf leaned his head back, so it was cast in shadow, allowing the lantern light to reflect on his eyes, giving them the same glowing appearance that felines and Uruks have in the dark. Bawbuthor stopped talking and recoiled, standing up from the chair. The guards had seen a disturbance with their captain rising up so quickly that they pulled their swords. Bawbuthor told them to lower their weapons, muttering that he was done talking to the wraith. Glancing only once over his shoulder at Adar as he headed back up the stairs, not in reproach, but with fear.

The follower’s scent kept Adar company for the next two hours. He knew his crew was still at least a day behind, and that was not his children following. It stopped ebbing and flowing, and was now so strong that he was surprised the guards did not notice it too. A quiet thump could be heard against the wall causing one of the guards to look his way and Adar forced a cough to cover it up. His Elven hearing picked up the scratches of hands crawling along the bulkhead moving away from him and towards the navigation deck. Adar closed his eyes, allowing himself to follow the sounds of several invaders who had pried open one of the cargo ports and were making their way to the hold. Two, four, six, now eight sets of feet were moving slowly in the dark getting closer. They had the unique trace of Elves, but at the same time it was muted and mixed with other unrecognizable scents.

He then smelled human blood, strong and full of metal, and opened his eyes. Both guards were lying on the ground with their throats cut and two dark shadows standing over them holding their mouths to keep them from screaming as they died. When the guards stopped their death rattles, the shadows approached his cell and Adar was shocked to see what he thought was an Elven child. But no, when she got closer, he could see that she was just a short young Elven woman, unusual because they almost all were tall and slender. Her sun kissed blonde hair was made of several braids pulled back in a dark colored kerchief. The girl’s fair features were typical of a Noldorian Elf, but then Adar noticed that her piked ears were smaller and stuck closer to her head. Peredhel. Half-Elf.

Adar sat up and shifted himself back out of the shadows so the girl could also get a good look at the Morion. He was not sure what he expected, since clearly she was there for him, but a wide smile was not it.

“Are you Sealord Father? Well of course you are! Who else would you be? But I tell you, if you weren’t he then these faithless lunks would have locked me right in that cage where you sit.”

“That’s the truth,” another Half-Elf said and brought her the keys he liberated from the dead guard.

“Quiet you, we don’t want Sealord Father to think we are a pack of unprofessional clowns, do ya?”

“He won’t think that. He will see that we are actually professional clowns.” The male was only slightly taller than the girl and had the same youthful appearance as her. Are Half-Elf adolescents rescuing me or assassinating me?

While the girl unlocked the cell door, Adar examined the boarding party. They were all Half-Elf and young, their clothing the typical motley and mismatch usual with pirates, but all had the same soft boots to quiet their footfalls. Each one was holding a falchion or some kind of short sword, also liberated spoils that gave them no nation of origin. Even their hair varied from one to the other from shaved heads to long beaded braids. The cage door swung open with a loud creak that elicited a hissing from the group as they looked up at the hatch to see if they had been heard. After a beat or two the girl entered the cell and dropped to the floor in front of Adar and started sorting through the keys.

“Let me tell you, this is a real honor Sealord Father. A real honor indeed. We enjoy the songs about your deeds and love your work with all the killing and plundering. When we heard the rumor that you had been captured by these lackwits, well I said to Kalen over there that we needed to break the Sealord Father out. Didn’t I Kalen?” When she looked behind her to get an affirmation from Kalen, Adar reached out and grabbed her by the neck and yanked her up to his face.

He gave her a low growl, a warning an animal would make to another when a dispute over food was about to begin. Adar had wrapped his hands around many necks over the centuries, always enjoying the feeling of a rapid, terrified heartbeat when the owner of the throat is forced to look at his face and see their doom. But the girl’s grin did not falter, and her heartbeat was impossibly steady. Her indigo eyes were merry and full of mischief despite the immediate danger she was in.

She reached up and gently rested her hands on Adar’s and with the difficulty of having her windpipe squeezed by his grip, she croaked out an introduction. “Captain Thanghat, but you are a captain yourself so no need to be formal just call me Thanghat. I have a skiff keeping up with us and if we can get going, I’ll have you out of here faster than a Pelargir whore can kick their knickers off at the sight of a single sliver piece.”

Adar let go of her throat with one hand, keeping her in place in front of him with the other. Then he reached down and snatched the jailor’s keys from her. He released her and pushed her away, not too violently, and unlocked his shackles.

“I told you he would kill us!” one of the other Half-Elves called out to her captain when she saw their interaction.

“And I told you it would be an honor to get ran through by the Sealord Father himself! Haven’t you dipshits been listening to me at all?” she said while coughing and holding her neck.

Adar then stood while the girl and her crew waited to find out their fates. He heard a collective sigh of relief when he reached down and helped Thanghat to her feet. “How many are on the skiff?” his rough voice a stark contrast from the cheerful cadence of the girl standing in front of him.

“Four, they are keeping up and staying in the shadow of the ship.” She said proudly as she rubbed her already bruised neck.

Adar walked out of the cell and looked around at the others. They carried themselves as if they were seasoned despite their youth. He bent down and pulled a broad sword from the dead guard’s scabbard.

“We have thirteen pairs of hands then?” he asked Thanghat.

“We do if you want to swim, the four are needed to man the skiff.”

“Would you rather just kill everyone on this ship and take it for ourselves? I need to get my sword and gauntlet back, as well as make the captain of this ship eat his own teeth.” Adar was still unsure of what he felt about the Half-Elves, especially Thanghat. She seemed to have no sense of self preservation or fear, though she was respected by her crew. But when he asked her if she wanted to take part in wanton slaughter, her face lit up like a small girl’s on her naming day who just got a pony with a pink ribbon attached to its mane. It endeared her to him, and he was unable to stop himself from smiling back at her.

Thanghat turned to Kalen and nodded, who ran back into the dark hold. Adar heard the whistle of a frigatebird, the signal for the crew of the skiff. And a few minutes later Kalen and the four from the skiff joined them.

“I couldn’t tie off the skiff, so we better have a plan to get out of here-” A Half-Elf boy came up to Thanghat whispering his concerns, then stopped when he saw the Morion towering over them. While the others were teenagers, the four from the skiff were unmistakably children.

“Fuck the skiff, we are taking the ship! Sealord Father said he needs to drink some blood and eat a few souls to make up for being taken prisoner. Who are we to say ‘no’?”

“Can they keep up?” Adar nodded towards the children who were already brandishing their weapons.

“Are you shitting me? Sceli is practically a cannibal, she will chew her way from bow to stern. Isn’t that right, Sceli?” Thanghat nodded at a cherubic Half-Elf girl with auburn braids and a faint spray of freckles across her nose. Sceli grinned with feral glee, showing three snaggled gaps from where her milk-teeth had fallen out. By the Valar, what does that make her? Seven? Eight?

Adar signaled with is head for Thanghat to join him further from the others to talk to her privately. “If your crew cannot keep up or if they fall, I am not going back for any of you. Do you understand?”

Thanghat’s constant smile faded, and that is when Adar realised who he was dealing with. Her dark blue eyes took on the shadow of a fast-approaching storm and her mouth set itself in a hard, straight line. But it was the changed tone of her voice that convinced the dark Elf that she was not to be underestimated.

Not whispering, so that her crew could hear, the speech of a much older and battle-hardened warrior said, “We will take the ship. No quarter. No one will fall behind. Try to keep up… Sealord Father.”

“Then we follow your lead, Captain Thanghat.”

With that, they all turned towards the stairs and climbed up to the hatch to lay their claim to the blood of sleeping Númenóreans.

Chapter Text

70 Nautical leagues West of Himling

10:45 15 Tuilë SA 3220

They had two more weeks of freshwater with their regular rations. Veanelen’s first officer was waiting for an answer; seeking land or continuing their patrol with reduced rations. Over the yéns exploring the Sundering Seas, this question had become part of the routine. She could see on her charts that they were a couple of days away from a stretch of small islands with streams and temperate forests, but she had heard rumors of trouble further south.

These attacks on Númenórean ships had grown more common, Admiral Veanelen reminded herself. If we turn around now, we may miss the vessels carrying the spring goods, and they will be vulnerable to this “Elf Ghost” every port is talking about. A rescue without water is not much mercy.

"We shall make land. We may as well need the additional supplies,” Veanelen announced.

 “Aye, Ciriarāta.” The black-haired Elf took his leave, and Veanelen followed the sound of his agile steps to the deck.

The crew was singing as they worked. Wind, waves, and Falmari voices in harmony, Veanelen felt the three of them fall silent as they heard her order. It is not time to go back home. Tol Eressea will still be there, as always. But the Atani have been needing more from the sea. And more from those who could petition the Sea.

She looked at the detailed maps and nautical charts on top of the simple but elegant oaken desk. Her crew has charted so many of those waters over the past age, they were their pride and joy. The maps remained stretched by four silver nautilus. She had used pins to mark the coordinates of recent attacks. Veanelen closed her eyes, she listened intently to catch the sounds of the waves and the voice of the Vala. The only voice she heard was distant and was pleading for mercy.

"They took my cargo, my crew, and they chained me here to rot." She could see the man's face. Smell the recently burned wood and old waste. It had been months since they healed him and left him in Númenor. The merchant guild tried to reward them, but Veanelen was disgusted by the suggestion for they were paying for the return of the damaged and abandoned ship, not their countryman.

Her swan ship was still silent. The Admiral had to meet her company. She left the cabin and joined in the shifting of sails. The wind blew up and sent them to their intended course. Thank you, Ulmo. Please let us serve.

That night Veanelen woke up gasping for air. Coming back from the abyss without being completely sure if the visit to the deep trench occurred only in dreams. Any attempt to fall asleep again would be useless. At least it is a new moon and all the stars will be visible. She walked out to the deck and greeted her First Officer piloting. It is Volarno’s third watch in a row, I should probably check if he is well at the end of his shift. She felt the cool night breeze and realised she was still in her nightshirt and bare feet. He might ask me the same.

She did not mind the cold air, it was welcomed after the suffocating heat of her cabin. The nauseating stench of rotten meat, charred bones, and infected wounds. Veanelen could not tell if this was an old nightmare or a new one. Whoever had been leaving half burnt vessels between Pelargir and Númenor had a sadistic bloodlust indistinguishable from Morgoth. He has been in the Void since the dawn of this age, it cannot be him. His second in command, mayhap? When the cruel Maia claimed to be repentant in front of the Valar, Ossë validated Veanelen’s mistrust in him. Ossë should know!

A strong wave bumped the Ciria Lanca, Volarno felt it too but he did not seem bothered by it. The otherwise calmed seas had a familiar sound. I hope this helps. Veanelen stretched her upper body to look down from the prow of the ship, holding onto the swan’s neck, and imitated the sound of a flash rip. The Wingil playing in the foam lifted her head and showed the delicate features of her copper face, framed by silver hair. The smile was both childlike and wicked.

"You sound just like your father, you know?”

"He was a brave and noble ello, so thank you,” replied Veanelen.

"He was Ellālie.” Only seafæ could utter that word with disdain. “And you sound ridiculous!”

"Only two insults tonight, I am starting to grow on you, cous!” I was not woken up to play games. Tell me something useful. “Where are your sisters?”

"Playing next to an Atani pirate ship,” answered the Wingil.

"Be a dear and sink them for me, please.” Veanelen heard a whirlpool in front of her. At least she is laughing with me now.

"You are on the right path but you need more speed. You will see them at first light.”

"Thank your nēþa for me. I will see you when we reach the island in three days. I will bring gifts.”

Veanelen stood straight for a moment, she looked back to confirm that Volarno had not seen a thing. Her chant might be unrefined, but it works. I guess I will not be stargazing. Her night gown was drenched with sea water. She returned to her cabin and found it more welcoming than minutes ago. She lit a lantern and got dressed quickly: light leather slacks, and a silk coat under the silver hauberk and cuirass. The Ciriarāta's armour shone like a leaf of Telperion. She fixed her carefully knitted black and silver braids in the back of the head, the silver braids and the bronze visage revealed the Wingil in her. After donning her knee boots, belt and sword, she truly was a Falmar elf. She fixed her grandsire’s knife in her head as a pin. The short blade of silver was so sharp that it could cut to the bone, but the sheath and handle were made with pearls from Alqualondë, invaluable and unbreakable like king Olwë himself. It was a parting gift before Veanelen ferried the Valar from Aman to Middle Earth. A symbol of her investiture as the admiral of the Lindari fleet. Olwë had instructed her to remain in the swan boats and let the Valar and the Ñoldor finish what they started.

"I will not sit idle while Elves and Men die to bring down Morgoth and the evil he brought forth.” She had said centuries years ago, at the first sight of the dark mist surrounding the mountains where the fortress was hidden. The King knew me and he gave me leave.

Veanelen brought her mind back to the present. She knocked on the door of the common sleeping quarters, and let her company know that they would have to be ready to board and fight in just a couple of hours. No one asked how she knew. The only one who may have asked, didn’t come back from Angband. Everyone will return today. The Elves listened to the battle plan and dutifully followed the orders. She took over the wheel after sending Volarno to rest for a little while, and asking his partner to wake him up in time.

The wind blew on the stern and the tide was driving them swiftly. Luminous algae lightened as their ship broke the waves. A bright path above and below. We are bringing justice, not warfare. The crew was preparing for a red dawn.

Chapter Text

319 Nautical leagues West of the Grey Mountains Coastline

The Uruk Atoll

19:23 10 Coirë SA 3220

The Kartart-Burguul anchored among the rest of the fleet near the makeshift atoll the Uruks built out of damaged ships beyond repair. From a distance, the atoll would seem as a low lying island or a sargasso patch, absent of trees or land formations. Below were shallows of a new landform being raised by volcanic activity from the Grey Mountain range, giving them a secure place to anchor the larger vessels that were connected by rafts and scavenged materials. The atoll housed the Elders, infirmed, and families of the crews providing a village like camp for the Uruk out at sea, while using the old ships as dwellings and common spaces.

Adar gave his crew their leave and ordered one of his newer officers to take command of the ship in his absence, then disembarked making his way towards the center of the atoll, a large cargo ship with one side of its hull removed where the infirmary, school, and Elder’s dwellings were kept as a kind of village square for the community. The floating dock pathways were shaded with stretched canvases, keeping the Uruks out of the sun and protecting them all from wind and rain, but also creating a claustrophobic environment much like the busy streets of a large town when the fleet returned. Hundreds of Uruks, Half-Elves, and Men wandered the narrow planks to their destination jostling each other alongside the usual denizens of the Uruk nation.  

Sealord Father stepped into the dark center of the repurposed cargo ship’s hold and immediately could smell the large pot of Bulmos-Garjarpan* that others had already started gathering around for. He picked up an empty bowl near the cook fire and waited his turn, making small talk with others in the line. He glanced around the atoll’s kitchen, noticing the smaller children running around and playing, only instead of all Uruk children there were just as many human and Half-Elf ones among them. We are growing faster than I planned, with the new recruits and the Half-Elves joining us these last years.

Adar took his meal and climbed a flight of steps to the second level where the Elder’s dwellings were housed. With the same shape and basic design of the yurts they left behind in Forodwaith, the dwellings were made from the canvas of discarded sails giving each Elder a private space away from the noise and bustle of the common area, but still close enough to oversee the daily administration of the atoll. The dark Elf wove his way through the dwellings until he found Glasha, the oldest of the Elders and one of his fore-daughters.

Besides Adar, Glasha was the oldest amongst them, making her the head of the Elder’s council and de facto leader of the Uruks when he was at sea. Though Sealord Father was the indisputable commander of them all, he had rarely opposed a decision made by the council and often sought out Glasha’s wisdom. A legend often repeated around cook fires was that she was born in the midst of a fierce battle; that her mother had faced her own death while carrying her newborn daughter in one hand, with the navel cord still attached, and her trident buried in the chest of an Umbarian soldier. But the truth was her birth was a difficult one and her mother had bled out shortly after, despite the efforts of Sealord Father and the healer. Adar had held the infant Glasha in his arms for months until they returned to the atoll, and he gave her over to her grandparents.

Now before him, the wizened Glasha was stooped with age, her braids grey with white streaks and almost half a century of battles by her forefather’s side, while he still stood straight and unchanged. She was sitting on her pallet, using her single hand to roll stuffed leaves with rice and bits of shark meat for the atoll dinner tomorrow. Wordlessly, Adar took a seat across from her and finished his meal. Then he stood and found a wash basin to clean his hands and sat back down next to her, to help with rolling the stuffed leaves. She chuckled to herself when she noticed how his leaves still did not hold the rice and meat as well as Glasha’s, despite having two hands and centuries of practice.

“You know I was never good at cooking. Most of those younglings downstairs could do this better than me.”

“You never had patience for it. A bottomless trench of patience for teaching us how to fight, sail, build, and stay alive. But cooking? I remember the time right after I lost my arm you tried to boil some goat milk and oats for me, and forgot the oats.” She signed and then burst into laughter. Adar smiled at the memory of a young Glasha, with a freshly bandaged stump, politely spooning the hot milk into her mouth as if it was not missing a crucial ingredient.

When they finished with the stuffed leaves, Adar moved around the dwelling making small repairs and organising where Glasha directed him to. He noticed her eyesight was getting worse so he took two more lanterns from one of her storage trunks and strategically hung them from the support beam to give the Elder Uruk more light. When he finished, she patted the spot next to her on a pallet and poured him a cup of spiced cider.

“Sealord Father, there is much on your mind if you’ve visited me this long without really saying anything.” Adar sighed and leaned back on the pallet, suddenly feeling exhausted but knowing it will be a long time until he can rest.

“I found it, Glasha. An island that is perfect for us. It has fresh water, a valley and space for growing crops, even a mountain and foothills if we want to make our homes more defensible, or build a fortress. It has a natural bay we can turn into a port and tidal pools. Captain Thanghat and I have only found it mentioned on two maps, and even then it was in the wrong location and sketched much smaller than it is. By the time we would be noticed, we would already have built our defenses.”

“How has no one else laid claim to this ‘perfect island’?” She arched a brow and poured herself more spiced cider.

“I have been watching it for the last two years and left some scouts to keep track of any movement by sea. I did not want to commit anything to the island unless I was sure it was uninhabited and not visited. There are signs that others have been there, maybe to do emergency repairs or to replace lost water. The whole time the scouts were there they said only three ships passed that were close enough to spot the island, but none approached.” He allowed himself to smile in front of Glasha, knowing she had listened to him talking about a home for the Uruk since she was old enough to be able to read his hand signs and lips.

“That did not answer my question, Sealord Father.”

“Water. We found a few ponds fed by an underground cistern, but the water is brackish half of the year and not safe to drink without filtering and boiling first. It would not support thousands of us, even when half were out at sea. The scouts could not find a source, but then they are more suited to looking for ships. I am going to go back myself to find the water and ensure that it is enough for a growing population like ours.” Adar nodded to himself but waited for his fore-daughter to tell him what he was missing.

“And if there is not enough water? What then?”

“There has to be, the island has forest and fields. Even so, if it rains enough, we could also collect it like we do here.” He realised she found the flaw, as she always does.

“Right now, we are rationing water because it hasn’t rained in over a week. Perhaps it will be easier with those fed ponds that you mentioned, even if we have to boil the water. But growth and security is the purpose of leaving the seas. Having no access to water would strand us and put us back on this atoll in less than a generation.”

Glasha reached up and stroked her fore-father’s temple on his branding scar. As a toddler she used to do this, thinking his burn was a fresh injury and mimicking what her own grandparents did when she fell and hurt herself. Adar closed his eyes, leaning into her comforting touch.

“We need this Glasha. I know many will not follow us to a settlement and our troubles will not come to an end, just change. I will find the water, but I need you to agree that we need to start moving to the island. I need you to have faith in this plan.” He opened his eyes and saw the Elder smiling at him.

“Of course, Sealord Father. What is it that little fool Half-Elf always says to you? ‘Try to keep up’? The Elders already know about the settlement plan, but I will tell them you got the votes from the other captains, and you have found the island we are to depart for immediately. We will make the announcement tomorrow. With the fleet here and all available hands, we will have the atoll dismantled and packed by the next Eel moon. Now I will have a funeral pyre like my foremothers did, and not be sunk into the shadows and depths when it is time.”

He embraced her, wanting to hold her tighter but aware of her frailty. They spoke longer, but then her eyes slowly closed and she began to lower her head to the pallet. He helped pull her legs up so she was laying down and covered her with one of her blankets. Adar made sure her fire stove was filled with enough wood to keep her warm until the morning and then left. 

Tomorrow, they prepare to settle the Uruk nation on land again. The great burden he felt when he entered Glasha’s dwelling was gone… and was now replaced with a new one.

Chapter Text

95 Nautical leagues Southwest of Himling

7:00 16 Tuilë SA 3235

Nárëwen had just finished mixing the resin into the Naphtha oil, and she assured Veanelen that the glass vials would keep the substance stable. We must procure another batch of jars, she keeps making smaller mixes. The Admiral sent her alchemist to put her armour on, and continued with her mental review for the upcoming hostilities. The long bows are in perfect shape, blades are all sharpened, and we have so many arrows I am surprised there are still birds. A sudden vision of petrels nesting in the Grey Havens of shipwright master Círdan made her lose her breath for a moment. Then Veanelen returned her focus to battle preparations.

“Is Volarno awake? Did he manage to rest?”

“Aye, Ciriarāta.” He was all smiles as Nestamā helped him secure his cuirass and leaned their forehead against his. “I am ready for whatever they have for us.”

The Admiral was still at the wheel of the Ciria at full speed. Her elven eyes had caught sight of an old and battered ship, with conspicuous dark blue sails. That might work against other Atani crews. They had covered the swan’s head, its beauty used to bring hope to shipwreck survivors, now the golden beak would reflect the sunlight and give away their position before they could steal the pirates’ wind, and empty their sails.

“Is that all?” The sailor who was taking the wheel from Veanelen asked. “That ship looks like they need more help than punishment.”

“How do you think they caught enough damage to look like that? Still sails, with no colours?” Veanelen was a little proud that his first reaction was helping. If I did not know for certain, we might have wandered into a trap.

“I should not have doubted you, Ciriarāta.”

“Doubt me, by all means. Underestimate a stranger at your peril.”

He nodded. Veanelen smiled as she readjusted her hauberk and fixed her own cuirass.

“Remember, everyone!” Her voice was an octave lower so she could project her words through the deck. “We are looking for evidence of plunder and cruelty, we are bringing justice. If we can rescue something for the original owner, that goes back to our Ciria. Water and supplies, we bring back. No prizes and no prisoners, but the gifts to the sea.” She smiled again and her dimples deepened. Veanelen switched her weight and adopted a warmer tone. “All of you have made me and our Ciriaran proud. Each of you is the finest example of Elven archers, sword fighters, and mariners. We have the most talented alchemist outside of Aman. Keep your eyes open, be there for your comrades, and Nienna will have no need to weep this day.”

They were now at range to be spotted from the crow’s nest. The swan boat took position and the freebooters’ sails fell flat. The elven sailors were ready. The vanguard was immediately behind her, but Veanelen did not need to look back to know who was holding hands, nor whose forehead rested on whose. For a second she felt a pair of slender arms around her waist. Be present, be aware, they are still here and they need you.

Veanelen locked eyes with her first archer, Vilverin, who confirmed that all their longbows were in range. Veanelen gave the signal with her arm. The first arrows descended upon the occupants of the deck. Load. Hold. Release.

The sailor on the wheel fell. Load. Hold. Release. The first ones to answer their cries for reinforcements were received by the second cloud of arrows. The Ciria was taller than this ship. The avant-garde jumped directly to the deck. Veanelen led the attack with a long spear in one hand and a half-sword on her belt. She dealt a swift slice to the man that came from her side, leapt forward, a clean cut in one throat.

A man came from the only cabin yelling insults to his crew and to hers. He tried catching Veanelen’s arm but grasped only vapour. Standing in front of her, Veanelen towered over him. He looked up to try and meet her eyes. A sluggish tongue wetted his unkempt moustache.

“Those long legs spread, me luv? I have a better spear for ya.”

Veanelen looked unimpressed. He thinks he is the first one trying to intimidate me with that? Veanelen blocked an attacker on her right and moved away from an attacker to her left. The same man reached for something under his shirt and displayed a collar with a collection of ears: pink, white, yellow, brown and black. 

 “I don’t have pointy browns. Come, doll.” He took out a rusty knife. “Closer. I take ears and tails. But I can only keep the ears.”

That was enough of a confession. Volarno signalled that he heard the same, and ran with the others to the belly of the ship. Veanelen jumped, used her spear to cut the tendons behind this man’s heels. As he fell, she hit him in the head with the flat of her spear. 

Nestamā came out from the small cabin, calling for Veanelen’s attention. A larger man, bare chested and covered in brown hair was following them, spouting similar threats while wielding a butcher’s knife. Veanelen incapacitated him in the same way. This one required a second blow with the hilt of her sword.

Volarno and the rest of the sword fighters brought what little was left of the crew and disarmed them. Veanelen made a signal and the archers stopped their lethal rain.

“I am the admiral of the Falmari fleet, and the Vala Ulmo sent this Ciria to bring you to justice. This vessel is full of evidence of your misdeeds. And it is my duty to sentence you to death by hanging. Except for these two.” She pointed at the ones who confessed taking their pleasure by causing pain. “Their crimes will be paid as the sea commands.”

There were protests. Begging. One plunderer spat and said that a woman’s sentence doesn’t mean anything, the crew took it as volunteering to be the first one. From a dark corner, a scrawny boy jumped on Volarno. He had no knife, instead he used a broken glass to stab the ello in his upper thigh. Veanelen grabbed the boy by the shoulders. He was almost as tall as most men but too young to grow anything other than fuzz, and he was too thin.

“May Nienna weep for you, child.” His pupils dilated when he saw her face, giving him a sweet smile while removing her hair pin. She was swift. The cut at his throat was clean. He never saw the silver knife and he did not suffer.

Nestamā was already stopping Volarno’s haemorrhage. The rest of the elven crew had the nooses ready. Justice was as quick as the attack. The ship's log had little information about the origin of the goods: some dwarven jewellery. Human weapons. Silks and indigo powder. And water: they had more barrels of water. And their sea biscuits were fresher.

First, everybody helped to carry Volarno without widening his wound. Then the water and biscuits. A bushel of oranges. Lastly, the unconscious gifts for the sea. They were tied together and left on the deck. 

Nárëwen had returned from leaving the vials in strategic places. Veanelen lifted her right hand and the swan ship started moving away from the empty and damaged filibuster ship. Veanelen stood on the edge, took a bow and one arrow, and she lit it. Point. Hold. Release. To Ulmo, may he receive you at his Abyss . The substance caught the spark and seconds later, the flames engulfed the dishonoured vessel to consume it into the trench.

Per Veanelen’s instructions, Volarno was taken to her bed. Nestamā was applying boiled vinegar to avoid pestering. They expertly bound their beloved’s leg and kissed his forehead. They looked intently into their Ciriarāta’s eyes, apologising. Three nights in a row.

“You did a good job healing him, Nestamā. Rest here the next couple of nights. The two of you. He will be back on his feet before we know it.” Nestamā buried their head in Veanelen’s shoulder. They all came back . Veanelen held her friend close and struck their hair. They all came back.

Chapter Text

319 Nautical leagues West of the Grey Mountains Coastline

The Uruk Atoll and On Board the Flagit Ora-Nen

17:41 13 Tuilë SA 3220

The atoll was being torn apart by its inhabitants like a colony of ants who had fallen upon a rather large, juicy dead beetle. From outside eyes, the frenzy of movement seemed chaotic or even destruction for its own sake. But to Adar, it was a well rehearsed orchestra and everyone was playing their harmonious part. The atoll would be stripped down, and even her twenty seven anchors would be raised and stowed away on the Uruk’s ships, bound for their new island settlement. 

The only discordance to the evacuation of the atoll were the children. The Uruk nation and those that joined her, had a surge of offspring these last few years. Such an endeavor as breaking the atoll apart and traveling for days across the Sundering Sea would be a dangerous distraction with so many small ones running under foot and needing minding. The Sealord Father’s solution was to send them off ahead of the fleet with a captain and crew he could trust.  

Adar carried in his one hand a basket of oranges and in his other was one of a pair of Uruk toddler twins who was trying to reach for the Sealord Father’s ear with her small, clawed hands. Moving his head away to avoid her reach, the little girl wailed in frustration, but then quickly started giggling again when Adar crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue at her.

“Ouch! Fuck! Watch it!” next to him one of the Half-Elf pirates, a capable youth that was there when he escaped the Númenóreans, named Gilesin, was carrying the second half of the Uruk twins but he was not able to dodge the girl’s sharp fingers as she clung to his pointed ear while warbling her victory.  

“You will have to watch their claws and teeth, Gilesin. Make sure to tell them to stop and that they are hurting you, but you will have to get hold of their hands first. It takes a couple years until they understand they cannot bite or scratch anyone they want, especially ‘soft skins’.” Adar chuckled as he watched the Half-Elf youth trying to avoid the squealing toddler’s teeth from sinking into his ear.

“I suppose I’m a soft skin then?” He asked, finally shifting the girl from one arm to the next and keeping her from tearing his pointed ear off.

“We all are.” Adar lifted the arm carrying the oranges and showed him a bite made with a tiny set of teeth still healing on his lower arm above his gauntlet. “My navigator’s new born wanted to see how I tasted when I picked him up.”

“This next few days will be particularly difficult. The children will be separated from their parents, and I am sure they will want you to pay more attention to them. Hopefully you still have all your fingers and ears when we meet you on the island.” Adar smiled at the pirate who gave up trying to hold the child in both arms and settled for tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of mussels. Her small feet kicked in anger, and one clawed toe sliced into Gilesin’s cheek.

“Uin’s cock! The first thing I am going to do is take some pumice to their finger and toe nails!” he shouted and Adar laughed.  

They made their way across the atoll docks towards the fleet and boarded the *Flagit Ora-Nen. Adar and Gilesin were met with the sight of all the children and youth of the atoll gathered on the deck of Captain Thanghat’s ship turning it into a place not unlike the play yard near the school in the center of the communal square. Children from the Uruk, Half-Elf, and Human members of the fleet and atoll were all engaged in loud play, running and chasing each other, or to Adar’s immediate concern, were crowded around Thanghat while she seemed to be demonstrating something with one of her knives. 

The dark Elf noticed that the pirates had moved a few of the barrels and supply crates into a circle where they were corralling the toddlers and smaller younglings and he inclined his head towards Gilesin for them to deposit their wiggling cargo there. Two adolescent Uruks were helping with the toddlers in the makeshift playpen and they relieved Adar and Gilesin of their charges. At first, the twin girls wailed and entreatingly waved their hands towards Adar and Gilesin, but once they saw the other children they spun out of the arms of their minders and ran off to join their peers and the many toys scattered amongst them. 

“Go below and find out if they need any more assistance with setting up the sleeping pallets. Let me go see if our Captain Thanghat is teaching the youth of the Uruk Nation how to open a bottle of wine without a corkscrew or the best way to smoke pipe weed before a crucial battle.” Gilesin smiled and made his way below deck as Adar approached the children sitting in a circle around Thanghat.

“…anyways that’s why you always want to check for strings attached to fake beards when you go to a pleasure house that proclaims itself the only Dwarven brothel in all Middle Earth. This one pretend Dwarf even had a false…-”

“Captain Thanghat! Surely you are not entertaining the children with bawdy tales best left for their adulthoods?” Adar interrupted the grinning girl.

“Ah, maybe you are right Sealord Father, but as you always say: forewarned is forearmed. I’m not just telling naughty stories to the boys and girls, I’m also showing them how to play a bit of Sailor’s Fate.” Adar looked down and saw that the Half-Elf pirate captain’s hand was sprawled out on the deck and was rapidly stabbing the empty spaces between her fingers in a quick pattern. He could see some bright red lines where she had missed and nicked herself demonstrating the ancient game.

“Oh. For a moment I was only worried you were telling them inappropriate stories, but it turns out you were also showing them a sure path to self-disfigurement.” Adar cleared his throat and raised a brow at Thanghat, who’s expression went sullen.

“That’s all for now, ye smelly clutch of lagoon eel eggs! Sealord Father and I have some business and it’s probably talking about the best way to feed you lot to the sharks that love to follow our ships for just such a sweet treat as a chubby knee-nibbler!” She stood suddenly and then growled at the children who scattered with peals of laughter.  

Thanghat waited to hear the fourth lecture from Adar that day, but he shook his head. “I have given Kodra and Cobell a map I drew where I want them to start clear cutting inland. I put another map on your bunk that shows the areas of the island I want you to start building the dwellings at and to forage. You will be happy to know that there is a rather large raspberry field that should be ripe by the time you get there. I am sure the children will enjoy picking them.”

“We can make cordials! I know of a wicked recipe for berries and lamp oil!” Adar cuffed the Half-Elf on the ear and growled.

“You swore you would remain sober until we arrived.”

“Keep your corset on, Sealord Father. Kalen himself removed all the spirits and wine from my quarters. You’ll be pleased to know that you have turned even my most loyal quartermaster and cousin against me in this regard,” Thanghat sighed.

Adar and Thanghat watched the pirates and Uruks start to usher the children over to a table they set up with sweet sesame cakes and fruit. He nudged her to follow him as he handed the basket of oranges to Thanghat.

“You know I trust no one else with this part of the plan than you, right?” The pirate captain smiled and Adar for a moment was reminded again of how young she was. The pang of guilt he always felt when he had to put a sword in the hand of a youth washed over him. One of the oldest of his lifelong guilts. But soon no more. Let this be the last generation who must learn to fight before they even lose their milk teeth, Adar thought to himself. 

“That only speaks to your desperation, Sealord Father.” Thanghat was tossing the oranges at the children and then took out three to juggle with one hand. A cheer erupted from the table as she kept adding oranges to the act, while occasionally throwing one to a child whose hands were up. Gilesin returned from below and approached Adar as he was watching Thanghat amusing the children with her juggling and for once, singing a song that she did not learn from a prostitute or sailor.

Upon the deck, oh watch me stand,

With sun-kissed waves and golden sands,

The dawn breaks free, the night still chases.

And to my fate this pirate bravely faces.

“We have all the pallets set up, Sealord Father, and we almost have all the supplies and cargo stowed.”

“Excellent, Gilesin. Start moving the smaller children below, they have had a lot of excitement today. Hopefully they fall right to sleep. Check with the healers and make sure they have plenty of ginger root on hand. For many of the younglings, this will be their first time at sea and I am sure they will need it. Also keep an eye on the Uruk toddlers, they forget to put their shark cloaks on and their skin can burn easily.”

“Aye, Sealord Father!”

When the oranges had all been handed out, Thanghat returned to Adar’s side as he made his way to the gangplank. “Any more remindings for me, Sealord Father?” Adar lifted his arm and dropped it across Thanghat’s shoulders.

“No, it is not necessary for me to remind you of anything. You know what I have placed into your hands, and what your part in the plan for the island is. We will meet you in a few days, if Ulmo is willing and the weather remains kind.” He pulled Thanghat into a short embrace and she elbowed him away.

“I meant it, Thanghat. There is no one else I would trust with the children more than you. If something happens and we do not make it to the island…-”

“Yes! Yes! I am to load them all up and take them back to the ‘embrace of the seas’. There I will raise them up to be merciless savages and we will sail to Númenor where we will pillage and slaughter our way across that gold encrusted nation.”

“I will settle for you just returning back to the seas.” Adar said over his shoulder.  

“I am telling you no jibes, so you better show back up livin’ and breathin’ because you don’t want me to be the Sealord Mother of this lot. I promise you I will be the worse version of myself without you to keep me in line, Sealord Father.”

Adar turned and then reached into his doublet. He pulled out his black claw dagger and handed it to Thanghat. She took it from him and tucked it inside her leather vest, then at the same time both said “Do not trade it for wine or lose it in a bet. We will reunite them by the next full moon.” 

“Easily the most witless of your traditions, Sealord Father.” Thanghat complained. 

“Yet, we never fail to bring the dagger and sword back together, Captain. Who are we to argue with such results?” 

With that Adar made his way down the gangplank and back to the docks of the atoll, certain that no matter how dangerous this crossing would be, the children and youth will all make it to the island safely with the deadly captain Thaghat at the helm.

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues Northwest of Andrast

06:00 18 Tuilë SA 3220

Veanelen woke up on a hammock under the higher deck. A black and silver curtain of her own thin braids blocked her view of the open ocean. The cool breeze had been good company, and she could taste in the air her own anticipation for the island. We can forage for fresh goods, collect some mussels and steam them, Volarno will forget about that pierced artery and jump ship once we start cooking. She stood up and stretched facing the sunrise, hidden under a very high layer of thin clouds. Veanelen was inspecting the sky intently, when a dry thud interrupted her thoughts and filled her with shame. The salt price! She rushed to the ciria’s pantry. Filled a canteen. Drank a little and filled it again to the brim. Picked up some sea biscuits from the pirate ship and placed them in a clean cloth.

Veanelen strode through the deck making her last three steps intentionally heavy. She removed the muzzle from the filibuster with the ears necklace, she showed him how she took a sip from the canteen, opened her mouth to prove to him that it was empty, and placed the brim on his lips. He chugged half the contents. She placed the food on his bound hands. He nibbled. Then Veanelen made the shirtless freebooter drink and eat. The two of them were still tied back to back. Nestamā had cleaned and bound their open wounds but they made no effort in reattaching the tendons. 

“Why you feedin’ us?” The shirtless pirate asked in Adûnaic.

“You are gifts, not rubbish.”

Veanelen stood tall at the prow, the swan head now uncovered. Despite the cloud cover, the horizon line was clear. The first spot of green made her heart jump, and her feet move almost without touching the wooden deck.

She reached Pentro at the wheel, he was smiling at her when she reached him.

“We will reach land before the sun’s zenith, Ciriarāta.”

“Praise Ulmo! Brilliant work, navigator! I will cover you until the shift-change.”

His smile widened further. When they switched places, he was met by an ello who was bringing him water. Veanelen averted her look to grant them some privacy.

By midday, they had reached the northwestern coast of the forested island. The swan ship anchored, Belda and Vilverin did a quick round to ensure the coast was clear. They met Veanelen and helped her place the gifts in a smaller boat. First the payment, then we can enjoy the island. “Everyone stays on board until I return. If I am not back by nightfall, come ready to fight.”

“Aye, Ciriarāta!”

The island was a common resting place for the Ciria Lanca, with natural springs pumping into cool streams that irrigate a rich forest. Her crew had harvested berries in springtime, mushrooms in summer, and nuts in autumn; small mammals and large ground nesting birds were available for game. Stopping there had become more pleasant than at most ports. Still, precautions must be taken and, with the rise of pirates in these waters, one clear beach does not guarantee a peaceful island.

The two prisoners were sitting in the front of the boat, looking to either side, still tied back to back. Their muzzles were back up after one of them tried to bite Nárewën. Veanelen was dressed in patrol uniform: an indigo linen gambeson on her sky blue silk tunic, over soft leather chausses, the hauberk and the silver cuirass on top shone with the white light allowed by the overcast sky. She had her short sword fastened at her hip, and the pearl knife stuck in her braids. She took a deep breath and started rowing.

She reached a known cove, sheltered from the rest of the bay by two rocky cliffs, but with access to a small and secluded sandy beach. As the boat got closer, her heart started beating faster. It was not exertion from rowing, it was a calling.

“You two were spared from Ulmo’s justice on your ship. Your heinous actions made you too repugnant for his deep hall.” The men’s muffled voices protested, or pleaded, or insulted her. Veanelen would not listen. She was focused on the sound of the incoming tide.

She used her pearl knife to open a small cut at the side of her wrist. Enough for it to bleed, but nothing that would not heal itself quickly. Red droplets dissolved on the greyish blue of the small bay, and a sound came deep from her chest and out of her mouth. It was the sound of currents connecting continents, the small surf on a pleasant evening, and a storm surging on the high seas. It was the song of her mother and her people.

The pirates heard the song as an alto voice and fell silent. Their defiance and hostility gave place to placid acceptance. Veanelen’s voice rose and resonated in the caves, the stony walls of the beach, and the forest beyond. Her chant had stopped the birds from singing. Veanelen paused.

The boat was on the sand, up above the waterline. She removed the prisoners' chains and uncovered their faces. She helped them get out of the boat and sit on the beach. Her face was emotionless when she said: “Your crimes are different from those of your comrades. I am sure you were not the only members of your crew who took their pleasure by causing pain. You are the ones who are delighted by it.” She used her sword to lift the corsair's cord with ears.

“We delivered justice on the name Ulmo. But his daughters’ labour is paid with the salt price.” 

They were immobile as she returned to her song. Her voice was clearer. Louder. Echoing throughout the bay. The tide surged and, within seconds, the water reached Veanelen’s waist, covering the men. She stopped singing and heard the giggles.

Three Wingildi stood in front of her. Their bodies were copper and coral, fully exposed as they raised themselves from the water. Their silver hair was foam and moonlight. They looked up at Veanelen as they forced the sea rovers to stand. Their beautiful delicate features showed childlike dimples when they smiled. Veanelen touched her own cheek when she saw them. But their smiles were cruel.

“These were strong men, Cousin. We accept these gifts.” One of the Wingildi was touching the arms of a filibuster. “They will be pleased to hear that for the last time.” Veanelen said while she listened to the deep voices.

The three Wingildi held the men as they sang. Veanelen joined the choir. The four intonations resonated and created a whirlpool around them. Only the sea was real. Only this cove existed.

One of the Wingildi kissed Veanelen’s face, and she felt the familiar pull of the depths and shadows. The same Wingil pressed her lips against the mouth of the largest pirate. He remained immobile, suspended on the water column. A final giggle, then the Wingildi submerged with their new gifts. Veanelen could see the rip they left as they rushed away, and a red line on the surface. The tide returned to its normal level. After everything was calmed and the air had lost the scent of metal, Veanelen stepped towards her boat. Halted. Stood her ground. Touched the hilt of her sword.

“Reveal yourself!” She said in Quenya. Her gaze facing at the treeline above the rocks. "I did not come here looking for trouble.”

“Alas you have found it," retorted a deep and raspy voice.

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues Northwest of Andrast

03:32 18 Tuilë SA 3220

The Sealord Father stood on the deck of his ship watching the black silhouette of the island getting closer. He had wanted drummers to announce their arrival, but with a few delays with dismantling the atoll they were almost a day late arriving at the island. It will be another two hours until the dawn breaks and the only ones on the island that should be awake were Thanghat and her crew, who were lined up on the beach with torches to help guide the skiffs in. The ships had also lit up all their lanterns and torches, and a few even had the families and crews singing The Crimson Demon together.

The leaves did rustle, the wind did howl,

We heard a growl and it made us scowl.

Then out he came, with a fiery glow,

“Hello, little ones, I have found you-oh!”

Oh, Crimson Demon, here you are!

You shine so bright, like a deadly star.

Oh, Crimson Demon, where are you?

We are lost and scared, what will we do?

Your eyes are so bright, and your grin so wide.

Your hair blood red, and we have nowhere to hide!

With his keen Elven eyesight, Adar spotted Thanghat holding up a torch and giving orders to the crew of Uruks and Half-Elves to wade out in the water, to help pull in the many skiffs about to be launched from the fleet. Behind her he could see the grey shapes of the tents and temporary dwellings they had built. A large bonfire suddenly was ignited in the centre of their camp and the sounds of the children waking up and shouting with excitement drifted towards him on the breeze like small night birds chirping.

Behind him, Adar could hear the heavy limping footfall of his quartermaster, Draddau, approaching. “Sealord Father, we may have to wait until we get more light to unload the cargo and the mushroom farms. I do not want to risk us losing anything even in the low tide.” Draddau signed to Adar.

“I will turn over unloading the cargo to you, Draddau. If you want to wait until it is lighter and we have the able bodies on the shore to assist, then I trust your judgement.” Draddau knuckled a salute and started barking orders in Black Speech. The quartermaster was one of the few who understood how they were going into this migration with less resources than Adar was comfortable with. Losing the mushroom farm, or even any of the dried meats and looted grain could find them all hungry on their new island home. The Uruk officer turned to look at the Weeping Trident sitting low in the water, as she not only held the mushroom farm, but the buzzing hives, and most of their goats. He shivered imagining if they had lost the Weeping Trident, and how they would all possibly survive.

With that, Adar then turned and made his way down to the lower deck to find Glasha who was getting wrapped in her cloak and helped with her side bag by one of her grandsons. He signed to her “Glasha? Would you like to ride with me on the first skiff?”

The elder Uruk smiled at the Sealord Father and held out her arm. He bent down to pull it over his neck and then gingerly lifted the elder Uruk, cradled her as he took Glasha’s walking stick from her grandson and carried her topside. In the dark, with only the quarter moon above and torches in hand on the deck, the ship was abuzz with excitement as all could now see the island approaching.

“It’s been so long since I last had my feet on dry land, Sealord Father. What if I forget how to walk without the Sundering Sea trying to constantly knock me over?” As she had done as a newborn, the elder Uruk rested her head on Adar’s chest while he made his way to the skiff.

“You were born deaf and lost your arm when you were only twenty three. Glasha, the world has been trying to knock you down your whole life. What is a small bit of sand and a few trees going to possibly do to you?” Adar signed as he gently sat her down in the middle seat of the skiff.

“Sand! Oh, I forgot about sand. Tell those Half-Elves of yours to string me a drying line in my dwelling so I don’t have to shake out my clean blankets after I wash them.” Adar smiled at the Elder and then pressed his forehead to hers.

“I will see to it. Let me help get the other skiffs loaded and launched, then you and I will ride to shore as conquerors,” the Dark Elf arranged Glasha’s blanket around her legs to keep her warm and dry.

“The last time I went to shore with you, I left my arm behind!” Glasha cackled and squeezed Adar’s shoulder before he walked away.

Sealord Father took a torch himself and moved among the Uruk lining up to go to shore. He would stop now and then fixing loose or open back packs, or asking the younger more able bodied Uruks to partner with an elder or one of their own who could not walk or see. Adar looked up at the sky, wishing that the moon was full for more light but thankful that they did not have to try to cut through the waves and high tides with the well-used skiffs.

Draddau signed and called out to Adar that his own skiff was ready to launch and the Dark Elf made his way back toward it. He met up with the quartermaster, and Adar took notice of Draddau’s brow knitted in worry.

“Draddau, do not let the other’s see that look. You would think we were launching an attack instead of arriving at our new home.”

“I almost rather we were!” the Uruk snarled at Sealord Father then sighed and nodded. “When the Weeping Trident is unloaded I will be able to take my ease, Sealord Father. That and getting all of your asses on dry land.”

“Of course, Draddau. But take ease if you can, we are only half a mile from shore and so far Ulmo has kept the winds and rains at bay. By the time the sun is up, most will be ashore. We have made it, Draddau.” The worry lines between the quartermaster’s brows relaxed slightly and he took Adar’s torch as the Morion sat himself next to Glasha.

Draddau handed the torch back once Adar had entwined his bare hand in Glasha’s clawed one and then signaled the crew to lower the skiff. Looking down at Sealord Father slowly dropping into the ink black sea surrounded by Uruks calmed his unease slightly. If Sealord Father is leading us there, then that is where we all belong, a catchphrase among the Uruk when they felt trepidation about what Adar was undertaking. Still, Draddau had sailed at Adar’s side for almost four decades and he knew that the Dark Elf made as many mistakes as any captain, mistakes that had cost lives.

Adar fell in formation alongside his Uruk soldiers’ company. Far down the line, he could hear some of them singing in cadence the soldier’s song about whips and cruel fates, but for the most part it was silent with the exception of their boots hitting and scraping the ground in a paraded rhythm as they made their way to meet Morgoth at Formenos.

“Commander Adar? What is that?” One of his sergeants pointed to the west and froze in place.

Adar had been lulled by the comforting sounds of his marching Uruks, his thoughts turned towards his master still across the sea and in Valinor. He had told Mairon and Adar to set out with their newly formed Orc forces…Adar’s children. With a combination of horror and awe, his master did as promised and took the light from the world. Now Morgoth’s armies moved against the Elves unimpeded and leaving only a seared and twisted land in their wake as Adar proved again to be among the Dark Lord’s most effective and devastating of his commanders.

Adar turned and looked in the direction where the sergeant, a young Uruk named Bezath who had the same eyes as he, pointed at the sky. What the Morion saw, made him reach out and grasp the soldier’s arm. At first Adar thought he was seeing the fiery glow of Balrogs running together and forming a swirling flame amongst them, as they set valleys and hills on fire with their chaotic movements. But then the light grew into a line that seemed to cut the sky from where it clung to the lands and seas. The line grew wider and thicker… And the ball of fire lifted itself from that cut like a blowfly emerging from an open wound. Before Adar could speculate on the purpose or ownership of the flaming ball of light, his sergeant suddenly pulled his arm back from Adar and held it close to his chest. “Adar- I mean Commander, it burns. Why am I-…” Then Adar smelled the familiar scent of charred flesh and, as one, the Uruk began to scream in agony. For miles, in each direction, the Uruk soldiers’ skin erupted into blisters and sizzled as if molten metal had been poured onto them. The formation broke and the soldiers scattered, slapping at their exposed skin and pleading with Adar to save them.

Only the other Moriondor seemed unaffected by this new enemy that was setting Adar’s children on fire before his eyes. The commanders tried to control the chaos that had broken out with their whips and swords, slashing at and beating the wailing soldiers to get back in line. Adar pulled Bezath close to his chest and dragged him towards a copse of trees.

“With me! Follow me, my children!” Adar yelled over his shoulder, hoping those that were able to would pull themselves away from the burning company.

“Please, Commander Adar, I do not want to die! My skin… It hurts so much!” Adar let go of the sergeant and let him fall to the ground. He immediately pulled his cloak from his back and covered the Uruk. He helped those few who escaped the formation to lay down under the bushes and giant ferns, relieved when he saw their skin no longer burned in the growing light of the enemy. That is when Adar noticed something about those ferns and leaves. Their colours were so bright, so…Green! He looked around at the moss, bushes, even the dirt on the ground, and gasped at how vivid their colours were. He plucked a blade of grass and held it close to inspect it, wanting to take in all the ways it had changed into a vibrant emerald with streaks of golden beryl. The fire in the sky was killing his children and it was also lifting a smog from Adar’s eyes that had kept these brilliant shades and hues hidden from him.   

Standing with only a handful of soldiers who still moaned in pain, and pleading with their father for an explanation as to why the sky was now alight with death. Adar could see all that was left of their army was dead, or dying pitiful smoking heaps curled up onto themselves. The commanders, confused and angry, kicked at the bodies while a smoke drifted from the now burnt line that ran from east to west. 

Adar’s eyes were closed as he felt his skin getting warmer with the rising Sun, now being pulled along by Arien from the east instead of the west. Are you here to bless my Children in their new homes, or will you continue to burn them? He walked back down the beach towards Draddau, who was still overseeing the cargo and livestock’s transport to shore. Out in the water, Adar watched several Uruks covered in their shark cloaks, bravely holding dozens of bee hives in place while the waves lifted and dropped the skiffs. Now and then, one would slap at their arms or faces, but they stoically held their treasures to keep the sea from knocking the hives over or off the side of the boat.

“Have Pohop show them the field where we need the hives set up. Thanghat and her crew already cleared places for them but he will know where to put them best. So, tell me, quartermaster, is the weight lifted or has the burden on your shoulders increased now that we are ashore?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Adar had been watching Thanghat slowly moving towards the elder quartermaster, diving and hiding amongst the other milling Uruks whenever his first officer turned in her direction. Both Uruk and Morion continue to speak when Thanghat leapt from a group of settlers and landed on Draddau’s back. Without hesitation, the officer reached behind him and with a clawed hand almost twice the size of the Half-Elf’s head, he yanked her from his back as if he was plucking a bothersome insect that had lighted upon him and tossed her onto the sand with little ceremony.

“Did you miss me old man?” She laughed and signed while jumping back up, taking on a fighting pose that more resembled a graceless two step dance than a warrior challenging another warrior to a match.  

“Yes, I left my trident back on the ship and it’s missed you every time.” He grumbled, then knocked Thanghat back again when she tried to kick at his mishappen leg out from under him.

“I hear one of your boys is going to be the new captain that Sealord Father has joining me on mission. Now is that the good looking one or the smart one?”

“Neither. You get the dumb ugly son that would rather bed your quartermaster Kalen over you.”

“Bed Kalen over me? No such creature exist!” Draddau made a dismissive tsking sound and spat on the sand next to Thanghat’s foot.

“I suppose you did not save me any sesame cakes either, you motherless She-Elf!” Thanghat’s smile grew and she shoved her hand inside of her armoured vest and pulled out a neatly wrapped cloth bundle, then tossed it to Adar’s first officer.

“Just the moldy ones, you busted up old ship’s hull!” The Uruk gladly took the sweet bread from Thanghat, and delivered a cuff to the side of her head.

“Sealord Father, the hives are all here, if you will excuse me I wish to-…”

“Stuff his face with the cakes.” Thanghat finished for Draddau. Adar nodded and relieved his quartermaster, then yanked on one of Thanghat’s braids to follow him.

“I see that all of you survived in one piece,” Adar grinned and gestured towards the many bite marks and scratches covering Thanghat’s skin.

“Oh this? No, this is from my own officers. Accusations of dishonesty and foul play concerning a card game could not go unanswered. But for the rest, yes I will say that putting a bunch of soft skins in charge of a pack of homesick Uruk children was not one of your more brilliant plans, Sealord Father. I think Zeander lost a finger or a thumb.”

“A sacrifice I will gladly agree to again and again, as long as we get the same results. You clear cutted where we needed, and you started a lumber yard for us to hewn planks for the foundation of the Hall.”

“Yes, and even though those little shits practically lived among those raspberry vines, there is still more than enough left for everyone to gather more.” Thanghat then reached behind her and pulled the clawed dagger from her boot.

“Here you go, mother and daughter are reunited once more,” and she handed the dagger back to Adar.

“More like father and daughter,” he muttered to himself.

“What?” Thanghat’s smile fell and she raised a brow in mock confusion.

“Nothing. You will partner with Draddau’s son Sauggath for the next year, or until you think he is ready to cut loose on his own. Do not get too mired out there, I want you both back with full crews by the next quarter moon so we can all take that convoy. I do not need to remind you that-…”

“-that we need the convoy to feed the island for the winter. Yes, Sealord Father, but if you say it half a dozen more times before I clear out of here, maybe then the message will land.” Thaghat pulled a handful of raspberries from her pocket and tipped her head back to toss them into her mouth.

“You seem to be spinning in a whirlpool of your own making, what troubles you, Sealord Father? I assumed you would be in a better mood with all of us here in one spot, where you can order everyone around without shouting too loud.” Thanghat recognised the slight slump to Adar’s shoulders when his thoughts were heavy and winding.

“I suppose I am considering so many moving pieces, and if just one of those pieces falls from it’s place much can go wrong. I do not doubt everyone’s eagerness to build the settlement. Just-…” Adar could not find the words he needed to express his doubts.

“You got all of us here, Sealord Father, and none of those pieces have fallen yet.”

“When the sun came up, I was reminded of The First Dawn and how I could do nothing to stop Arien’s light from burning my children. We have shark cloaks and our ships were altered to keep the sun from touching the Uruk, and now I have thrown them on an island with open fields and trees that are too small to provide decent cover.”

“It will be like the atoll, Sealord Father. It will take time but before you know it this place will be covered in canvas shades and shelters. The bushes and raspberry fields are perfect for those little ship rats to run around under. No one got burned once while we were waiting, ya know?”

Adar nodded but his shoulders were still pulled forward. “Where did you say you wanted your dwelling, again?”

“Oh! Yes, over there up above those tidal pools. Just before the foothills of Mt. Raspberry begin. I walked around up there the other day and there is a little deer trail that looks like it goes all the way up.” Thaghat pointed towards a place high above the beach, but close to the settlement.

“Mt. Raspberry?”

“The children named it that. I wanted to call it Mt. Eyeless Corpse but I was voted down. Take it up with them.” Adar shook his head as they walked back towards the settlement. He took one last look at the place where Thaghat said she wanted her dwelling, and thought about the deer trail she mentioned. Perhaps when he could get away from the activities in the camp he could explore the trail later and get a gull’s eye view of their new home.

With most of the fleet departed back out to sea to pirate or hunt, and the settlement busy with building itself and starting cook fires, Adar wandered through the forest towards the deer trail that Thaghat had mentioned. He was about to start up the trail, when he heard his name called by a pair of voices.

“Sealord Father, please wait for us!”

Olcma and Oldash, daughters of two of his long serving crew members, who had fought on his own ship for almost two decades now, ran up to him with their shark cloaks trailing in the early morning breeze.

“We are sorry to bother you, Sealord Father, but I didn’t want to miss you before you set back out to sea and-…” The elder of the sisters, Olcma, signed and spoke quickly. Adar recalled that she tended to speak so fast that even the Uruk who could hear fully had trouble keeping up with her. The Dark Elf found that it was because she had so much to say and not enough ears taking the time to listen to her, so she was always rushing to get her words heard.  

“There is no worry about me going back out to sea any time soon, I will be here on the island for at least two more full moons. Is something troubling you, Olcma?”

Adar knew exactly what was troubling the lanky teenager. Like so many of her cohort, she had been raised and trained to one day fight for him, a sword put in their hands as soon as they could walk. Most of the Uruks were as tall and large as they were ever going to be by the time they reached adolescence, but with the discovery of the island and the establishment of a settlement, Adar no longer wanted child soldiers amongst his people. The Uruk youth also deserved to have a future just as any child in Middle Earth did. He had announced a few years ago that no one could join a crew until they were at least sixteen. The announcement was met with anger and disappointment, but Adar was confident the Uruks would appreciate having their children live long enough to have families of their own, and that not all of them would be forced to follow the perilous path of their warrior parents. His confidence, however, was shared by few. 

“Yes, Sealord Father. If I may, my sister and I want to talk to you about maybe allowing us to join a crew anyways, now that everyone is here on the island that is.” Adar smiled and nodded towards Olcma’s quieter sister, Oldash, who shyly returned his smile.

“I want to get a look at a deer trail Captain Thanghat told me about, and maybe even find some wild ginger to bring back to Pohop. He said we are almost out of it from the journey to here and I would like to replenish him before the sun climbs too high in the sky. Would both of you like to help me and we can talk at the same time?” The girls nodded quickly and ran ahead of Adar to climb the deer trail.

He watched Olcma’s hands flying quickly as she spoke while Oldash took out her curved dagger to move the ferns and vines out of their path. “Sealord Father, I know what you said about how old we have to be to get on a crew, and that you do not change your mind with such matters, but I think if you heard why we should-…”

“I do change my mind, Olcma, and I do it often. When you become a captain or leader, you will understand that all circumstances can change in a blink of an eye and you must adapt.” Olcma paused to gather her thoughts, then her fingers and hands matched the burst of her voice, like two birds fighting each other in mid flight.

“As you know, our father joined your crew when he was only ten and our mother was eleven. I think the warriors in my family were made to start fighting when we are young, so we can spend more years getting better at it. Oldash is almost twelve and I have just turned thirteen. We can fight now, Sealord Father.” Adar’s lips pressed together briefly with agitation but he turned his head so neither of the girls could see it.

“That is true, Olcma. Your parents did join my crew when they were very young. Both of their parents had been killed when we took down half a dozen Númenórean freighters, as well as many other warriors. We needed to fill their places and also do something with all the newly made orphans. That is why you never met your grandparents.” Adar had been searching the forest floor for where the ground was soft and loamy, then he crouched down and took out his claw dagger to poke and dig at the soil.

“You are also correct about something else you said, Olcma. You were made to start fighting at a young age. I know you have heard all of this before, but that is why there are Uruk. Morgoth had us created to be his slave army and nothing else. He saw to it that you can have babies much younger than Men or Elves, and you can fight and kill even when you are still children. But you know you are not a slave, and we do not serve any masters, especially the ghost of Morgoth.” Adar still kept his face from Olcma and Oldash, signing with one hand as he dug with the other, hoping neither of the Uruk girls could see his hand trembling.

“We are not what Morgoth wanted us to be. We are not even what the Valar had deemed and judged us as. Among the rest of the peoples of Middle Earth, children are allowed to grow up, and some are even encouraged to find a trade or life that does not involve violence or killing… Or dying young. We will not always need to pirate for survival and now, more than any other moment in our history, we will need leaders for our nation to adapt to this change in our destiny. Here, come over here, I found some ginger root but I need help to dig it out.”

Wordlessly Adar and the young girls dug up ginger for a while, only Oldash breaking the silence by asking the Morion if the pink color of the root meant they could not use it.

“No, it is just a different variety, not as strong as what we usually grow. But Pohop can make it into a tea and it will last until our own ginger can be harvested.” Adar turned and saw Olcma looking downcast as she neatly piled up what her sister and he had pulled from the ground. He stood and went over to the girl, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder until she looked up at him.

“Olcma, most of the youth and children already listen to you now. They see you as an example of an Uruk woman who cares deeply for her people and will do anything to keep us all safe. You were made to be something less than who you are, and I would rather confront Ulmo himself than allow another young Uruk life to be snuffed out before she has even has begun to live. Please do not think I say these things lightly, or I do not take what you are telling me to heart. If you are meant to be on a crew you will sail on my ship the year you turn sixteen. Not before.”

Adar hugged the teen quickly and offered her a smile. Crestfallen, but knowing she had to accept the Sealord Father’s decision, Olcma nodded and returned the embrace.

“Perhaps we can see if you and a few others can help us map this island. Right now, we are using sketches and terrible drawings that were done in haste a long time ago and we will need it updated. I can see this as a task a one day ship’s navigator would take on herself and it would help us all tremendously.” Adar offered the girl, whose magenta eyes lit up with sudden joy, squeezing the Morion’s heart.

“I can help too!” Oldash yelled and Adar smiled to himself while the girls were now signing to each other how to best explore the island and chart it. He bent down to help retrieve the ginger when he heard a woman’s voice lifted in a song and…

…Olcma and Oldash, the island, and everything disappeared beneath his boots. It silently crumbled away rock, dirt, and brush as if an earthquake swallowed it up without a sound. But Adar did not fall, and the land was replaced by soft and familiar sands. The unending pounding of the waves surrounding their island faded away to the more gentle and rhythmic lapping of a calm shoreline while the sof morning sun was replaced by a dark indigo sky, alight with the hypnotic splendour of its stars. The hills and mountain were gone and now he was surrounded by deep woods that ended where the glistening beach and gentle sea met.

An Elven woman with long dark, braided hair had her back to him and was watching something, or someone emerging from the forest. Her caerulean, gossamer gown clung to her body like mist and though Adar could not explain why, he knew she had made the gown herself. And yours, look down and see. Yes, he also was wearing a shorter gown, the same color blue as hers and he knew she had made it for him, for us.

“*Ni véla-lyë…tul-símen… tul-símen hya mapa-rya minomë…” A thousand insects gnashed and tore at the flesh behind his eyes, as the memory of a voice imprisoned in the Void called out to him from those long dead woods. But beneath it, a more malicious, seductive voice cooed in his ear and the smell of blood and cloves like a ripped open wound made him call out to the woman in the blue gown. To warn her.

“Love me. Love me and let me into your heart. You will never have to love… Anyone… Ever again.” The Seducer hissed as a forked tongue slid across his ear, and curled around the peaked tip. He almost cried out, and then slapped at the side of his head trying to pull the monstrous tongue away from him…

“Sealord Father! Sealord Father! What’s wrong?” 

Adar flinched when he felt hands pulling on his arm and it took all of his self-discipline to not knock Olcma and Oldash back when they grabbed at him. Eyes wide with terror, he looked around at the girls’ feet and saw they stood on solid ground. Morgoth will never escape the Void and Mairon was dead by his own hand, they were not coming for his Children. But what did he just see and hear? He signed for Olcma and Oldash to take out their daggers again.

“I heard something and I need to find out what it is. Olcma, if I tell you to run, I want both of you to go find Draddau and his sons, tell them that there is someone on the island who might be dangerous.” Both sets of magenta eyes went wide with fright, but Adar saw the girls brandish their blades as the warriors they were taught to be, prepared to fight in any direction he pointed. Perhaps you spoke too soon, my sweet Uruk. What if your children will always have to kill in your name? Adar was used to his doubts and fears spoken in his head with his own voice, but now the poisoned words were Mairon’s voice. The Seducer. The Deceiver.

“Stay behind me, and do not do anything until I tell you to, do you understand?” He signed to both of the Uruk girls and they nodded. He heard the woman’s voice singing again and was about to sign to Olcma for her and her sister to run, but this time there was no night sky, no ancient forest with a shadowed shape emerging like a hibernation drunk cicada from its lair, and no Mairon.

Adar heard the singing not far from the cove where the foothills ended. He walked slowly and saw a flash of blue and white through the trees and what he could make out to be someone walking but their movements were nothing like the Uruks or Half-Elves. Adar found a crop of rocks and tall grasses to duck behind, then he cautiously peered down at the small beach surrounding the cove.

Before him he could see two human males, pirates he thought but without closer inspection they could be one of the many hundreds of the coastal tribes of Men. They were bound as calves ready for the slaughter, sitting side by side on the beach and standing over them was what appeared to be a woman in naval armour. Her back was to him, and after she had spoken to the men, she slowly wandered out into the water while looking intently at her hand and arm. Adar glanced up and down the beach, and besides a small boat resting in the sand, he could see no one else or any signs of where the three had come from.

Adar’s heart began to hammer in his chest, were these natives to the island? No, impossible. Surely they would have had a run in with his scouts by now. They either just arrived as well or had been able to keep their presence a secret this whole time. Both options filled the Dark Elf with the dread of the unknown threat. The woman wearing the naval armour then started singing again, and Adar lifted his hands to cover his ears. He gave Olcma and Oldash nods of reassurance and mouthed “they are using magic and singing spells.” The girls gripped their daggers tighter and kept their defensive stances.

Adar removed his hands when he felt the song ending, but to his horror he saw that the cove had exploded with wind and swirling waters. Aware any sound he made would be drowned out by the vortex whirling before him, he took a chance to get closer to the invaders.

The woman’s back was still to him, as she sat both of the corsairs back to back near the water. It appeared she was using her songs to call whatever creature or magic that had filled the cove with haunted echoes and lights. He expected to see the men fighting their chains and trying to escape, but they looked immobilised in place. Then the woman drew a sword and turned towards the prisoners. The sword, curved slightly with an ivory hilt, flashed like lightning as it reflected Arien’s vessel back towards it. Her side profile turned towards him, Adar then confirmed what he suspected looking at the boat and her blade; her ears were pointed where they poked out from dozens of neatly arranged braids. She was an Elf. The uniform, the sword, the boat. She had the form of a Linda Elf woman, perhaps a naval officer but unlike the Elven women Adar had encountered, she had been singing a spell of some kind and pointing her sword at the chained up men.

Then from the water emerged other voices, now singing as well. The woman joined with their song, but this time Adar allowed himself to hear the music. He felt as if his blood was trembling and the very salt in it shook with violence. The water in the cove rose quickly and soon it had surrounded the Elf woman and her bound prisoners. When the singing stopped, Adar could see what he thought at first was silver and white sea kelp, but instead the kelp was attached to the heads of three figures who pushed themselves out of the water as if a great weight had been holding them back. Demons? Water wights? No, Wingildi . The dreaded sea creatures that are powerful enough to sink any ship and even drag islands from their roots. He had seen them only from a distance and always ordered his ship to divert its course to make more space between them and the Wingildi .

The Sealord Father expected the woman to withdraw or at least try to escape from the copper and pink skinned beings, but then one of them reached out with its long, spider-like fingers and it enfolded its thin arms around the Elven woman as if lost kin. What sort of beast is this and how will she hurt my Uruks?

The Wingildi surrounded the prisoners, moving in a slow circle, clicking and squealing noises came from their mouths and the Elven woman answered in kind. She can speak to them and they to her. As quietly as he could, Adar reached down and signed to Olcma and Oldash, “She is very dangerous, if she attacks us I want you to run.” Olcma made a low growl in the back of her throat but signed back she understood.

Then all at once, the Wingildi threw themselves at the captured men, who wordlessly succumbed to their claws as they were dragged from the beach and out into the spinning waters in the cove. Still and without a scream or cry of protest, the men were pulled under and slowly the waters calmed, leaving behind a foamy blood cloud that slowly spread across the cove. Staring where the men were taken, Adar did not notice the Elven woman stopped walking towards her boat and now stood still, her head turned in his direction.

“Reveal yourselves! I did not come here looking for trouble.” She yelled towards him in Quenya.

Before he could pull out his sword, his eyes raked over her uniform once more, and the pit in his stomach opened wider. She was a naval officer or had been close enough to one to steal their clothes. Not only did he have Wingildi to contend with, but Elves patrolling the seas near the island was an added threat that they were not facing only moments ago.

Then Adar’s eyes rested on her smooth, sun-kissed tan skin, and the regal styling of her silver and black braids that formed a rolled crown with woven beads and shells glittering like precious gems. Her dark amber and gold eyes met his frozen azure ones. Adar felt a knot in his throat that choked his words down when he opened his mouth to order her surrender. He wanted to swallow the knot down, but knew the sight of it would make him look like a mawkish boy. Whoever or whatever she was, her bewitchment of him could not stand.

Instead, he growled, “Alas, you have found it.” 

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast

11:00 18 Tuilë SA 3235

“Alas you found it.”

The grey light revealed three black silhouettes delineated against the rock. The one who spoke was flanked by the other two, twisted hooded forms holding curved knives at eye level. Orcs, unmistakably. Veanelen had not seen Orcs since she ferried refugees evacuating Beleriand after Morgoth’s defeat. They are underground dwellers. How did they get here? The central figure moved one long leg and stood by the edge of the cliff where Veanelen could see him. Impossible! They are all dead! I saw them killed.

The Morion stood silent, sizing and weighing her up. His eyes fixed on her like a black leopard deciding if she was prey or competition. If he blinked, she could not tell. His hair and armour were of the same blackened iron. His skin was as pale and as rough as the grey sandstone cliff that surrounded the cove. The tales of the ‘Ghost Elf’ in the high seas turned out to have a kernel of truth in them . Veanelen had not moved and kept her chin up defying this stranger. Inspect me and this beach for as long as you need, you know your eyes did not deceive you.

Veanelen saw the ‘Ghost Elf’ lifting his hands and moving them on both sides of his chest. Some of the first Quendi could use magia, will he direct his art against me? Then she heard the unmissable sound of scoffing from one Orc and an irritated growl. The two Orcs lowered their knives. 

“Name yourselves and your intentions.” The elleth projected her voice and the stone returned her words. Adar came out of his amazement fueled with a protective rage. The two teens looked at their Sealord Father, and he signed his order to stand by, but he did not look back at them. His eyes were fixed on the creature standing on the sand. In that beach that had been flooded until she stopped singing.

“I will not ask again. I will bring the tide up to where you are standing, see how you fare against a siege of waves.”

“Not if I cut the song before it rises from your throat.” She is a nymph of the sea, on clothes taken from a fraught elf she probably wracked. Adar grabbed the hilt of his sheathed great sword.

“If you are to make that attempt, you will have to come closer.” The Wingil taunted him, extending her arms open, empty palms faced upwards. A wind rush blew her hair, turning her into a black and silver anemone. A sunbeam illuminated her face and her skin shimmered like a bronze blade in the forge. It seems like I must.

The Morion silently climbed down the rocky wall. Moving with long slow strides, and his stare fixed on Veanelen. She met his gaze while keeping her face stern. Their eyes clashed and she could see his iris. At sea, that colour is an incoming storm. Her arms were still up, she lowered them slowly, marking cautiously that she was not going for her sword.

“Give me a reason not to kill you right now.” She heard the Ghost Elf say, in an even lower register than before. His threat was real, although he had stopped moving three steps away from her. His hand was still on his pommel.

“Even if you manage to kill me…” Veanelen said in a serene voice. You could not, even if you tried. “What you just witnessed, would be nothing compared to what would become to whoever hurts one of us.” His left eye twitched in a barely perceptible way. “So it is better for everyone if we talk earnestly, because it was you who found trouble.”

Adar could not tell why she had not reached for her sword yet. She is not lying. If she wanted to harm us, she would have already tried something. What does she want from us? If she so much as looks at Olcma or Oldash, she is done. And everyone else? I cannot simply kill her nor let her go.

“Apologies for the mistrust, you must understand how this looks.” Adar had changed to his friendlier tone. But no one else would call it "friendly". He had relaxed his sword hand just a little and tried a less intense stare. She remains unyielding. “We could parley at my camp.”

“Who would I be parleying with? Captain?”

“Adar.”

Veanelen heard the word and tried to make sense of it. Adar: Atar: father. Father? He wants me to call him ‘father’! This has to be a perverted joke. “Is that your name?”

“That is what my children call me.” 

His children! Does he think I am a child? Is that how he refers to his crew? “How about your peers?”

“Do you think you are my peer?”

“I am feeling generous, I will allow you to say that.” Veanelen gave him a sardonic grin.

“Use it as a title, if it pleases you so.” He said almost like a growl, but he accompanied the guttural sound with his palm open towards her, signaling he was waiting for her introduction.

You do not get a name, moripendi. We will deal with names if I ever trust you. “You may call me ‘Ciriarāta’.”

“Sounds like a big title.”

“The title suits me just fine.” Veanelen first thought he was mocking her, but she saw something in his expression: his face had not moved but his eyes were slightly out of focus. He’s trying to figure it out, and he has never heard the Lindárin language. “You can call me ‘Admiral’, if it is easier.”

“Ci-ria-ra-ta. Ciriariata. Ciriarāta, you are cordially invited to parley at my camp. As a guest, of course.”

Veanelen extended her left hand, the right hand ready to reach her sword if needed.  Adar looked at it for a second. He mirrored her and offered an armoured gauntlet, decorated with spikes of the same black iron as his breastplate. She did not flinch and shook it with determination. His pupils dilated briefly and returned to their normal size under a second. When Veanelen recovered her hand, she felt the blood trickling from her finger, then heard it reach Ulmo’s waters.

11:30 18 Tuilë SA 3235

Veanelen was sitting at the front of her small rowing boat looking at the other passengers. And at the four blades laying at her feet: her Valinorian silver short sword inside its sheath, Adar’s black iron great sword had no cover, and the rusty curved knives of the two fully cloaked Orcs. The last two were now sitting at the back of the skiff rowing southwards. Adar was sitting in the middle seat. It had to be arranged that way to keep the dinghy stable. Adar’s battle armour was too heavy, and he was too tall. Veanelen usually stands noticeably above any other elleth she had met, and she was slightly taller than most ellos. She was not used to looking up to meet anyone’s eyes, but that was the case with Adar.

Veanelen remembered how Adar kept putting his body between her and the Orcs. He uses his figure to intimidate. He enjoys towering on their foes and unsettling them with his stare. At first she thought he was keeping his subordinates from hurting his hostage. But the way he kept a cautious stare on her as he blocked them, even as she boarded her own skiff, told her this was not a commander’s behaviour. He acts like a whale keeping a shark away from her calf.

Veanelen saw the Morion signing again with his hands, and his Orcs nodded. That instruction must be about our arrival to their camp. He strikes me as someone who understands guest rights. And as someone who only observes them if it suits him. His spiky ears were undeniably elven, the tar black hair ran down one of his cheeks and to his broad shoulders. He is a veteran warrior. His armour looked worn and torn in certain places, dented and even pierced. Was it made for him? Did Morgoth even bother with providing battle gear? It looks like it was forged on the first fire ever lit.

He had not said a word to her. He weaponises silence. His thin lips were tensely shot together. His jaw was so sharp that he could sever an arm with it. He chuckled and changed the side facing Veanelen, he even changed his hair to the back of his ears with a smirk targeted at her. He is amused that I am studying him. So much so that he does not care If I know who he is, what he did. This side had a deeper and more distinguishable mark carved from his temple to one of his elegantly high cheekbones. Veanelen was both horrified and unsurprised by his former masters marking the flesh of their thralls.

“How did you get to this island? It was said that Orcs cannot swim and feared deep waters.”

“Uruks.” He said almost like a whisper.

“Pardon?”

“We prefer ‘Uruk’.” He enunciated with a fierce rasp.

“Apologies. We were told that ‘Uruks’ dislike deep waters. How did you get to this island? Any island.”

“You have been told many lies. If I grant you time, you will see how they start to crumble.”

“If you ‘grant me time’, Adar? Threatening a guest on their way to a parley may taint the spirit of negotiations.” Veanelen heard the Morion scoff, but she smiled at him.

Adar was not expecting to hear that merfolk knew about Uruks. His children have never come with any of the tales of luring beauties and ecstatic drownings. Not until now. This one has been spending time with the elves. Maybe she is hunting them. That sigil in her cuirass was foreign but not new. I must remember where I have seen it, or when.

Adar kept searching for proof of this sea nymph’s wickedness: he tried looking for filed teeth, and found only a brief dimpled smile when a petrel flew by. He was certain her eyes were dead black pearls, instead the light revealed warm brown almonds with gold-flecks, protected by long black lashes under full arched brows. The tip of her nose was slightly turned upwards, making her look like she’s always smirking. She was observing him. She is being cautious but she does not look afraid. He tried looking for her pulse, but his gaze followed her neckline to the point where her clavicles met. Adar lifted his gaze again and met the Wingil’s inspection. If she is not afraid, it means she is planning to harm us.

13:00 18 Tuilë SA 3235

They reached the beach, and Adar pushed both Orcs out of the boat before allowing Veanelen to move. He was shielding them! They might be too young to be soldiers. The Morion held all the weapons as he led Veanelen to the camp area. Most Orcs were still working on securing some of the tents. Others were tending fires. Veanelen tried to estimate their numbers. It was not a large population, like the one in Angband. But this was more than just one ship’s crew, this is a small village. She even saw young fledglings in the distance. Ulmo, please guide me.

Veanelen remembered the lessons in Rúmil’s Deceptive Truths: “The striver and aspirer do; The mocker and offender, too. A shadow. Fiction filling realms. All we see from them means nil.” Adar was showing everything to hide something. Distracting her with all the information available. At least I am sure this is a new camp.

The only tent fully set and furnished was the large one in the centre. Made of black canvas and leather, it stood tall enough to allow Adar to stand at full height, its entrance was lower and Veanelen had to crane her neck down when she was led in. Small vents allowed for some sun rays to offer visibility. But in a couple of hours those would mean nothing. Adar opened a chair for her, and helped her sit. The first words that came out of Adar’s mouth were in Black Speech, not directed at her: “We need water.” He kept using his hands when he spoke. The Morion took his time reaching the opposite side of the table. He owned the space and everyone within it, including his guest.

Adar looked at the Wingil’s eyes, still bothered that he could not remember the emblem on her chest. An Uruk left a water skin and two hollowed bovine horns. Adar signed his gratitude and asked her if she had gotten his earlier message. The scouts were already fulfilling those orders. Adar returned his attention to the corner, where all the weapons were placed to comply with the protocol. He poured water on one horn, and left it on the table. Poured the second one and passed it to the Wingil, wondering if her kind even needed freshwater. She accepted it with a brief but sincere smile that lit up the inside of the tent.

“Ciriarāta, allow me to express my gratitude for your graceful acceptance of my offer to parley. You have my hospitality and protection.” He tried his best not to sound sarcastic. “Adar of the Uruks, I have the honour of being your guest, and you have my gratitude for your vows as a host. I will follow the ways of your house and your people.” She had said the words plainly. Routinely. But Adar was about to test their honesty.

“Ciriarāta, why do you think you are here?”

“You asked politely.”

Adar did not move a muscle. Waited for her to fill in the silence with her guess. She just stared back at him with her lips slightly curved up. Is this how sirens seduce into perdition? This act will not infect my reason. “Ciriarāta, why would you say I asked?”

“You saw what I did in that cove, and you want to know if I am a threat or if you can use me.”

Adar’s eyes opened wide for a second, and returned to their perpetual frown. The direful spectacle of mounting waves and men swallowed by the sea was still fresh in his mind. “And which one is it?”

“None.”

“None?” He let out an incredulous growl.

“I have no interest in what you are doing here. From what I saw from your camp, your land based activities are not of my concern, and I do not plan to get on your way. As long as you stay out of mine.”

Adar had many questions about the person sitting in his tent. But he was certain that not once since his second awakening, had his activities not concerned someone born outside of the Uruk race. That proves she is not an Elf. “This is what I need to understand, what exactly is your business?”

“Serving Ulmo and protecting seafarers.”

“Protecting, you say? How was that dreadful scene ‘protecting’?”

“You witnessed justice.”

Adar grunted. Got up with the speed of a pyroclastic cloud, but walked slowly towards the Wingil, his eyes fixed on the neck he wanted to snap with his gauntleted hand, and rid his Children from her foul presence. He sat on the table, looking down at her deriding face. “What are you?”

“Do you want a concise answer for that grand question?” Her eyes widened and studied his face before meeting his stare. “What are you?”

“I am the Uruk asking the questions”. Adar used the sharp end of his gauntlet to carve a path on the table without losing sight of the Wingil's throat. He saw her holding a knot in her windpipe, then he got closer to get an answer.

“So you are the company you keep. I am the company I keep.” Her back was straight against the chair and her hands on the table.

“What exactly is the company you keep?”

“You were spying on my affairs and still need to ask.” The Wingil craned her neck up to meet Adar’s stare and smirked. “What are those two tourmalines for, if not for seeing what is right in front of you?”

“I am seeing an intruder on my island that still needs to make a case to remain as a cooperative guest and not as a hostile prisoner.” Adar stood upright.

“Firstly, I have not shown hostility towards you nor your companions.”

“Your ill presence on my island is a challenge against my people.” Would Ossë truly avenge her as one of his ministers, or was that a lie?

The Wingil took the tip of her fingers to her temples, she slowly moved two silver braids behind her ears. She squared her shoulders, and lengthened her neck. When her face was centred, she almost whispered: “Pray tell, Adar of the Uruks, what makes you think that this is your island?”

“We arrived here and raised camp before you.”

“Before me? Before me, when? You have not even explored it. Making use of any island is a natural prerogative. My people and I have been coming to this one for centuries, Adar. We have planted seeds after foraging. We grew hemp here after one particularly strong storm that caused the need for new sails. We have a small mussel farm on one rocky shore. And I do not claim ownership over this island. Because this and any island was a gift from Ulmo to all seafarers. He raised them for the Children of Ilúvatar. One does not seize a gift.”

Sails? Why would a Wingil need sails? Adar stood away from her. He took his gauntlet near his face and confirmed what he thought he smelled at the beach: Elven blood. She is not a Wingil, she is an Elf. Of course she is an Elf! What else could she be, with those ears and that naval armour? He just had never seen her emblem, but she is The Elven Admiral. The one who shields the Númenórean vessels. The one the corsairs fear. Even my fleet does its best to avoid the areas she patrols. We cannot build a home with the Elven navy here. “You are an Elf.” Adar saw her nod. “Then I warn you: it is in your best interest to leave my island immediately.”

“Again with the aim to possess.” The elleth dared to move her head side to side in reprobation. “You cannot claim as your own a place you do not understand. Those trees you fell at the edge of the forest, they were your protection against any seaborne storm. Even if you never enrage Ossë, by high tide the next full moon, salt water will intrude those pools because you destroyed the barrier. How long can Uruks survive drinking brine? Especially the youngest…”

“How can you be so right and so wrong at the same time?” Adar was livid. He unconsciously got his face so close to hers that he could hear her pulse rising. Fear or anger, it did not matter. He held her jaw with his gauntlet to hear it rising even higher. “My children never had an island made just to float us to the Undying Lands. They never had a chance to sing in a way that made them Ulmo’s favourites… Or any Vala for that matter! All of them ignored our prayers and our desperate pleas! The Valar honoured those who slaughtered us, and they let us suffer for millennia at the hands of the worst of Them.”

“Adar…” Ciriarāta’s voice was gentler, almost kind. “You may not believe this from an Elf, but I think that your Uruk’s existence is not their crime.” Adar saw her pupils examining him. “And you are living proof that the Valar needed to act against Morgoth an age earlier.”

“I care not for your pity.” He let go of her face.

“It is not pity that makes me say this, Adar.” She said as softly as morning dew. Then continued her resolve. “But one cannot cure an injustice with further injustice. I never said that you cannot settle here. I said you cannot deny us access, and a respectful use of this island.”

Adar heard in her voice something that he assumed to be her elven self-righteousness. There is no world where a warring Elf speaks with true compassion: “I am not asking you, Ciriarāta, permission to settle.” 

“It is not mine to grant. And you clearly need a place.” She stood and met Adar’s face. He knew she could not be alone, and executing her would only lead to more Elves searching for her near his settlement. It was the virtuous tone of her speech that brought his attention back to her words: “It is not me, nor any Elven king who grants use of the Valar’s blessings. If you are going to belong to this island, learn about it. Disrespect its streams and forest, they will stop providing for you. Disrespect the sea, it will wipe you out. Disrespect guest rights, and curses will befall on you and yours.”

“You have guest rights. If you want them for your crew, then you will have to earn them.” Adar curled up his lips.

“How?”

Adar looked at her again. This time, he forced himself to look at all of her: her cuirass was used but not battered, the fine elven maille of her hauberk was shining even though it was just submerged at sea, her quilted silk gambeson was made for her shape, fitted to allow her freedom of movement, even with the light padding; she was still soaked, and the soft leather chausses held to her long legs, struggling to stay up with the weight of the water they held. He remembered holding her blade for a minute before putting it in the parley vault. It was light, it must be quick and sharp, like her .

“A duel.”

“A duel?”

“Do you have water in your ears or is your armour echoing my words?” Adar smirked when Ciriarāta rolled her eyes at his taunt.

“No champions and no seconds: you and me. Under which terms?”

“The only terms that matter.” Adar licked his upper lip, rejoicing at the prospect of the sanctimonious Elf’s reaction to his following words. “Til death.”

“I partially agree, Adar.” She said with no alarm and no surprise. “For I cannot fully agree under the present conditions. See. The warriors have instructions. If I am not back with my comrades by nightfall, they will come out fighting. You must know that they saw the boat rowing south from the cove. It will take them no time to arrive here and, unbeknownst to them…” The Admiral directed her face to the tent’s entrance and the camp beyond. “Dishonour the terms of our agreement. Such a heinous act can be avoided. I request that we send an emissary to my ship, and bring in two witnesses. They will sign our terms. If you kill me, they can give me a proper sea burial and take my sword to King Olwë.”

“Seems fair, Ciriarāta.” Adar finally understood who she was. He vaguely remembered that distant name from before some of them left the inner sea, back then, this Olwë was the brother of a young king. She must be his close kin, perhaps a daughter. “Are you ready to agree to the duel?”

She offered her right hand, this time there was no need to keep her sword hand free. She looked at him straight in the eyes, with the confidence of someone who knows they will not die that day. Not many facing Adar had worn that look, fewer had been right. Adar kept her waiting for his shake, this would mean actually touching her with his bare hand, somehow that felt worse than slaying her. But he could not deny this gesture of mutual understanding. He grabbed her hand, and she held his grey one with fierce strength. Her gaze had more curiosity than defiance, but Adar was suddenly uneasy around this Elven Admiral. He released her hand and turned his back to her.

“We will speak again.” He declared in the same grasping voice he used when he first answered her from the cliff. “Write to your people, and we will deliver your message.” Adar exited the tent.

Ulmo, save me. What doom did I just invoke? Veanelen felt like she was vibrating.

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast

14:00 18 Tuilë SA 3235

Veanelen estimated that half an hour had passed before anyone came back to the tent, and checked on her after Adar left her alone. An Orc who escorted her with Adar when they arrived from the cove, retrieved the chest with the guarded weapons. ‘Uruks’, I must call them ‘Uruks’. That the first dwelling to be properly set was furnished with a council table and a modest collection of scrolls was very telling about her opponent. My captor plans everything with his council. Her perceived intrusion was altering long-laid plans, maybe causing some internal conflict. Is he using me to prove his strength to anyone doubting him? Veanelen had no other option than consenting to the duel, but she still could not understand his motives.

The same Uruk who brought the water, came in and hissed when she found her looking at the scrolls Adar had all over his council room. It was not a hiss, it was Black Speech, Veanelen listened more intently. “That ain't for your eyes, She-Elf!” Veanelen tried apologising but she could not find the word in what little Black Speech she learnt from the battlefield, she used Quenya and Sindarin but the Uruk did not answer.

Veanelen sat on the chair that Adar assigned her and said in Black Speech “I obey”. The Uruk placed in front of her a piece of parchment, ink and a quill made with the feather of a black swan. “The Sealord Father wants you to send a message to your ship, informing them of the duel.” Veanelen needed a moment to make sure she understood everything and asked:

“Sealord Father? Is that Adar?”

“Disrespectful She-elf! You call him ‘Sealord Father’!”

“I will.” So he gave me his name! His people call him by the honorary ‘Sealord Father’. No wonder he was crossed when I would not use ‘Adar’!

Veanelen pondered how it became both a name and his title. She had heard legends as to why the Moriondor were made, and the abhorrent purpose Morgoth gave them. But she did not allow her mind to entertain the visions of such behests. She just knew that this Ghost Elf plundering the Sundering Seas was probably the last of the Moriondor, and he led the Uruks to this isle recently, after remaining in hiding since Morgoth’s defeat in Angband. She was trying to remember when she first heard a story about the spectral crew, but she was interrupted.

“Are you staring at the parchment because you are in need of a scribe?” The cavernous voice caught her still immersed in her own thoughts, but Veanelen forced herself not to react to the mocking tone.

Adar finished signing with the Uruk and she left the tent, then he addressed Veanelen again: “You do not need a scribe, you need to be minded like a child. Can you not behave like a correspondent guest?” He growled as he spoke.

“Minded as a guest or as a prisoner?”

“A prisoner would be chained and caged." Adar answered with a cruel smirk. "Write to your crew. Let them know you are unharmed, and that I will provide safe passage to your two witnesses.”

“Will you, truly?”

“For now. But my offer expires at sundown.”

Veanelen started writing in Lindárin while the Morion walked slowly behind her to oversee her compliance.

The dark Elf’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the green and blue pearls that were woven into one of the elleth’s many fine black and blueish silver braids. “War of Wrath.” Adar inclined his head towards the Admiral’s decorated hair. “The peacock pearls tell me you were at Angband, is that so?” Ciriarāta’s compossed expression faltered for a moment as she drowned the quill in ink. Her lips pressed together in a slight grimace that would not have been noticed by an untrained eye. But Adar saw it. “It would seem we both were at the same place at the same time.” He savoured the next words more than the first taste of fresh meat after months at sea. “How did you find the hospitality of Angband then?”

She raised her face from the table and lifted her gaze to meet his. Wearing an expressionless mask, without the crack he saw seconds earlier. “Are we here to parley or to swap war stories from opposing sides?” She sounded impatient but returned to calmly writing  with a delicate calligraphy that revealed an aristocratic upbringing. The mention of Angband had suddenly darkened the space between them.

“Forgive me, it has been a long time since I last spoke to a fellow veteran who has seen Angband. I had assumed that you, as all Teleri, never left your boats.”

Ciriarāta shook her head and sighed. “We fight on land too. I was on the vanguard, the first to breach… The dungeons below.” Now it was Adar’s turn for his usual calm to be disturbed. Both remained silent for a moment but gazed at each other. Her gold-flecked mahogany eyes and his green-blue, catlike ones, both told of the carnage she had witnessed and he took part in.

“You slayed many of my children, I suppose. But then I am sure I took a loved one or two from you as well.” Adar felt how she stopped breathing. “If you saw the dungeons, then you know why we left, and why we fled to the seas.”

“Aye. I saw it. I saw it all. Most of those chained to the walls and rotting in the cells were your own people. All tormented and tortured by Morgoth. I never understood how he could do that to them.” What Admiral Veanelen did not say was that it took centuries to stop smelling the burning, rotting flesh she encountered in those shadowed hallways. Or that to this day she sometimes involuntarily recalled the atrocities she had witnessed, and she hid from him the insurmountable loss at the hands of Morgoth’s captain. She felt the vision coming back to her, with Adar standing by her side as she was sitting. She would not allow him to disturb her.

“It is quite simple, Ciriarāta.” The Morion started lecturing her on how a tyrant god treated those unfortunate enough to serve him. “He ripped us apart and put us back together because he could. To you, Morgoth was the nemesis. To us he was an earthquake, a tidal wave, a great storm from the north.” Veanelen heard the helplessness clinging to Adar’s voice through the centuries, despite his strength. “We accepted that he was a force of nature we could do nothing to protect ourselves from, but we were compelled to live and serve him just the same.”

They sat together sharing the silence, each dwelling on the horrors caused by Morgoth but felt by the incarnates of the world. It was the Admiral who ended the terrible spell they both were under.

“If I may ask… I noticed that you used hand gestures with your Orc- I mean Uruks, but just now you did the same while speaking to them. I thought the gestures were just signals.”

“No, most of the Uruk are deaf or near deaf. They were born that way, another gift from Morgoth. When we speak to each other, we sign with our hands as well so that all can communicate with each other.”

Veanelen’s eyebrows arched in slight surprise. She was taught that ’Orcs’ were just mere creatures, capable of only taking orders like violent thralls or trained animals. But now Uruks have overcome a bodily hindrance and turned it into a gain, by creating a complex, unspoken language, almost undetectable by someone outside of their own. “That must be very helpful during battles, when you must conceal your orders from your enemies.”

“It is. Turning disadvantages into advantages is what has kept us alive this long.” Adar waited to hear her moralising, High-Elven speech about the ‘unholy nature’ of the Uruks and their ‘dishonorable’ behaviour, but then she surprised him.

“Rúmil once said ‘If the Valar saw fit to cut off your sword arm, you must now lift your sword with your weak one and make it stronger’ and that is what your people did.” She quoted Middle-Earth’s lore master. Adar nodded towards her and smiled, not so much at the sentiment, but that she knew her Rúmil. This will be an interesting duel, he thought to himself.

At that moment, Shagram returned unarmed and approached Adar with a wooden bowl covered in a bit of homespun cloth. “I asked them to forage this island. We have raspberries.” Adar removed the cloth showing the pink and red treasure, he saw the eleth widening her eyes and a grin forming in her face without license to come out. “I am not sure when was the last time you ate fresh fruit, but I thought that, while we negotiate our terms, we could enjoy them.” He took one berry and put it between his lips, watching as his guest observed his movements, he held the small fruit in place for a moment, then ate it with a smirk. “For one of us, it may be the last thing we ever eat.” He chuckled and outstretched his grey, scarred hand to push the bowl towards her.

Veanelen had to admit to herself that she had enjoyed the insight into the Uruks and their language. She was almost appreciative of the offer of refreshments, for just this morning she was making plans to forage that berry field, and having steamed mussels for a treat with her crew. Now she was asking her siblings not to take retaliation, in case the Morion staring at her from the nearest chair kills her. “You are concerned it might be you.” Adar’s voice reminded her that he made a joke and was still waiting for her reaction to it. Nevermind it was as amusing as watching the ink dry. “Are you not, Adar? In my experience, underestimating a stranger has only left mourners.”

“I would never make the mistake of underestimating the Admiral of the Elven navy.” Adar said in a serious tone, as he put another raspberry in his mouth. Veanelen saw the red juice had stained his grey lips, slightly curled up in a smug smirk that spoke not of undervaluing her, but of his extreme self confidence. No one survives Angband, with attacks to and from it, without being a formidable warrior. She reached for one raspberry and its sweetness took her out of that tent and into the easier days before rallying the Valar across the Alatairë.

“Terms, Sealord Father. I need your word to keep our terms.”

“Very well. You have my word: I will uphold every term we agree upon. What assurances do you want from me, Ciriarāta?” He stood still, a statue that had withstood every attempt to destroy it.

“Whoever loses fairly, renounces the right to retaliation. If I win, my witnesses and I will be allowed to leave camp, and make use of a different area of the island. If you win, my crew will not return with reinforcements.”

“You will not demand us to leave this island if you win?” Adar seemed surprised.

Was he not listening when I said that I see no problem with their settlement? She answered: “No, it was never my intention to keep you from this isle. It was you who called for this duel to get rid of me and my people. Thus I need you to promise that, if you kill me, you will give safe passage to my witnesses and allow my Ciria to leave. No chase. You will also give them my sword for it to be returned to my King.”

“I will personally wrap you in your shroud and sing your honours, Ciriarāta. I will return your sword and see that your crew leaves unbothered by my children.”

Veanelen looked up, Adar had reached from across the table and was offering his gauntleted hand. “Do Uruks shake with their left hands?” She doubted his truthfulness. 

“This Uruk does, and I swear.”

Veanelen shook his hand and gave him the letter to his crew. “How are you planning to deliver my message?”

“That is not your concern at this time, Ciriarāta.”

The Sealord Father moved towards the entrance of the tent, and stopped to look at Veanelen when she spoke. “I will be free before nightfall, Adar, consider yourself warned.” She heard him chuckle as he exited the tent.

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast

17:00 18 Tuilë SA 3235

The weapons were lying in front of Veanelen. Trumbe and Belda understood what she meant when they were summoned as witnesses to the duel. They had brought her helmet, Elven steel twin swords, two spears, two shields, and a long silvery silk cloak. The sight of the latter raised the hairs in the back of her neck. I will not be donning this today. Her message had been written in Lindárin, explaining enough so that they would not come in force and keeping the appearance of calm, in case Adar could figure out her language from its connection with Quenya. They greeted her opponent as “Sealord Father.” The rest of the crew had done as commanded and were safe, closer to her, and ready for the trouble that had been brewing.

Adar had just added to the Elves’ weaponry display the two swords he ceremoniously removed from a chest in the corner of his parley table, his great sword and Ciriarāta’s short sword. Draddau and Pohop had been signing to him that he should just kill the elleth and be done with it. His children had not yet learned how to benefit from the presence of an enemy. The Morion looked at the Elf while she inspected the selection of arms, and he had to suppress a cackle when she reacted to the sight of a rusted double axe that was probably half her weight. He could not picture himself splitting her in half like lumber for his new Great Hall, but she clearly had.

“This iron…” Adar heard Ciriarāta say as she inspected his great sword. It was not clear if she was talking to him or to herself. “Pure iron is extremely hard…” Adar nodded wondering why she was stating the obvious. “So hard it will break before it bends, that makes it brittle.” She was testing with her fingers the sharpness of the splits in his broken blade, and Adar’s patience. “An alloy is truly strong, tempered, and more malleability allows for a sharper weapon.”

She picked up two elven swords, then offered one to Adar for inspection. The blade was light, but strong, sharp, and perfectly balanced. It would give him faster movements than his preferred weapon and could even allow for the use of shields, if she asked for them.

“I select this sword, and I commend you to agree to equal weapons to make this duel fair.” Veanelen finally said, suspecting that the only way to block Adar’s gargantuan sword was by wielding whichever weapon had caused that deep gouge on his breastplate. She had been stalling the inspection of weapons. She requested signing a contract granting safe passage to her officers, she demanded a cleaning of the duelling space to avoid any nasty surprises, they even performed the planting of Alfirin seeds to ensure life in defiance of death. Adar was more enthusiastic about the ritual than she could foresee. The small plateau overlooking the coast was exposed bedrock, as deep grey as the early evening skies.

“Equal weapons, Ciriarāta? Whoever told you the world was just, lied shamelessly.”

“The world may not be, but you still can be.” She was certain that he found that notion amusing. Hopefully, not offensive. Little fairness had he seen for himself and his Orcs. Uruks! His children.

“If you insist, Ciriarāta. I can always make use of good steel. Perhaps I shall keep this little beauty as a memory of how we gained our island,” he mused. “Rest assured, your personal sword will be delivered to your witnesses.”

Veanelen was now numbed to Adar’s intimidation attempts, but she was not blind to his advantage at reach and sheer strength. With this new sword her opponent will be faster than with his midnight black greatsword, but she would have a better chance to recover and manoeuvre after a block. She would have to be swifter and more precise with her movements. She looked up at the sky seeking the right signs and whispered for herself:

“It is wisdom rather than material power that makes a victory.” Veanelen said almost inaudibly.

“Shall we start, Ciriarāta, or would you like to recite us more Rúmil?”

She felt compelled to land a few blows on this Sealord Father right then and there. Instead she took in a deep breath that brought in the air of the ocean, and she judged the time was right.

Each of them took their place at the centre of the bedrock plateau. Belda presented Adar with his sword; Veanelen received hers from Draddau. May the Lord of Waters guide my blade. The Uruk who had brought them water earlier, Shagram, was holding a black banner between the two of them, equal distance from each.

By the time the banner hit the ground, Veanelen was already pivoting. Adar brought the sword around and up in a swift deadly arc. Steel met steel with a ringing, bone-jarring clang. “Very good, Elf.” Adar grinned, his eyes lit up with the violence of the blow. 

Veanelen jumped back to buffer the impact of the first hit. She was immediately back on her feet and drove herself at him, the twin sword alive in her hands. Adar stood his ground, parrying, but she followed, pressing the attack. It took her longer to get a fine cut on Adar’s sleeve than him leaving another one upon her. The swords kissed and sprang apart, and kissed again. Adar’s blood was chanting, this is what he was undone and remade for; every stroke was an echo of his former masters, who loved nothing more than dealing death.

High, low, overhand, Veanelen rained down steel upon her captor. Left, right, backlash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together. Upswing, sidelash, overhand, always attacking, moving into him. Step and slide, strike and step. Strike. Strike. Hack. Slash. Faster. Faster. Faster. Until Adar jumped away to catch his breath and smirked. “Not bad, for an Elf.”

She whirled the blade back up above her head and flew at him again, not knowing when she had lost her helmet.

Veanelen could not have said how long she pressed the attack. It felt like hours but the sky told her it had only been minutes. Time froze as swords danced. She pushed and stroke driving him backwards. Adar stumbled once on a rock formation and, for an instant, she thought she had managed to make him fall, but he dropped onto one knee and continued fighting without losing a beat. Adar’s sword leapt up to block a downcut that would have opened his shoulder and elicited a yield. Then he cut at her, again and again, fighting his way back up to his feet stroke by stroke.

The dance went on. Adar pinned her against the rock wall, and cursed in Black Speech as she slithered away. He followed her to the opposite side, near the shore. Steel rang. Steel cried. Steel sang. Adar started grunting with every scream of their swords. Veanelen’s speed was hard to keep up with, but it was taking a toll on her. She felt like a bird ramming into a stonewall.

Adar laughed, breathlessly but it was still effective to get her blood boiling. “You love singing, Elf, keep up with this song.” Grunting, he came at her, blade whirling, and now Veanelen was using all her power in just keeping steel from skin. One of his slashes grazed across her brow, and blood ran down into her left eye. Veanelen looked at Trumbe and Belda, their faces were worried for her, but she could not bear leaving them in Adar’s camp without her protection. What protection am I offering? I knew he was much stronger than I am, and he is faster than I thought. Her sword grew heavier with every blow, and Veanelen was not swinging it as quickly as she had done earlier, nor raising it as high. Adar will be wrapping me in the silver shroud, if he grants me that kindness.  

A slippery stone, turned under Veanelen’s foot. As she felt herself falling, she twisted into a diving lunge. Her point scraped Adar’s upper thigh. A black splash of blood hit the ground at the same time as her hip bone. At least I made him bleed, Panēle. Adar kicked her sword and lifted its twin above his head. A white light blinded Veanelen at the same moment she tasted metal. 

The sound of thunder and the pain on her side informed her that she was not on her way to the Halls of Mandos. Adar stood frozen, facing the horizon. To his horror, a spinning dark cloud erased the border between the sky and sea. A menacing storm, of a might unseen since the last days of Beleriand, was racing across the ocean towards the island. When it hit the shore, and it was in haste to do so, the settlement would be devastated and dragged out to the sea as it passed over them. Veanelen stood up. Walked up his back. Pressed the sharp of her blade at Adar’s throat and said softly to his ear: “Call a truce and I shall guide your people to a safe place.” The Sealord Father locked eyes with the Admiral and only pondered his options for a mere second. 

“Truce!” Adar shouted and turned to order everyone in the settlement to prepare to follow the Elf. With a growl of anger and fear, he tossed aside the slickened Elven sword.

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast

20:00 18 Tuilë SA 3235

Adar walked inside the cave after the last members of the entire caravan had gone in. He turned to see the valley below them, but the dense mist and the heavy curtain of rain blocked his view. Clouds as dark and as solid as onyx hovered their procession, a ravaging beast tracking the smell of their blood and sought to devour them all.

By the time they had made it to the shelter, the slowest group was sodden and shivering. Adar felt relieved when he saw a working infirmary. He hoped no one had been injured during the evacuation of the coast. His frown deepened when he saw Elven patterns drawn on the white tent. The Sealord Father went in, and he gently lowered Glasha to the arms of one of Pohop’s apprentices, who helped her sit on top of linen blankets. Adar had been carrying the eldest of his foredaughters since her sons and grandsons were at sea. When Adar saw Glasha’s heavily pregnant granddaughter in law, Uzbi, escorting the Elder with her walking stick, he asked her to get Glasha on his back immediately. The two women just reunited in the infirmary, where Pohop was checking Uzbi for signals of an early labour, perhaps induced by the excitement and the exertion.

Adar heard an annoying voice. Two elves were trying to communicate with Glasha because they thought she was injured. They have never seen an old Uruk. 

“She is saying that she is unharmed.” He almost barked in Quenya, while he softly touched the hand of one of the blind weavers. She signed against his palm that they were all safe and that Oldash had carried their sleeping pelts.

“Thank you for interpreting, Sealord Father.” Answered a very slim Elf with chestnut hair to their shoulders, who wore a blue padded gambeson with no armour, and carried a leather satchel that filled the tent with the camphoraceous odour of melaleuca.

Adar had had enough of elves. He would rather sit on a stonefish than sheltering from a storm with an entire crew of their lot. This crew. Her crew. To prove him right, the Artificer spoke to their green-eyed friend:

“I see broken bones that have been mended!” The words were a lot like Quenya but not quite. “Scars with stitching, and crutches, canes, and even a small wagon to help them move about. You do not even see this kind of care given among most of the Atani.”

“They even have midwives!” Answered the one who had tried to use Black Speech with Glasha.

“Of course we have midwives, Elf!” Adar growled his answer. “All the peoples of Middle Earth want their mothers to live and care for their newborns and every parent hopes to see their children grow. You think Uruks just lick our wounds and let them fester?”

The elleth’s green eyes showed her regret before her mouth mumbled an apology, and the two of them left the tent. Then walked through what was now the cooking space, they separated there. Adar stood at the infirmary’s entrance and followed the healer with his eyes, as they approached their leader. The soulless sorceress was fixing a screen with a black-haired ellon as tall as her. Adar saw them being briefly interrupted, and finishing the task swiftly. The Artificer took their commander by the sleeve, and dragged her behind the door of a blue Elven tent.

Adar told the two remaining Teleri officers to leave the white tent. They left their materials in Pohop’s hands. “They’re trying to help, they don’t know us. Teach them.” Glasha signed her advice and Adar knew she was right. Those two Elves were not the cause of their current situation.

Adar started making his way towards the tent where the healer took their Admiral. Draddau stopped him to inform the state of their ships. They are sheltered in a small bay on the northern coast, very close to the base of the cliff where the cave was. The swan vessel guided them from the Southern coast, and organised a formation by the sandbar to avoid ramming into each other during the highest winds.

“They can’t sign, Sealord Father. But they marked the movements with small squared flags. They say there’s a small reef up there breaking the waves.”

“Well done, son. Did you manage to bring anything from the pantry?”

“Aye, Sealord Father, we brought every barrel we could carry. Shagram is making an inventory as we speak. Twas almost impossible to fight those winds and the coast’s only two or three leagues! They’re the tallest waves I’ve seen.”

“The She-captain said we would be safe here. What do you think?”

“If that screen at the entrance holds, we’ll be fine. Let the harp players sleep next to the mouth and cover us from the draft. I’d better not see anyone playing around the edge: that wind can knock a grown Uruk down the cliff.”

The veteran quartermaster gave Adar a long look and pointed at a small skin under his vest. Adar declined and thanked him for the offer. The sailor took a quick drink, coughed, and cackled as he walked to the back of the cave.

Adar charged towards that blue tent gritting his teeth. He needed to know. This monster either tells the truth, or I will wring her sea-nymph neck until her pretty eyes pop out of her head. He heard the unmistakable sound of clothe being ripped from a half-healed wound. The fragrant salty blood overwhelmed him again. I should have killed her in that cove! But as he stilled his steps on his way to their entrance, he caught a fragment of a conversation in Telerin; it was close enough to Quenya for him to get parts of it, the rest became clear by the tone.

“It is nothing, Nestamā.”

“You are covered in ‘nothings’, Ciriarāta. You do not want to bleed surrounded by orcs-”

“Uruks. They call themselves ‘Uruks’. We must use it.”

Adar hissed and turned around. She pretended to yield just to endanger my children, and she surely washed away our new home. She struck just when I was going to spare her! He saw Olcma running out of the central pavilion and towards him. He signed asking her to see him later. She was following a toddler, who did not heed the young sitter. Instead, the little girl caught his hand and did not relent until the Sealord Father concurred that her new blanket was indeed very soft.

“Are you with the children, Olcma?”

“Aye, Sealord Father. After you ordered us to follow the Elf warrior, I asked my sister to help the blind, then I ran to help with the little ones.” She signed and spoke faster than he had ever seen her, but she was not afraid. “We kept them together all the way here, and we even brought some of their toys and blankets from the nursery. The Elf warrior and the blonde who was at camp came in, they gave one of those blankets to everyone in the new nursery. Babes and carers.” 

Adar tasted bile when Olcma called that vile enchantress a ‘warrior’ twice in one breath. But the admiration in her voice felt like a knife to his chest. “You acted fast to protect the most fragile, that is why other youths look up to you, Olcma.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. The teen’s magenta eyes glistened when he gave her a silently proud pat. “Stay together in the nursery tent until we have counted everyone.”

The Sealord Father reminded himself to look for his captains, confirm that everyone was accounted for, and see what bearings they have. The most fragile ones should have priority over blankets, furs and, if lucky, some dry clothes. His people are first, he could strangle the lies out of the Wingil later.

“If that is your order, Ciriarāta, we will make sure to only refer to these people as ‘Uruks’.” Veanelen clearly heard the fear behind Nestamā’s voice. They ripped more bandages to inspect the rest of her head wound. “May I remove your tunic to tend all your wounds?”

“Yes, please.” Veanelen raised her arms. “We must be quick to check on the rest of the crew.”

“The crew is unharmed and following protocol. You just saw Volarno, he recovered quickly, and he led all the ships to the safest shore.” The small elf hesitated as they checked their jars. “Permission to speak plainly.”

“Granted, Artificer. Please be honest, mālo.”

“I cannot believe we are here, Veanelen. What were you thinking? You allowed yourself to be captured, and negotiated that your way out of captivity was fighting the Morion? We were all instructed to stay on the ship while you paid the salt price, that is protocol. But we were immovable until nightfall. You could have easily escaped that cove. You can dive with your armour on, I have seen you.”

“I did not want to abandon the boat.”

“You are not answering seriously.” Their grey eyes lit with incredulity.

“I did not want to abandon the rowboat. We need it.”

“No more than we need our ship’s captain, no more than the fleet needs its Admiral, no more than Tol Eressëa needs her ruler, Princess; and absolutely no more than King Olwë needs his only granddaughter*”.

“Nestamā,” pleaded Veanelen as the healer stung her brow with a stringent tincture.

“I know that you try to keep us away from harm's way. But that duel could have been the end of you!” A different salve tortured the abrasion covering her hip. “If you are slayed inside an orc- Uruk! If you are slayed inside an Uruk camp, your entire crew could be judged for treason. Failing by inaction to protect our liege could be seen as dereliction of duty. And now we are allied with the Uruks?”

“I am sorry for the pain and concern that my actions cause you.” Veanelen said wholeheartedly. “I see myself more as your captain than as a Falmari noble. As a captain, my duty is to keep you safe. Had I escaped from that cove, we would still have been vulnerable to an ambush, and there would still be an Uruk fleet. I needed to see their numbers, their condition, and their intentions.” Veanelen needed Nestamā to  see what she was seeing. “We have heard all those dreadful tales of the blood-drinking, soul-eating Ghost Elf. You can see there is no ghost: I have proof of that on my blade.” Veanelen’s smirk fell down at the sight of the Artificer’s severe expression. “And this is not an army, it is a village. And a struggling village at that.”

“It is hard to tell.”

“If you cannot see it, think about it. When was the last time you saw any Uruks?”

“In Angband.”

”Precisely! After Morgoth’s defeat, his vassal Maia stayed in Forodwaith. He kept Morgoth’s army: the Uruks! If they are not with him anymore, it means that either he is gone or they are fleeing from him. You saw what I saw in Angband. You saw how he treated his thralls. These are not like other freebooters or reavers. These are Morgoth’s victims.”

“Veanelen, no.” Nestamā sounded scandalised.

“You see the state of their tents, their little belongings. They had not finished raising a proper camp, but it is unlikely they saved all their materials from Ossë’s strike. They have with them sickly elders, bodily impaired adults, and babes holding to their mothers’ arms. They have a healer, but you yourself said that they do not have enough medicine for all their needs.”

“Do not move, I need to bind you.” The Artificer’s clenched jaw relaxed subtly.

“I cannot hide from you another truth. One I can barely admit to myself. At the end of the duel, I thought I was gone. I truly did. I know I should not have put myself in that position. And I know I should not have dragged Trumbe and Belda with me.”  Veanelen struggled to get her next words up her throat and out of her mouth. “What shames me is that I had not had so much fun since the time we spent in the Grey Havens, before sailing upstream to Forodwaith. I feel terrible. But it is true.”

“Veanelen, listen to yourself.”

“Apologies, I did not mean to…”

“Are you telling me that this is similar to when you met Panēle?”

“Do not bring her into this.” Veanelen said with a voice as deep as her pain. “Let her name rest as she does her time in the Halls of Mandos.”

“I know.” Nestamā sighed. “I understand why you try to be protective of us. But if you do not want to harm us, remember what I said the next time you are out there having your fun.”

Veanelen took their hand and placed its back on her newly bandaged forehead. She meant it.

22:00 18 Tuilë SA 3235

Adar had been looking for some of the families’ leaders to confirm that everyone was in their tents. Not all of the tents were brought back in. The Elves were still lifting screens to shelter small groups of Uruks. Another group of Elves was at the central hearth, selecting items from their ship’s pantry to prepare a communal meal with a small group of Uruks. So this is ‘Shipwreck plan’. He remembered the peremptory voice of that incarnate horror commanding her two officers to return to their ship to make sure they followed those two Telerin words.

That foul creature had been useful in showing them this cave system. At least she had left markings for the rearguard to follow. She had made sure that her subordinates called them by their nation’s name. She tried to drown us! She threatened to flood that cove and she struck our camp! Adar was informed that there would be a barely edible supper, made with Elven ingredients. He signed his gratitude to the Uruk who passed the message.

Adar could see that the mutual distrust was still present, but the Elves’ attempt to aid was making a good impression on some of the young apprentices. No one here has seen battle against Elves. They do not know the carnage Elves are capable of. He sat away from everyone. He was being haunted by the damage inflicted by the mischievous creature who put a glamour on him, and led him to the beach, just so she could kill his people. It must be a glamour, just like those that Mairon conjured to lure me, bind me, and torture me. Only an enchantment could make him so reckless as to expose his Children to an enemy. At least he kept his wits for long enough to secure his charts and all the knowledge he had been gathering of the surroundings waters.

We must also map this valley and the ways into it . He noted to check with Olcma and Oldash if they saved any of their first drawings of the coast. Adar would like to connect those to this route. This was the wide entrance to a large cave system between the north and northwest of the island. The sea nymph had said that there would be a stream running at the base of the limestone structure. That was true. She mentioned a small spring inside the tunnels. I have not yet seen that one, liar.  

A noise took the ancient strategist out of his rumination. There was a commotion. No. Not a commotion. Just a cacophony. A group of teens cheered, as a boy and a girl were playing back their duel near the fire, while Shagram tried to recover the branches they were using as swords. The Elves were singing in Quenya:

Ossë sent us some weather,

Your heart flooded with fear,

I will guard you forever,

We will find our way, my dear…

Adar almost gagged at the sappy tune. He was slightly comforted by the fact that their weapons and battle gear was secured in the tent that was set for him away from the Elves’ pavilion; but aghast to confirm that most of what was protecting his children from the howling wind, were elven screens, canvases, and rolls of clothe. How much have we lost? Damn her cruel charm, and damned his foolishness for wasting time while she sang her merciless incantation.

Two teens rushed to the back of the cave. A few nanny goats tried to explore a tunnel, but the older Uruk who was minding them blocked them from going into that potential labyrinth. His mariners had carried everything and everyone they could. They will not know the extent of their losses until it is safe to return to the shore.

Adar moved quickly around the more crowded area at the back of the cave, where most of his Children took cover from the Elven mariners. The Sealord Father only allowed for brief stops, when one of the Uruk had a question or needed clear instructions. His expression was set and stern, any of his Children whose problem was trivial let him go on. They may approach him later. He stood at the secondary tent that Pohop and others had put up for the infants and Elders to rest in. “I am coming in” he called out and shook the canvas entrance, in case the occupants could not hear him. He let his keen eyes adjust to the low light inside, now he could see clearly all the Half-Elves that they had hidden from the sea witch and her crew. 

Usqueil the needlewoman was keeping all the mixed children quiet. One of her toddlers was suckling at her breast. Her pregnant belly jutted out, giving another one of her small children a place to rest his head, while the child looked up and smiled at Sealord Father.

Next to Usqueil sat Alenesso, a young Half-Elf man who lost both hands during a battle and was now one of Pohop’s helpers. He was cradling a sleeping infant in his arms while in a hushed conversation with two elderly humans, Hallgrim and Walda, who had joined the Uruk after being liberated from a slave ship decades ago.  They had become too old to lift a sword, and both settled on the atoll as fishers.  Adar felt queasy at the sight of those he had sworn to protect having to be hidden amongst his Children. 

“I am sorry we have had to do this to you. But I must understand who we are dealing with before revealing that you are also Uruk.”

“Will they try to take us from here, Sealord Father?” Alensso’s brow furrowed with worry.

“I… I still cannot trust them, son. All of Middle Earth believes there are no other Half-Elves in Arda, much less Uruk. They may feel compelled to ‘rescue’ you from my murderous grasp.”

"Sealord Father, I know I do not understand these things like you do. Uhm… From what I saw on our way into the cave, the Elves seem… to care about us. I mean… No, I’m sorry…” the Half-Elf woman looked down, realising she was speaking kindly about people that she knew Adar despised.

“No, Usqueil, please speak. I would know what your thoughts are, especially since this entails your safety and comfort.” Adar crouched down and sat near Hallgrim and Walda. The old couple were holding hands and Hallgrim smiled at Sealord Father. The human man barely spoke since Adar freed him and his wife. Walda did all the talking that day when she said they wanted to join the Uruk and they planned on dying together either by “killing those bastards, or strike us both here and now. For we have no place and no people left for us to return to.” 

“It is just that we know you hate the Elves, Sealord Father… And we also hate them. I mean we hate whoever you hate, you know?” Hearing his bias falling out of the mouth of the usually chipper needlewoman did not sit well with Adar. He did not want his children to just blindly despise who he pointed a finger at. That was what Morgoth did. He wanted them to understand how dangerous the Elves were. That part of the reason why she was taken as a child to be a slave was because the damn Elves refused to acknowledge her existence.

“What I mean to say, is that so far these Elves of the Sea seem a lot nicer than the ones you told us about. So maybe they won’t want to take any of us. But also, the longer we are all in the cave, the harder it will be to hide us from them. Especially with all the little ones, you say they have keen eyes and ears, and I’m sitting heavy in my tenth month.” Usqueil patted her stomach for emphasis, and the child laying on it giggled. 

“She is right, Sealord Father.” Walda’s voice cracked from age and the pipeweed she usually enjoyed smoking. “All of us hiding under their noses like this, well those Elves can now just say you were keeping us on purpose.”

“I am keeping you from them on purpose, I have seen what Elves are capable of. Their cruelty and the cold ‘wisdom’ they use on anyone not of their race. They are stronger than most of us, especially if we are made up of those who cannot fight.” Adar pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. And this one sent a storm to erase us from land and water. Not for the first time, Adar wished he did not send Thanghat and his loyal captains off so soon. 

“Sealord Father… This is just one more thing to worry about, and we don’t even know if it's a worry. If those Elves think me and Alensso aren’t real, well, then I guess they can just go on thinking that and stick their pointed noses up when we walk by.” The child latched onto Usqueil’s breast, pulled away and yawned, making Adar smile at the small one’s full contentment. No. No, they will not take a single one of them away, and we will no longer hide my own people like stolen goods. Not here on this island, their home, they will fight for their home if need be.

“Very well. I will test their Admiral, and if we can continue our truce, I will make her aware of who you all are, and invite her to come meet you. Then you may leave this tent, and move about the cave. But we must be ready for them to react dangerously. Walda, Hallgrim, and Usquiel: I am going to leave weapons with you to keep hidden until we know you are all safe.” The three nodded in agreement and Alensso stood to start moving their bags and blankets around neatly, expecting an important guest. 

Adar came out of the secret tent, and found a spot that would redirect Ciriarāta’s attention from its presence. Then stood guard waiting for his Elven counterpart. It only took a slight brush in the gauzy door flap by a hand of iron ore for Adar’s ire to rush again. The Morion fixed his vigilant eyes on the wicked Wingil, as she made her way to the common area. He saw her hug her boatswains as comrades, and make a futile attempt of conversation with Shagram and the Uruk cooks.

The same black-haired ellon who was working with her offered her a wooden bowl, a smile like a crescent moon rose on her beguiling bronze visage. She returned the bowl. She gave an instruction, and then four Elves and two Uruk cooks took plates to the infirmary. He heard the call for the younger ones to sit in a circle and get their meal. He looked at her again and their eyes clashed with the same momentum as their swords did hours ago. Immediately, one of his cooks presented him with a steaming concoction of salted and fresh fish, the radishes, ginger roots and mushrooms his children had foraged, clams, and what appeared to be seaweed. He was also handed a handful of Atani sea biscuits. Adar raised his eyes again and, from the distance, he saw her looking in his direction. Adar sneered at how that grotesque grin grew when his foul broth was brought to him. Then she looked away and continued fluttering around different tents and surveying the improvised covers.

Draddau sat next to him and signed his report. There were some injuries that Pohop and the Elves had already tended to. His Uruk right hand confirmed Olcma’s words: all the younglings were together and set to spend the night in their resting area. No one risked carrying the bee colony. They might find the kind of cover they need in the forest. Everyone was fed. “Twas better than expected, Sealord Father. I reckon our cooks taught them bland harpists what seasoning is.” The master mariner chuckled and took another drink of his herbal ferment.

“To your island! Our old atoll would be wrecked by now. Such wrath I’ve never seen. I told you to kill that she-Elf on sight. Good you didn’t. You know I don't like Elves, but she knew of this cave and the bay. Our scouts didn’t. Those useless scouts should dig and keep the latrine.”

Draddau took his leave. Adar saw as the seaborne curse in Elf shape sat by the central hearth, and finally accepted a bowl. At least she eats like a normal incarnate. Adar ate his supper, observing his alleged guest laughing with her crew. She finished her plate. He observed her stand up and carry a wooden bucket to the entrance of the cave to collect rainwater. She was making her way towards him, drying her hands on her tunic. A clean tunic replacing the bloodstained one.

“Parley, Adar?”

“No parley. And no truce unless you answer truthfully.” She was halfway to sitting on the ground in front of him, but stopped mid-movement. She stood tall and still.

“Aye. If we are to keep the peace, we owe each other an earnest conversation.”

Adar stood up like a geyser, closed the distance between them, and got as close to her spellbinding face as he could manage: “Why would you cast such harm upon us?” Adar growled. “By your art the wild waters rose and roared, the tempest you summoned  nearly swallowed my Children to the trenches.”

She could not suppress a grin. Not a cynical one, not a mocking one, a genuine smile that made Adar’s blood boil.

“Sealord Father, I am flattered by the amount of magic you see in me.” She said in a calm voice. “But I do not care for flattery, it is dishonest and it does not suit you.”

“I will spill the real answer out of your heartless chest, sea-wyrm.” His voice, almost a whisper.

“I have no arts to meddle with bold waves, thunderclaps, nor darkening clouds, Morion.” She met his whispering tone. “I could never, not even if I was a full Wingil. Seafæ may petition Ulmo and his Ainur, but we will never command them.”

“Am I to believe this doom is merely a coincidence?

“You heard me earlier: ‘It is wisdom rather than material power that makes a victory.’ Remember?” 

“Since you insist on repeating Rúmil’s lessons, I must remind you that he never hesitated to manacle together the neck and head of a traitor. I shall drown your deceptions with sea water.”

She grinned again. “I spotted the storm brewing in the ocean since dawn. My only influence was over the timing of the duel you imposed.” The upside curve stayed on her face, but its light went out. “And I had so little power over the duel, I mistook the lightning for my parting.”

Adar felt uneasy. The gold in the Wingil-elleth’s chestnut iris was reflecting the amber light of a nearby Elven lamp. He stepped back. He sat and made a gesture asking her to sit on a flat rock facing him. He grunted when he saw her bronze visage decorated with a wider dimpled smile.

“You are an extraordinary warrior. You know you are. Hence you staged that duel as a spectacle in honour of your strength and skill. Though it is not your hardiness alone that will keep your Children safe. You cannot thrive in isolation.”

“I did not ask for your advice, Ciriarāta.”

“You asked for the truth, Adar.” Her cheerful smile disagreed with her clear alto voice and authoritative tone. “You know better than I do that the truth is that Morgoth remade you for him. For his use and his sadistic amusement. He turned you into a weapon against the people who should have helped you, leaving you alone in Endor. He and Sauron made sure you suffered both their cruelty, and the fury of their enemies.” The Elleth leaned forward and a glowing silver braid fell on the right side of her face. “Thus making a real alliance, and perhaps a friend, would mean the victory your tormentors never thought you could ever achieve.”

In one movement she was up and walking back to her company. She left Adar without allowing him the opportunity to reply. Adar saw the Ciriarāta reach the healer Elf and the two of them walked to the infirmary, where Pohop was waiting for them. Misery has a way to acquaint an Uruk with strange bedfellows. We will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past. Perhaps it was wiser that he did not answer in anger.

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast

07:00 19 Tuilë SA 3235

When Veanelen woke up, the inside of her pavilion was dark. The large fire at the centre of the cave provided the only light, and its dim waves entered from one of the small vents, where its walls met the ceiling. She could not tell if it was day or night outside of the cave, but the violent storm made itself heard. A mighty clap of thunder had just resonated inside the entrance of the cliff. It was not what awakened Veanelen, but a far more perturbing sound. One every captain worth their salt can detect leagues away: murmuring.

“That dingy! Was the rowboat worth her pearl-studded head? She was not being serious.”

“She did give good reasons about getting information, and learning their numbers without giving ours away. That makes sense.”

“She fought like I have never seen her before. A swift shark biting from beneath. The Morion is dangerous. The ‘Sealord Father’.”

“And now we have to wait this storm out with him and his or- Uruks.”

“It does look like a shipwreck… Ciriarāta! Good morning.” Volarno, Nestamā, and Trumbe stood up to greet her.

Veanelen waved at them and gestured for them to sit down. No ship was large enough for secrets, and she expected Nestamā to share parts of their conversation with their comrades. The Ciriarāta walked to the entrance of the cave, past the canvas, and she knew that taking more than two steps beyond its mouth would be as foolish as duelling Adar without armour: the moaning wind was bending trees below her, rain pouring at a speed that would make its drops feel like arrows. The grey clouds were so low and heavy that they were lying on the top of the cliff where they were hiding.

She used some of the harvested water to freshen up and returned to camp. Teleplū and Pentro were already preparing their morning meal but the inventory had taken a toll.

“It will probably last a full day with this punishing intensity, tomorrow it will be raining all day as well, but it should not be this dangerous.” Veanelen assessed. “Immediately after that, we must use a day for foraging and tending our ciria, then we move to port. We have cash to replenish our pantry. No chase, and no new mission until living conditions for everyone on board are secured. Volarno, how is your leg?”

“Fully recovered.” His hazel eyes lit warmly as he kissed the palm of Nestamā’s hand.

“Good. We must be prepared for a swift evacuation, if needed. I will see that the truce lasts, so no one is at risk. Remember your Rúmil: ‘Knowledge about your opponent will always serve you more than your imagination when you need to act’. Be curious and observant.”

The mariners were evidently pleased with her decision.

The Uruk cooks were busy. One of them was listing their ingredients or supplies, Veanelen had a small grasp on Black Speech, mostly picked up from the battlefield. She was only certain when the cook used the word for “knives”, and made a note on the hand gesture. Tried to replicate it without being seen. Same with “goat”, it was funny how it looked like the animal’s head with small horns, when the second and the third fingers were covered by the thumb. The cook finished her tirade and started skinning rabbits.

The crew of the Ciria Lanca sat together, next to the main entrance. Veanelen was relieved to see everyone in good health and in a reasonably good mood as they ate their porridge. Her sailors filled her in with the details on the ships their hosts had. Formerly Númenórean vessels. The Falmari were tense around the Uruks but, after the immediate aid for the evacuation, they were not needed and could tend to small repairs to their tents and giving maintenance to their ropes and sails. Veanelen felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. She turned. Adar was standing on the other side of the hearth, talking to his officers, and staring at her.

Adar saw the Elves move into their crew’s main tent and their leader stood in place for a second then walked towards him. He signed “Keep searching” to Draddau and the leaders of the land based families, and dismissed them. Adar noticed how the silver braids turned to copper, when she walked by the fire, she was still wearing the bandage on her forehead, but she was moving like the duel had never happened. She was no longer wearing her hauberk nor the cuirass, only a blue silk tunic over leather trousers, and a surcoat. She knows that if I wanted to kill her, I would have done so yesterday.

“Ciriarāta, I see you and your crew have made yourselves at home on my island. I am prepared to extend my hospitality for the duration of the storm.”

“A generous concession, Sealord Father.” Her sarcastic tone amused Adar. “I could only imagine you have set a price. Is it in kind or obligation?”

They were walking around the tents and screens, and they made their way to Adar’s tent.

“You know this island.” Adar had to acknowledge that Draddau was right about the Elleth.

“I do.” She said with an inquisitive tone.

“And you have seen my Children.” Most of them.

“Aye, I have. Have you thought about our brief conversation from last night?”

“Aye.” Incessantly, but Adar would never give an Elf the satisfaction of knowing she got under his grey skin. “The terms for the duel did not contemplate an act of Ulmo, but you did manage to make me call a truce. I will honour that as a yield. Your crew is welcome on this island.”

“At any time.” The Elleth pressed her claim with a warm smile and the friendliest tone he had heard her use so far.

“Ciriarāta, you would not enjoy coming over to an island swarming with Uruks.” His face was like a statue, he only allowed a slight increase in the temperature of his voice.

“And you cannot afford to waste time surveying this island, assessing it or, worse, depleting its resources before winter.” She was no longer grinning, and she was not mirroring Adar’s stony stance. She listed the inconveniences the same way she would call the list of shifts in her ship.

Adar looked her in the eye. He was no longer waiting for fear but he was surprised by the honesty. She is right, a harsh winter will be upon us sooner rather than later, and we must prepare for that immediately. Adar looked at this Teleri Elleth after a night thinking about what she meant when she offered friendship. Elves rarely make friends outside their race. Less so the ones who came from Aman, like this one. Does she see me as an Elf?

“That knowledge is not shared in just the two or three days it will take you to be in your way.” Adar tried to weigh his mistrust against her usefulness.

“No. It would take a long time. Do not even get me started on how it changes with the seasons!” She paused briefly to savour every word that followed like it was a midsummer peach: “And this knowledge is worth more than all the loot you have taken from every corsair ship.”

Adar grunted. Then he gave the Admiral a calculated smirk. She knew about his fleet, and she had probably encountered Thanghat’s leftovers. My Captain is clever, she took refuge from the storm and kept my Children safe.

“You mentioned an alliance.”

“A potential alliance, if our intentions align. Are you ready to be honest?”

“I have not lied to you once.” Adar remembered his conversation with Usquiel and his hidden Children, he took his gauntleted hand to his breastplate with feigned indignation, then chuckled “You cannot expect me to reveal everything mere hours after making your acquaintance, Ciriarāta. You would not do that yourself. In fact, you have not.” You have done nothing but invoke mirages, tell half truths and, somehow, save my non-combatants from certain death. Adar did not tell her how her mention of Morgoth and Marion’s tortures kept him awake all night, guarding the Uruklings' tent.

“I will tell you something true, Sealord Father.” Adar heard her voice going into a deeper register, similar to her beguiling song. “The last decade I have been finding stowaway merchant and pirate ships. All of them cleaned out, not only of their cargo, but any logs, ledgers, charts, or purchase orders.” Adar suppressed a proud smile.

“Anyone alive to tell the tale?” He smirked and raised his right eyebrow, expecting her Elven judgment.

“Once. Barely.”

“Just one?” Adar chuckled, thinking of all the greasy sailors and lowlife filibusters he and Thanghat have been feeding to the crabs.

“Since you appeared in that cove, I knew it was you, someone on your fleet, or both.”

“How did you know?”

“A Númenórean captain spoke of a Ghost Elf.” Ciriarāta paused to observe his reaction. “And you kept the scrolls on sight by your council table.”

“After inspecting those, you said you were not going to get in my way.” Adar tried a warmer tone. And she offered ‘a friend’.

“I also said ‘if our intentions align’.” Ciriarāta sat up straight, leaned forward and forced Adar to stare into the gold flecks glinting in her chestnut eyes. “I believe that they do.”

Adar stood up. He paced inside the small tent. She had to be lying again. There was no way an Elf would align with him. Certainly not the Admiral of the Elven navy. Not a Teleri noble lady. It does not matter if the Kinslaying hurt her, his Uruks had killed more Elves than the Fëanoreans. A self righteous Elf will never stay out of my way.

“Please be so kind, Ciriarāta, as to detail the way our interests align.”

“I am certain that you are targeting slavers and I think you are right to do so.” The Elleth’s words were as swift and direct as her people’s infamous arrows.

Adar felt exposed for a second. He recovered without letting out any sign. She is not lying. The dim light did not stop Adar from noticing that her brows were relaxed, her breath and pulse were calmer than they have been since they met. If Thanghat was here, she would know for certain. Her ships took cover, she must be safe.

Veanelen had grown tired of being doubted. I indulged you with your swordplay, I showed your Children a place to shelter from the storm, and my crew has been tending to their needs. The candlelight flickered on the Dark Elf’s pale face. Standing immobile in the corner of the tent, judging her, looking like the corpse of a god. His eyes did not close for what felt like hours but he was looking inwards, deciding if he could trust her. Do you need more proof?

“Rúmil said that all oppression creates a state of war.” She saw his nostrils flare. “I did not leave Tol Eressea to fight the Uruks. I ferried the host of the Valar to fight the Adversary, and all the effects of his corruption on Endor. If this soulless trade is war, I am not going to fight for the side who created it.”

“What about your crew?”

“Do you mean my fleet?”

“Are you promising me a fleet?”

“I would offer to join an ally if they were fighting slavers, instead of plundering treasure to bribe a Wingil, as you did when you first met me.” Veanelen knew this will cause a commotion at court, but she had the certainty that this scarred Elf who survived Sauron’s torture, his refugees, and his fleet, were closer to Ulmo’s will to protect the Children of Ilúvatar, than the Númenórean merchants who offered a reward for the vessels but not for lives saved.

“An ally must know they would not be joining only Uruks, but Peredhels and Atani.” The Ghost Elf regaled Veanelen with a real smile as he unloaded that truth with the same grace he used to lower an Elder to rest in the infirmary. “I must have your word that they will be safe.”

“As safe as any person under your protection, Adar.” Veanelen did not know there were more double-natured folk than the late king Elros’ family. Any Atani living with Adar must be freed slaves. This commander of all races had made her rethink everything she knew about Middle Earth more times in twelve hours than all her yéns cruising the Alatairë.

“Are you recognising them as part of my people?”

“Please forgive me, Sealord Father, I fail to see why you would need such reassurance. But by Ulmo you have it.” She extended her arm and smiled widely. “You swear with your left, if I remember correctly.”

“I still have not met an Elf with a failing memory, Ciriarāta.” Adar said with a voice like a breaking wave. Veanelen felt the weight of his stare as he regarded her face, and searched for weapons. Her breath failed her when he pressed his lips together, inspecting her hair. He found my knife! He will think this is an ambush. She steadied her pulse as Adar slowly moved his pale hand forward, but he softly pulled one of her black braids to appreciate her peacock pearls. The gems that revealed to him the battles they fought on opposite sides. Their stares met, both of them full of concern for the people under their command. He finally spoke: “My Children could benefit from an ally who knows this island and hunts slave traders.”

Adar extended his gauntleted hand with the difficulty of lifting leaded chains. The Teleri leader had not missed any of his movements and immediately took hold of his forearm, above the spiked glove. The Morion felt her strong grasp, and the warmth of her arm through her light tunic, and his armoured palm.

This elleth commanding the Elven fleet is part Wingil, and she can petition the sea. As long as we work together, she will not threaten my new settlement. She might even make landfall at ports where I could never without immediate fire. Adar took a deep breath to find a serene stance, instead a bouquet of black honey and seawater overwhelmed him. I will never be rid of this damn Elf. He looked down at her elegant bronze hand still holding his forearm. It could be worse than this one.

“I have to make my rounds, Ciriarāta.” Adar let go of the admiral’s arm and stood up. He walked towards the exit of his tent, which was really of Elven craft. He could not escape this woman’s work. “We shall meet with our seconds in command. Make sure yours talk looking at Draddau’s face for he reads lips. Elves should stay away from the younger children. Only you can talk to the Peredhels until the rest of your crew earns my trust.”

“I will share with my comrades the rules of engagement with Uruk of all races, and you will meet my closest siblings in our next parley.” The Elleth stood up in one swift movement, and strode to the door flap he was holding open. Adar thought she slowed down as she walked past him, perhaps thanking him for the gesture. She might still be casting glamours.

Adar followed his new ally with his eyes as she toured around the cave. He saw her reaching the infirmary and talking with the people inside it from its entrance. He saw her reach the hearth and grab both shoulders of a tall black-haired Ello, the same one she was working with yestereve. Teleri warriors are pair bonded. Adar’s brow unconsciously furrowed when he saw the Ciriarāta lean her forehead on the other officer’s fair face.

The Elves stopped singing and listened to their leader, their self-righteous faces turned towards him in one movement, like a school of fish following a current. The Sealord Father turned his back at them and walked further to the back of the cave, he must release the Peredhels from their hiding place.

18:00 19 Tuilë SA 3235

A new roll of thunder reverberating inside the cave made Veanelen’s skin crawl. There is something different about this tempest. Ossë’s fury was as inclement this evening as the night before. Earlier she had heard trees falling from the cliffs summit. Luckily they were not blocking the only pathway up or down from their limestone shelter.

Most of her siblings were singing as they mended their sails. Vilverin had found a way to communicate with the Uruk weavers; she and Belda were now teaching them how to make conic traps for eel and cage-like for crawfish. That may help to feed this ever growing nation until Ossë stops this tumult and allows us to sail. Teleplū and Pentro were cooking another fish stew for supper with the Uruk cooks. The new cook was a mixed Elf-man who spoke Adûnaic better than Quenya. Useful for negotiating with Númenórean merchant vessels. The Peredhel only talked to Veanelen for most of the afternoon, then he asked the Sealord Father’s permission to interact with the Elven cooks. Veanelen had suppressed laughter when she saw Adar descending upon the kitchen like it was a dense battlefield. He had interrogated the cook’s motives, and made her responsible for any offence her officers may cause. Now there was peace near the communal fire, that could only mean more substantial meals, covering the needs of all the peoples weathering the storm. Ulmo, I hope this is what you wanted.

Veanelen paused her watch of the kitchen operation and the Silent speech that allowed it. She noticed the children of the Uruks started gathering in the makeshift “town square” as far away from the Elven pavilions as the rock would allow the cautious Morion. She used her keen sight to observe the minders weaving among the small ones, handing them fruit or smoked fish. The smaller children were picked up by the minders and other adults, and they made their way towards the back of the cave.

A heavily pregnant Half-Elf woman, who Veanelen had observed mending the torn shark skin cloaks, lifted up a metal bucket with hot coals and under her other arm she carried a stack of firewood. The admiral darted forward, smiling at the woman before reaching her, and gestured towards the firewood, offering help with the heavy load. Grinning with relief, the woman let Veanelen take the firewood. Then she placed her free hand’s fingertips flat on her chin and moved her hand down and away from her face, signing “thank you”.

“I am Usquiel, I am a needlewoman and make all the cloaks. Do any of you or your crew need their clothing mended, milady?” She introduced herself in Quenya. I was not expecting to be called a lady on this island. To the Admiral, Usquiel in every way looked as if she could be a cousin to any Ñoldo. Tall and limber, with long black hair and dark green eyes. Veanelen noticed that her tunic had been cut and expertly restitched, giving Usquiel’s pregnant belly room under the fabric.

“I do. We do for certain. Not just from the storm, but I know some of my crew have stored away some of their clothing until they have time to repair any rips or tears. I will let them know you are available to assist them.”

“Yes, please do! Sealord Father found me a book about sewing gowns and robes on one of the ships they took, but I can’t read and mostly I guessed what the pictures were explaining.” The Half-Elf pointed at the Uruk child wearing a green shift dress walking just ahead of them. “When we can get bolts of cloth or I find different grasses to weave, I like to make the children's clothing. When they get older they only want to wear armour,” she laughed.

“Perhaps you can work with our garments after our artificer has made sure the efforts from the storm have not caused you any harm. They have experience with both Elves and Atani.” Veanelen felt relieved from a burdensome shame when the needlewoman smiled and nodded. “Usquiel, where are you all going? You and the children, I mean.”

“Lessons! Before the storm came, Sealord Father was going to set up a place for the children to learn. When he is home at the atoll, or, well I guess here on this island now, Sealord Father helps teach the smaller children the Silent Tongue. He will sometimes read them poetry, or tell them stories about the past. Anytime I’m with child, I like to sit and listen to him talking while I work on a cloak or something else.”

The Admiral found herself holding back an incredulous expression at the idea that the bloodlust Morion who forced her to fight for her life, would also have the calm demeanor of a wise teacher. She thought about the soft spoken men and women who taught her as a child. Imagining Adar in such a role seemed as likely as a warg donning a scholar’s robes and reciting from a scroll. Is it really that impossible of a concept, Veanelen? You have seen him show great gentleness when it comes to his people, his Children. None of the Uruk appear to be afraid of him. 

Veanelen looked ahead of the procession, and felt her skin suddenly becoming warm. She blamed it on the large brazier currently lifted over the Sealord Father’s head. Loose strands of his glossy black hair fell over his granite face, as he set the canister in place at the centre of the common space. Children were starting to drop to the ground and sit cross legged. Veanelen grew alarmed when she realised that Usquiel’s hot coals were supposed to fill that vat, and she was carrying the supporting firewood. Adar stood after he put down the brazier, and immediately made eye contact with Veanelen. He smirked, and raised one brow at her as he strode towards her and Usquiel. That smirk turned the warmth Veanelen had felt a moment earlier to annoyance, as she felt an urge to slap Adar’s knowing expression out of his smug face. 

“Admiral, how kind of you to assist Usquiel. Here, allow me to unburden you of those logs, they appear very heavy.” Still smirking he took the Half-Elf woman’s coal bucket and stretched his gauntleted arm out for Veanelen to stack the wood in. Aware now that she would be forced close to him once more, she dropped the wood with little care, making him adjust his weight to catch each log. But he did it with grace and without losing sight of her face, as if Veanelen had rudely dropped folded napkins in his waiting arms, not several pounds of firewood. Usquiel’s eyes widened slightly, then after looking back and forth at the Ciriarāta and the Sealord Father, she looked urgently for something hidden inside her side bag full of sewing tools.

“Have you decided to join us today, Ciriarāta?” Adar asked while crouching down to start the fire in the brazier.

“Only if I am not intruding in Uruk affairs.” She responded more tartly than she meant to.

“Our new ally would be welcomed! My Nitya-Lopoldë here will be happy to find you a place to sit. Perhaps you may even learn something, that is if our Black speech does not offend you.” Adar left them before Veanelen realised that he did not care for listening to her talk about the importance of a group of people using their native tongue, but him forcing her to explain how she did not hate the Uruk. Even when he is friendly, he is testing me. She turned towards Usquiel, as she translated in her head the name he had called the Half-Elf woman.

“He calls you ‘little rabbit’?”

“Yes, I have been with child six times, I have four children, and this one will be the fifth.” She made circles with her hand over her wide belly. “Since I left the crew it seems that all I do is sew shark skin cloaks and fall pregnant!” The woman laughed while reaching for Veanelen’s hand to lead her over to a place for them to sit together.

Veanelen could see Adar lowered himself in front of the fire, keeping the logs nearby so he could feed the flames as they died down. Some of the deaf children and the smaller ones moved themselves closer to the Sealord Father. A young girl that Veanelen had seen always trailing behind an older sister, Olcma? Oldash? She could not remember which name belonged to which sister, only that this was the girl who was shy, but seemed very interested in observing the Elves. The girl had taken her place standing in an angle to the Ghost Elf, in between the last rows of spectators. As the Morion spoke, she lifted her hands to sign, so that the children and observers in the back would see what was being said.

“Today we will not be learning words.” Veanelen felt he was looking straight at her when he said that in Black speech. Then he addressed the gathered Uruks. “Today I will tell you a story that is very important to remember, especially when we are all feeling afraid and unsure of what might happen.” Veanelen was able to understand most of what Adar was saying, but she kept watching Olcma’s hands to match the words with the signing, coupled with Usquiel whispering her translation in the Admiral’s ear. 

“When your forefathers and foremothers escaped from the Crimson Demon, they had only Sealord Father and themselves. We were alone and wandering in the snow and ice for years…”

Adar was retelling a decisive moment when the Uruk took a vote between returning to Angband or finding a coastal town, inhabited by Atani who had served Morgoth. An Uruk toddler, a boy Veanelen guessed by his garb, was dragging his blanket with four fingers shoved in his mouth. He was looking around as if he lost something, when Usquiel sighed and sat her sewing down. The Half-Elf put her arms out to the Uruk boy, who quickly darted towards her.

Veanelen could hear her whispering and signing something to the boy, and made out “careful, baby belly, claws.” The toddler then curled his fingers into two fists, hiding his claws from scratching the woman. Usquiel pulled him into her arms, and arranged him around her protruding belly, tucking the child’s blanket under him. The boy immediately burrowed his head in the Half-Elf’s bosom and pushed his fingers back in his mouth, eyes slowly closing. A double-natured woman, who should not even exist, holding an Uruk child while an epic poem, telling history I did not even know occurred, is being recited in a language I had considered long dead. How would she even begin to explain any of this when she got home? That is if the Sealord Father and his Children allow her and her siblings to return home.

Lightning flashed at the entrance of the cavern. The fright was shared among all races, but Adar’s stare was a piercing lance against Veanelen. Why does he keep blaming me? Ossë’s whip landed exactly when he talked about fighting those who did not keep their word. She held the Morion’s stare, as he described in Black Speech how the few starving Uruks who arrived to the shore, dyed the ebb red with the blood of those who betrayed the bargain and raised their arms against them.

When he talked about taking ships they did not know how to sail, Veanelen felt a pull to her heart. She had done the same as a child, and had to be retrieved with her skiff before her parents knew she was missing. That had been in a different Age, back when the light of the Trees could be seen above the Pelóri without dimming the stars her people loved. Uinen showed mercy to us all, may she do the same today.

As the story ended, the minders lifted the toddlers who fell asleep. Veanelen had felt the same soothing sensation from Adar’s guttural rendition of the Uruk saga, before the lighting and before his wordless yet loud accusation. Usquiel lifted the toddler cuddled against her belly, and pleaded to Veanelen with her eyes to help her again. The Admiral saw Uruks, Peredhels, and an Atani couple making their way to their sleeping spaces. Some of them mumbled about distributing supper. Their movements left only one pathway to the brazier and the bucket to carry the hot coals. Through Adar.

“The story was fascinating, Adar.” She said nervously, even though she knew she had done nothing wrong. “It certainly fills in a blank space where your people and you were on the mainland one day, and then the next you had disappeared. We had heard only rumors about where Sauron’s army had disappeared to.” Veanelen had been forced to step closer to Adar as she searched for Usquiel’s carrier. Two teen Uruks playfully reenacting their ancestors’ triumph pushed Veanelen. Adar reached out to steady her with his hand on her upper arm. Both paused for a moment. The dying brazier shone only on them, making them feel alone, with his bare hand touching her.

Adar broke the spell. “Yes, Ciriarāta… we… I mean ‘I’… I am the source for most of the rumours. If we did not exist, or if our extinction happened unwitnessed in a far off frozen wasteland, then no one would come looking for us.” His voice recovered the coarseness it had in Quenya. “We did not need a sudden appearance of Elvish ‘heroes’ who wanted to make a name for themselves by chasing after a tattered ‘Orcish’ army, that was mostly made up of starving women and children.”

“If you have not learned by now that Falmari do not attack non-combatants, then why would you agree to an alliance?” Veanelen emptied the brazier on the bucket without looking at the father of the Uruk. “Either you care for that distinction when you wage war, or you stop cloaking in victimhood.” Veanelen picked the sizzling bucket. “When we plan attacks together, I will see how adamant you are on protecting starving women and children.”

It was Veanelen’s turn to leave Adar without the opportunity to explain himself. Usquiel was waiting for her and carrying a sleeping child. Even Adar’s pride could see she had to keep moving.

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast

08:00 20 Tuilë SA 3235

Veanelen saw the faces of Nárëwen, Vilverin and Volarno trying to make sense of the Black Speech being uttered in front of them. Adar was talking and signing with his quartermaster, Draddau. The only hand gestures Veanelen was certain of were the ones for “swords”, “rams”, and “chains”. All I can gather is what they tried to use against us. I am starting an alliance with the people we have only met as foes. Am I going to be the first Falmari to be hanged for treason by my grandsire? Adar’s raspy voice brought her back.

“Ciriarāta?” He was looking at her attentively and with a half smile. Not the arrogant smirk of the day before. “Quartermaster Draddau reminded me that the latest ship we took tried to ram ours to evade capture.”

“Was it a merchant ship or a freebooter ship?”

Adar translated while Veanelen discreetly repeated the gestures of the Silent Speech.

“He does not see the difference.”

“No, he would not.” Veanelen said with such evident disgust that Adar tilted his head demanding an explanation. “They are both committing the same crimes.”

Nárëwen, the alchemist, took a large oyster shell filled with lichen and some of the cooking fat from the Uruk kitchen, and then she lit it with her flint rod. She put it atop of the maps, and repeated the operation until they had a good view of their charts, route plans, and captains’ logs. First Officer Volarno talked about his time training some of the Númenórean captains and how appalled he was when he first learned about this new turn.

“We do not have proof yet that the Sea Guard is part of their operations.” Said Adar to Volarno but without taking his eyes off of the Admiral.

Ciriarāta was looking intently at a route plan from a slaver ship that Adar had just handed her and compared it with the routes and logs that the Númenórean merchant guild had given her when they asked for her protection. Adar observed the Elven leader subtly chew her lower lip with a suspicion she did not want to confirm, she frowned, and hit the scroll with the back of her hand.

“Those bottom feeders!”

The three Elves and the Uruk turned their heads towards her. Adar suppressed his laughter. I almost decapitated her and she never tried to insult me.

“The Merchant Guild has been keeping us occupied so that we do not encounter their bloody trade!” She pointed at the seals. “These routes are signed by the same port authorities, and are planned so that we are always at opposite coasts of the Alatairë.” The Admiral’s indignation was almost endearing to Adar, who had spent the last decade sinking their decadent captains.

“Is the pattern discernible?” Asked Nárëwen. “Can you triangulate the slaver’s position based on the logs from the Merchant Guild?”

“May I?” Ciriarāta was already kneeling on the ground and looking straight at Adar, asking permission to unfold one of his maps.

The Morion gestured his approval and observed the Elves using thread and pins to mark patterns of the ports and routes at sea. Thanghat will want to learn this method, if it works. It will make the chase more efficient and less risky for her crew…not that she avoids risks. Adar was looking at another map, one with Thanghat’s last known location and tried to figure out if she was able to take cover from this typhoon.

“This is it! Well thought, Nárëwen!” The Admiral looked up smiling at Adar. “This is the pattern! We can infer the slavers' routes based on the information of the Merchant's Guild. We could keep the relationship with them, receive their deceitful logs, and send a message with their modelled location to the Sealord Father. We clearly need to get to port as soon as the conditions allow it.”

Veanelen was incredulous when Adar first said that he was ready to openly talk about his seafaring activities. He had been at sea for some time but not enough to be a true mariner. Difficult to feel natural in the great blue after spending an age under pitch black. Considering all the frightening tales, he was clearly working with someone more dedicated to life in the open waters than him. If they can hide from those who warn me of carnage, they must be a favourite of the waves. The Falmari leader was sure that Adar was not going to have that conversation in front of her officers. He had been very rigid regarding hierarchy, he had requested her to introduce him by his naval title, and made sure that everyone addressed him in that fashion, he was especially categorical when speaking with her First Officer.

“Please talk to our comrades and see that everyone is ready to sail for Númenor as soon as the storm ceases.” She spoke to Volarno and Vilverin. “We still need to negotiate some terms of our alliance. Nárëwen, could we please get two more lamps? We will need a steady source of light.”

The three Elves left the Sealord Father’s tent. Adar signed instructions to Draddau, and the Uruk left them alone.

“You are certain you can gather that intelligence from the Númenóreans?”

“As long as we do not declare an open conflict against their Crown, we might. I shall keep my relationship with their Sea Guard. I am expected to attend their cadets Sea Trial and Promise Ceremony.” She sighed quietly. “I will feel truly conflicted with the Merchants Guild.” These are not the descendants of Elros, these men do not remember. Veanelen heard her ally’s cynical chuckle. “What did I just say that you find so hilarious, Adar? I have been protecting Ulmo’s waters and its seafarers since…” Veanelen saw a flash of Angband’s dungeons and a raven-haired ello chained in the penumbra. “Since the Dawn of this Age. I am not worried about changing my fleet's operations, but I have never kept a façade of pleasantness with someone I would rather deliver to the abyss.”

“You and I have that in common, Ciriarāta.” Adar said as he poured the last contents of his water skin and drank. “One issue we must solve before hunting slavers is freshwater inside this cave.”

She nodded, still looking at the map. Nárëwen got back in the tent and left the two unlit lamps next to where Veanelen was knelt. She knew better than to interrupt while the Admiral was thinking.

Adar waited for a couple of minutes, guessing what the Teler was ruminating on. Mayhaps she is tracing alternate routes for when the existing ones become too onerous for the slavers. The Alchemist gave him a stern look, then left. The silent exchange with the blonde Elf made him aware that he had been staring at her leader, who was still kneeling on the opposite side of the tent from where he was standing. The Sealord Father cleared his throat and shook the container.

“More pressing matters, Ciriarāta.” He imprinted his irritation on his tone.

“Aye, take those lamps with you.” She pointed at the seashells. “Bring your flint rod and your water skin as well.”  She stood up, took the lamp that had been burning the shortest, and exited Adar’s tent. “Harvested stormwater has served well for washing up and, if we allow it to boil, we can cook with it. But we must be mindful of fuel, as well.”

Adar walked side by side with the Ciriarāta to the back of the cave. He saw her touch the edges of two different tunnel entrances, and entered the one to the right. She marked the rock above her head with a wet charcoal as she walked past. The tunnel’s ceiling allowed them to walk but she had to crane her neck down, and untied the knot of braids that was on the top of her head, covering her in a black and silver cascade. Adar was slouching as much as his cuirass allowed him. He walked fast, trying not to lose the Admiral. The Elf was so focused on finding her direction that she ignored his presence.

The Ciriarāta made a mark on the wall and took a second turn. She turned to face him with a wide smile on her bronze face. She moved quicker and started humming an old water song. He felt as entranced following the tenuous orange light as he assumed the elleth in front of him was. She marked the rock to her left and dropped to the ground so suddenly that Adar almost tripped with her body. “It will be at the end of this corridor.” She said pointing at a small tunnel. She disappeared through it like a marten pursued by a fox. At least she is talking again. The Morion struggled crawling through the small space on his hands and knees, a battle skirt and full maille are not suited for cave exploration.

The small light ahead of the Uruk leader moved away quicker than he could follow. He was now relying on the black honey and tranquil sea aroma trailing behind his ally. The dark cave suddenly became a different shadowy hall, and an old sensation crept in. Adar felt Him slithering through his mind, he could smell His sandalwood oil and the molten metal from His forge. Adar could hear again the brushing of His scarlet robes. The fallen Elf felt the smooth silk slipping from his fingers and His incandescent skin underneath.

“Adar.” It sounded so sweet.

“Adar? Can you move? It is not that far, the end of the tunnel is ahead of us.” Adar became aware about how secluded this place was, this place where he was led by this Elleth.

“Go ahead. I am right behind you.” He answered without knowing whence his own voice came. He listened as the Teler turned away from him, and continued forward.

He finally heard the delicate sound of water bubbling out of the rock. Adar could see a small chamber, and the fair figure in front of him was not his tormentor.

“This is a treasure, Adar.” The Admiral was standing in a wider niche illuminated only by her rustic lamp. The rock formed a small and shallow pool. The water was jetting from the bottom, forming a subtle fountain. “Ulmo sent his blessing up through the rocks and to this spring, he would never forsake those sheltering in the caves.” She knelt, sat on her ankles next to the small pool, she arranged her multiple thin braids in the back of her head, uncovering her neck, and extended her arm towards Adar.

Adar came out of the crawling space and rose. He stood paralysed. Incapable of moving forward. He heard his new ally’s voice echoing in the limestone arch above them, but the words seemed unintelligible. His breath light and laboured, he was drowning on dry land. She looked up to see his face, her brows almost touched as she waved her hand.

“The water skin, I can see it hanging from your armour’s belt.” She looked him up and down. “Was that armour slowing you down? I should have warned you to take it off before bringing you here. We must warn whoever we commission to carry water to the camps.” She shook her arm pointing at his belt. “Your water skin, Sealord Father.”

Adar groaned and he used his gauntlet to give her the modest canteen. She filled it and passed it back to him. Still standing where he rose, he drank as he recovered control of his breath, he lowered his pulse and focused on the sound of the water gushing out from the stone. All is well, I can always expel Him from my mind. When the Morion looked forward again, the Admiral was smiling at him in a reassuring way.

Adar breached the distance between them, and knelt next to the Elleth. She was staring at him, waiting for him to say something. He turned and faced the brook to refill his bag. Adar kept looking at the Admiral through the corner of his eye. She overtly kept a vigilant gaze on him, and remained motionless in that exasperating way Elves have to blend with the amber light.

Adar attempted to move his mind elsewhere. He estimated that the pool might be deep enough for covering him up to his waist. It was not very wide, two or three times his arm length. Two people could fit inside the fountain. He turned to face the person he had accused of lying about this secret fortune. She was looking intently at the depth of the spring, her gaze lost in the spot where it emanated from the ground. Her sleeves were secured over her elbows, as she leaned forward, cradled water in her hands, and drank. She subtly shook her head. Turned towards him, eyes wide open, and back at the spring. Adar suppressed a smile, he was uncertain she meant the same.

The Teler sank both hands again, splashed her face with water, and her breath sped up as much as it did when she was pressing her charge against him during their duel.

Adar could not understand why the Admiral was the one now fighting for air. She stopped gasping. Adar could not hear her breathing anymore. She remained knelt, her stare lost at the centre of the babbling brook. She was caressing the surface of the water with one placid hand.

Adar got closer and warily placed his exposed hand on her shoulder. “Ciriarāta?”

The gold in her brown eyes flickered and died, two black abysses took over her face. Facing him but absent. Adar felt her getting away from the cave and from him. He tried holding her shoulders but she remained still without his help. This is not how Elves fade. You shall not go swallowed up and lost, in the wide womb of uncreated night, devoid of sense and motion. “Ciriarāta?” Adar called her again, holding her face, frustrated and hurt he only knew her title.

“Hear me as thou once heard the immemorial sea longing.” The voice coming out of her Elven mouth was not hers, for it came from the foundations of the world. It rang as a tall wave that rose, curled, and broke inside Adar’s head.

The chamber was clouded in vapour and mist, his own arms felt made of foam, and he was forced to let Ciriarāta go.

“Long have I called to thee; and thou hast tarried on thy journey hither. The pleasant home that I designed for thee has been changed. For thy scorn of Ossë and his daughters, he is wroth.”

Adar tried his best to understand what He meant. Adar could not trust the Speaker.

“Is heo who I chose as my messenger for thee. Thou shall do as hire mind, as hire valour, and as hire heart commandeth, lest the Sea devour thee.”

“Is the Lord of Waters who speaks to Your servant?” Adar could not tell if he muttered or cried.

“Yea. I chose thee whose hope lieth in a heart that yearneth to the Sea. Yea. I chose thee to hold the star that rises from the Sea.”

Adar heard a mighty horn blowing in a single great note. It brought within the howls of the storm outside the cave, and he surveyed all the waters of the world in a vision, from the Great Sea, to the veins of this island, to the saturated pores of the rock, and the pool by his feet, and the abysmal stare on the Wingil in front of him, mirroring the lightless depths of the ocean. 

“His tumultuous punishment will not wane, thou shall amend thy scorn to the guardians of this island. Lest thy people will be besieged by towering waves.”

“Which guardians?” Adar asked, dreading the answer.

“My words will arise in hire mind. Hire mouth will speak as I would.”

The very pillars of the cliff trembled under the violence of Ossë’s blows.

The small flame went out.

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast

10:30 20 Tuilë SA 3235

The drumming sound of his own pulse in his temples and the Admiral’s superficial breath were deafening Adar. He was blind and struggling to find the flint rod. Unsure if they were the only two in the gloom, or if the Dweller of the Deep was still testing him. The mind will always concede to untamed fear. The Sealord Father took control over his respiration and heartbeat. Found the flint rod. Knelt. He placed the two lamps together on the rocky ground. The first sparks were just to find the lamps again, after losing their touch made them disappear into the void. Then he directed new sparks towards them. The fat soaked moss caught them and started burning. A subtle warm light broke through the shadows. The mist was gone.

Immobile since he last saw her, there was the Teler, her fingertips caressing the water surface. Even after the light went out, she did not shift. Adar cleared his throat but that was not enough to bring her back to him.

“Care to explain what you just said, Ciriarāta?” Adar whispered harshly.

She looked at him, her lively eyes now sunken. Her lips slightly curved down, then twisted to the right side of her face. Adar was losing his patience but he feared her answer as much as her prolonged silence.

Before he spoke again, she subtly hit her own thigh with her palm, and straightened up her back.

“Apologies, Sealord Father, for my sudden absence. I am not certain of how this knowledge came to me.” Her gaze was still inwards, her voice trembling as she slowly recovered command of her own body. “This storm was like any other seaborne weather, and this island was like any other on its path. The tempest was not supposed to linger. This is the Maia Ossë responding to an offence to his vassals.”

“The sea-nymphs.” Adar scoffed. “Your kin.”

“Aye, the Wingildi.” The Admiral leaned towards him, still sitting on her ankles. “You were not supposed to follow the song, and witness our work. You may have even received a warning.” Adar remembered the terror he felt when everything around him disappeared as soon as he heard the old water chant. “They think your Uruk settlement is being disrespectful.”

“They?” He growled. “Not you?”

“How many times do you want to have this conversation? No. Not me.” Her tone went from annoyance to kindness. “I can vouch for you with them. It may or may not work. Petitioning the Sea is as uncertain as a deep current. But no one will be able to leave this island if we do not attempt an apology.”

“Vouch for me? How?” Adar’s ears still rang with the sound of Ulmo’s horn.

“Do you trust me, ally?” She tried to smile, but her concern for her people and for everyone seeking refuge with them spilled through her wide eyes.

“Not enough.” Adar had to remind himself of the words of the Lord of Waters. Her valour will show me the way. How could he agree to surrender her to Ossë’s wrath. Adar did not want to think about how fragile an Elf can be in the hands of a Maia.

“Then just believe that this is the only thing I can do for my siblings.” She was too determined on the course of action to let Adar’s doubts hurt her. The Admiral knelt. Took one of the two lamps and rose up. “This water is safe to drink, as long as no one plunges into the pool. Mark the route on our way out. Leave clear orders to your officers. We must venture into the storm but we cannot risk anyone else.”

As Adar walked out of his tent, after discussing the situation with Draddau and Glasha, he saw the Elven crew listening to their Admiral with worried expressions. He slowed his pace to give her some privacy as she ceremoniously handed her sword to her First Officer Volarno, the Ellon lowered the sword and looked his commander in the eye as she placed her palms on each of his shoulders. Adar recovered his pace and made himself visible to the Admiral; she glanced his way then placed her forehead on Volarno’s. Adar cleared his throat loudly as he reached the exit. The Admiral turned around and moved towards him. She was almost next to him when the same ellon shouted in Telerin, something about forsaking and an abyss. She waved at her crew, and when she turned back to see him her smile was still big and warm. Adar nodded at her. Then the two of them crossed the cavernous threshold into the tempest.

Once again she led the way. The clouds above them were made of lead, and they blasted them violently. Adar’s long black cloak was drenched a minute after stepping out, he cursed under his breath and looked at his new companion, unbothered by the water. She was clever to wear just a tunic and trousers, nothing getting heavier at every step. They climbed down the slippery sandstone cliff, using their hands. They had to lock arms to make themselves heavier and walk from the wall to the treeline. Adar made sure to keep her on his left side.

The edge of the forest was littered with giants felled by the howling wind. Under the canopy protection, the Admiral let go of Adar’s arm, and he needed to open and close his gauntleted hand several times. Ciriarāta strolled by his side. The rainfall was tolerable after the forest caught the worst of it, then Adar heard a voice. She was humming.

“Last time I heard you singing I ended up on the bad side of the Ainur.”

“I promise you, this is not a Wingildi song.” She raised her palms to either side of her smiling face. “This is a Falmari song about Ulmo’s blessings.”

“Does it help?”

“It will not hurt anyone.” She resumed her humming.

Adar saw again the marks she had left days earlier, for the back of the evacuation train to find their way. Her tune met the rhythm of the downpour hitting the ground. He found himself studying the elleth’s movements while she walked, and reviewing her interaction with her crew.

“It is said that Teleri ships…”

“Lindari.”

“Pardon?”

“We do not call ourselves ‘Teleri’, that is what the Ñoldor call us and it is a mockery of our journey. We call ourselves Lindari: singers. The Sindar in Middle Earth are Lindari as well. My comrades and I, we are from Aman, so I am a Falmari, and so is everyone in my crew.”

“I have seen your people twice in two ages.” Adar was both explaining himself and accusing her of hiding from Morgoth.

“And I had never seen Uruk children before, nor seen them soothed by an epic poem of their ancestors fighting for survival. We are both learning. Falmari stood out from the war until we learned that it was not just about helping our murderers retrieve their jewels…”

Adar asked himself how could the Valar be unaware of the suffering caused by Morgoth, and now he had to placate the vassals of a Maia to give his Children a home, where he promised them they would be safe from another Maia. This island has everything they could need. Of course it is rejecting us, Arda never wanted us to exist. She was still talking.

“… And our explorations are still bound to the shores. We yearn for the Sea after a very short time.” Her expression was subtly mocking him, the Sealord Father tried covering his rude distraction by asking about her people.

“It is said that in Falmari ships, you all travel with your soul’s companion.” Adar was curious since he figured out who she was. “Is it true?”

“Aye, it is true. The personal bond makes every mariner fiercer, defending their most beloved.”

“Is your First Officer yours?”

She halted abruptly and turned to Adar. Her smile was gone.

“You already know my crew is not an even number.” Adar nodded. Of course he had counted them several times. “I am the odd number.” Her tone ended the discussion and they continued walking.

After a minute of walking in silence, she started imitating the calls of birds, waterfowls or a kind of seabird.

They were at the ferntree gully before reaching the lower part of the forest that gave way to the coastal paths. Instead of following downhill to his devastated camp, she pointed towards the cove where he first saw her. But she stopped at the crossroads.

“Before we continue.” She sounded authoritative. “I must understand what I am pleading for.”

“You know this already, Ciriarāta. We want to settle here, I promised my Children a home, and I wish to make this island the meeting point for my slaver hunting armada.”

“You have shared this before, Adar.” She sounded seriously worried. “Although I believe your intentions to be good, but it may not be enough.”

“We have paid our penance. I can assure you.”

“I only know what I saw in Angband.” The two of them flinched simultaneously. “But I have no idea how you ended up here.”

Adar wished not to go into the horrors that made him the last living ancestor of a race of soldiers, decimated by the wars waged by the enemies of their tormentors.

“After your army left the inundated Beleriand, Mairon continued Morgoth’s work, but he called it ‘healing’. In order to ‘heal’ Middle-Earth, he needed a power ‘not of the flesh but over the flesh’, as he endlessly called it.” Disgust and guilt tasted bitter and sour in the back of Adar’s mouth. “He rendered me incapable of defending my children, as he sacrificed them in his pursuit of this power of the Unseen World.” Adar made a fist with his gauntleted hand. “After he had caused unrecountable damage to my children and pulverised my heart, I killed him.” Adar looked up to find the elleth’s warm eyes fixed on him. He recoiled from her attempt to touch his arm the way she had just held her First Officer. “Since he is gone, everything turned into a dull grey. But my children will never be slaves, never again bred and raised for dying in his name. We took to the sea because Morgoth hated water. Since I was first chained to a dark and nameless peak, long before the first dawn; the sound of distant waves lulled me to sleep and comforted me after torment. My heart always yearned for the Sea. We made it our goal to thrive on the element He feared, and that had been calling me since I first woke.”

“I am grateful for your honesty, Adar. Your testimony illustrates why my Sindar kin call him Gorthaur.” Her compassionate look infuriated him more than any of the swings of her sword. “If I could ask just one more thing...” She was chewing the inside of her cheeks, she looked blushed and embarrassed by the nature of the question. “Your Children… are they?”

“My Children are my children.” Adar grunted. He reminded himself why she was asking, then added: “Morgoth changed me and made me…capable of following his orders.” He evaded her gaze and continued with a deep whisper. “Even if unwillingly...” Adar spoke seeing generations of broken mothers and slain soldiers. “The twelve others and I sired the first generations of Uruks, and raised them. And trained them. And commanded them in battle… And we replenished our numbers when Morgoth dictated so. I cannot remember any worthless unearned name from before I became their ‘Adar’. ‘Adar’ is the name I earned, and who I have been for an age.”

“This should be enough to explain your struggle.” She said after an eternity of silently staring at the canopy. “I wish you had not gone through all that, Adar. I hope that Uinen may intercede for us, and that she always treats you kindly.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Thank you for trusting me with your story.”

Adar felt he had forgotten how to walk, but he managed to follow the elleth through a muddy slope, then they were exposed again to the violent winds. He was standing in the exact spot he was when he first saw four Wingildi singing, and three of them took off. He had the fourth one standing by his side now, twisting her fingers while looking at the ravenous ocean mounting the cliff. She would not have to climb down like he did two days ago, the water was almost reaching the treeline now.

“I hope this is seen as penance and as an offering.” The Admiral sighed with an absent expression.

The Falmari knelt and removed her boots. She stood up and gestured to Adar to look the other way, after a minute, she handed him her soft leather trousers and her knee boots for safe keeping. He made a point of looking at her forehead, while she gave him her only instructions.

“I will pay my entrance fee. The audience will be uncomfortable for me and, if the offering is deemed unworthy, I will not be allowed to return to land.” Adar’s chest sank. “If I do not return. It will not end well for anyone caught in this weather.” Her eyes were filled with tears, but she was holding them like she would hold the line to secure the retreat of her people. “Whatever you see, whatever you hear, do not get in the water. You will be tempted by desires you know and desires you ignore. They will trial you with anything, and I do mean anything.”

Adar gave the elleth a small and grateful bow. Everything she spoke of was foreign to him, but the clearest sign he had ever received came when she reached for a pin held by her carefully coiffed braids. It surprised him to see that she always had with her a silver knife inside a pearly cover, and she used it to open a cut along the side of her wrist. Adar’s nostrils flared and he could taste the iron of her will with her salt.

Ciriarāta looked at him with a worried smile and said “Bar”. Then she jumped. Her chest pushed a long steady note as she fell. Despite the roaring typhoon, her alto voice echoed in the rocky cove after she disappeared under the dark and tumultuous waves.

Veanelen saw the Dark Elf’s stone cut face as she sank. The Sea must be testing her as well, or it would not have shown her his deeply concerned expression and his grey hand extended to the surface.

Her song was still coming out of her throat, emptying her lungs. The salt stung the cut on her hand and healed it. Her chest was burning as her last breath was replaced with water. Her voice was then met by a familiar choir. The gulf was too turbid to see clearly but the cruel smiles were impossible to miss, even in the grey and grainy world she was now. She surrendered her body and was moving like a rip curl, relentless but without a will of her own.

The Wingildi encircled her, giggling and singing with her. They playfully kissed her face. The song was wordless but full of meaning. It was the song of the currents, the highest peaks of waves as tall as walls, and the lowest depths of the forbidden trenches. Veanelen poured her devotion for the ocean in her song. She brought to each note her loyalty to her cousins. She resonated faith in Ulmo. She felt his love for her people. She vibrated with worship for Ossë and Uinen. Veanelen felt his fury and her mercy. The last note evoked the name of her mother.

The faces of her three cousins appeared in front of her. She stopped her song and mouthed: “Adar repents. I believe in him.” Two foam maidens grabbed an arm each. The third one took her ankles and pulled down. Veanelen rejoined the hymn ignoring how much her throat burned.

Veanelen stopped counting how long their descent was or how long she spent in darkness, with no company but the voices of the waterfay. Then the song stopped.

Veanelen stood in the dark, freezing. She felt the warmth being pulled away from her body. Then she felt the weight around her wrists. A brief lightning flashed and showed her that her hands were not hers, these were pale as the petals of a water lily, bigger and stronger than hers, and they were bleeding.

The lightning flashed again but no thunder followed. Next time she saw the flashing light, she distinguished the flaming whip and felt it lashing her. Everything hurt in this other body. Her chest was flat and crisscrossed with charred marks of the fiery flogging. Another lash landed on her face. Veanelen tried to cry out but her voice was gone.

Darkness fell on her again. And two spots of molten lava glinted in front of her. She felt a chalice placed on her lips. She was afraid of touching the goblet, but the body she was in drank profusely, and the sweet wine turned sour in the back of their throat, and it burned their insides.

The shadow engulfed Veanelen, a pressure in her chest made her feel as if she was not just falling, but she was being pushed down by that engulfing darkness.

Then she was lying on her back, not on the sandy sea floor or even floating in the maelstrom. But on a bed. Now she was warm and dry, a fire nearby. A large fireplace blazed so hot from the rock wall where it was carved, that she felt her skin go damp. The bed she laid in was dressed in smooth silk and rich velvet linens. Then red tresses danced across her face, tickling her nose like seaweed in water. Veanelen reminded herself she was still submerged. Veanelen raised her arms in panic when she felt two unusually warm hands resting on her knees, pushing her legs apart. Then the turquoise eyes of Panēle flashed with confusion peering out from her nest of crimson curls, loose and wild from removing her locks from her braids. 

“Beloved?”

“Panēle…” Veanelen sighed while her paramour brushed her hands down her thighs, the heat radiating from the other woman’s body adding to the layer of sweat springing across her own. Fingers slid inside of Veanelen, causing her to bite her lower lip and moan softly.

“You… You seem very happy to see me…” Panēle’s melodious voice took on a deeper, lusty tone. Veanelen trailed her hand down her stomach, intending to help the woman find a preferred place to caress her. She froze when she found her hand wrapped around a fleshy object, wet and hard. She tried to look down at what was clasped in her hand, but Panēle’s thick hair had suddenly fallen across her face, obscuring her from viewing the space between their bodies. Hair that no longer was a symmetrical tangle of waving red curls, but now sleek and brushed out straight resembling a silken robe made from blood hued dyes. 

“You…?” The voice of her lover was gone, replaced by a reedy masculine voice, with a growing confusion in its lilt. Veanelen sat up on one elbow, now fully seeing the body she was inhabiting, its grey tone familiar, her hand holding an erect penis that she hastily let go of. The red haired man was now pushing her legs wider apart with his own, as he ran his hand from her thigh to her stomach and then chest. The pale hand danced over the throbbing member that Veanelen realised was giving her small bursts of pleasure, the same as when Panēle’s more feminine touch was between her legs. 

“Who are you?” The man suddenly pushed her fully on her back again. The caressing hand pinning her down firmly on her chest. The flat chest of a man covered with scars. A hungry mouth found hers, consuming her greedily as the pressing hand shifted, and she could feel nails like knives digging into her flesh. Veanelen cried out in pain, tears falling from her eyes. Between her legs, the Maia’s other hand took himself up, and was now pushing his cock against her own, with a clear urgency to insert himself inside his lover. Inside of her.

The claws ripping into the skin and muscle on her chest felt as hot as an iron poker. Veanelen could feel the pleasure from a familiar touch that knew this body, and the secret places that would make her call out the name of every Valar. But it was coupled with a brutal assault, her chest now dripping sticky with black blood that filled the room with the fumes of a smelter. Veanelen was helpless, unable to move as if she had been struck by a paralysing blow. The kissing, the terrifying fullness of realising that Mairon had just shoved his fully engorged self inside of her, and was starting to strike at a fast rhythm, looking down and seeing that the blood was no longer black but gold. Molten gold was lighting up her body, filling the scars and pitted skin as if someone had blown gold dust across unpolished marble. Then Veanelen could see that the torn flesh on her chest was the same as the branded scar on a known temple. The mark of Sauron.

Veanelen turned her head away when Mairon leaned down to kiss her again. His body heat and his smell of burnt sandalwood was now making her nauseated. Mairon sat up, still seated inside of her, but was no longer chasing a climax. His orange cat eyes flashed at her, an angry smile curling on his full lips. “I… see… YOU!” He suddenly shouted, his mouth opening wide with a long forked tongue that danced behind a row of sharp and venomous teeth. Veanelen stared into the back of Sauron’s throat and felt she was about to be swallowed.

The shadows surrounded Veanelen and she felt she was being lifted away from the deepest trench. The voice of a warm current told her to swim with all her will. And she was no longer alone. The Wingildi had her arms. And once again her limbs felt like her own.

Veanelen felt coarse sand on her bare soles and she was standing. She walked forward through a path lined by kelp trees; its contours visible under the dimmed silver light coming from somewhere far and high. She reached a clearing. After walking three steps into the clearing, it had transformed into a great hall of coral and pearls, lit by the undersea volcanic chimneys and luminous anemones. Its beauty was greater than anything she had seen in Alqualondë. The Elf felt the presence of Ossë and Uinen, and knelt. Veanelen had never lowered herself in front of the Ainur, but this time she was pleading.

Everything turned black again. Once more Veanelen was under the heaviest darkness, chained, beaten and burned. Once again Veanelen was not herself. From the shadows came an even darker figure, who plunged a fiery dagger in her chest. A flame bled out of her, its light white, blue and yellow, finally red. 

From the red light coming out of her chest, shadows rose holding curved knives and tridents. “Nampat!” The choleric cry ringed inside her head. Battle drums replaced her heartbeat. Then the same dagger cut the shadows like summer grass. Veanelen wept but her tears got lost in the ocean. The Elf was chained again. Beaten again. Burned again. A new stab and a new flaming wound. Now she was holding a sword, heavy but invisible in the gloom. The shadows surrounding her ran to her sword while she swung, unable to control her movements. “My children!” The lament came out of her hoarse throat, and brought pain to her entire body.

The darkness changed. It stopped the pressure on her. Veanelen was herself again, feeling the gaze of Ossë and Uinen, under the cover of Ulmo’s protection. She did her best to find the sandy ground and prostrated. She brought to her mind the image of Volarno holding Nestamā, of Vilverin whispering to fireflies, of her entire crew singing with synchronised hearts. She evoked the tenderness of Círdan consoling her after the death of Panēle. And swore allegiance once again to King Olwë. Next to those precious memories, she showed the magenta eyes of the Uruk sisters full of curiosity. She shared Usquiel tenderly guarding her swollen belly. Veanelen relived the telling of the Uruk escape to the Sea, and the voice of the Sealord Father comforting his people. The Sealord Father standing guard when she threw herself to the mercy of the Lords and Lady of the Sea.

An ineffable voice resonated in her mind from the foundations of the world, and its preternatural echoes made the seabed tremble in all of Arda: “Pay the price.” Veanelen devoutly closed her eyes, and promised to serve Ulmo faithfully. She opened them again. She felt lost in two sunlit seas, then she recognised her ally’s concerned stare, and her mouth tasted salt for the first time since she sank.

Adar had been staring at the cove. Immobile. Desperately searching for the ability to pray. The smell of Elven blood still lingered in his mind. The sea below him seemed to scream. It growled. And It laughed at him with Mairon’s voice, his former lover offered him wine, called Adar to bed, and challenged him to fight for this island. He felt the profane weapon in his hands, ready to stab again the pale and smooth neck he had caressed for centuries. Adar resisted.

The Morion heard a song, the same tritone that brought him to the beach in the first place. He heard Ciriarāta’s voice inviting him with sweet words she had never uttered in his presence. He fought the urge to seek those warm promises.

A tall and mantled figure made of mist and foam seemed to walk on the dark waves, but never came his way. Adar was certain now that the Elf would not return. A roar inundated the cove. A wave rose and broke next to the treeline where Adar was trying to guard himself from the moaning wind. A lightning bolt blinded him and when the thunder stopped ringing in his ears, he could hear coughing. The Admiral was lying on the rock, her numerous braids covering her face.

Adar ran and covered her with his cloak. He patted her between her shoulder blades as she emptied her lungs through her mouth. He heard her pulling air in painfully. After three attempts to breathe normally, she asked for her knife. Adar took the pearl case out of his breastplate and handed it to his ally as he helped her sit up straight.

“You are allowed to pay your respects.” Her voice was hoarse. “I must cut you. When you put your wrist in the water, ask for forgiveness and ask for a peaceful home.”

“Ciriarāta, my blood is corrupted. No Ainur will accept it.” Adar truly believed those words, and they came out of his mouth full of hopelessness and dread.

“That is their fee. They will deem if your payment is worthy, but you cannot deny them.”

Adar was still processing her words when she took hold of his right forearm and pulled back the sleeve of his maille and tunic. The silver blade sang when she opened the side of his wrist, careful not to break any important ligaments. Adar yanked his arm away from the drenched Elleth, when black oozed out of him. He did not want the Admiral to see the deepest mark of his fall from grace. He poured his shame in the ocean as he sank his forearm. Adar asked for forgiveness without knowing if he could ever be forgiven from any of his deeds. He asked forgiveness for his intrusion, he asked forgiveness for his actions, and he asked forgiveness for the tainted love that had bound him to his master. A slightly taller wave splashed his face, and he stood.

He walked again to where the Falmari leader was lying semi conscious under his cloak. Still wondering how she survived being submerged for hours. Adar helped her stand up, but she could not keep up right for more than a couple of seconds. He gently sat her with her back against a tree, knelt next to her, and he carefully put her boots back on. Then Adar lifted her to his chest.

“It is time we get you back to your crew, Ciriarāta.” He said as he balanced her weight on his arms.

“Veanelen.”

Adar froze and looked into her mahogany eyes. Then a slight curve adorned his lips.

“Thank you, Veanelen.”

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast
22:30 20 Tuilë SA 3235

Adar rushed into the cave to find the worried faces of both Uruks and Elves. The Uruks were pleased with seeing him return. Veanelen’s First Officer sprinted towards him to take her over from him. I already carried her from the coast, I can very well carry her the rest of the way. Adar swirled to avoid the ello and walked past her pavilion’s entrance, four Elves following him.

“She is unharmed.” Adar shouted in Quenya as he gently placed the Falmari Admiral on top of the carefully arranged bed linens on the floor. “She has been coming in and out of consciousness.”

“Thank you, Sealord Father. I will care for her from now onwards. We must remove her wet clothes.” Nestamā partially opened the black cloak wrapping Veanelen and looked up, fuming at him when they saw their commander was missing essential garments.

“She did that herself!” Adar would have blushed if his skin could still do that, instead he handed the leather trousers to the judgmental Elf. ”She took them off before diving, I covered her.”

Adar turned around as they undressed his new ally and covered her with blankets. He heard the Lindárin speech behind his back

“Ciriarāta, can you hear me?” The healer spoke to their leader.

The First Officer and Nárëwen walked in, she was holding a metal brazier and he carried a bowl with hot water.

“I am truly sorry, Nestamā. I swear I was not having fun.” Her voice sounded weak but it was enough to assure Adar that Veanelen was safe.

He left the Admiral’s hogan followed by Nárëwen. The alchemist thanked him for bringing Veanelen back and asked what happened.

“I am not sure. All I know is that she jumped in the ocean, because she knew that was what was needed.”

Adar could not explain that the instruction came from the Lord of Waters. No one takes a three hour dive under a storm and returns ready to cut me. He remembered her trying to keep a conversation and dozing off mid-sentence, as they made their way back through the forest. He chuckled at her pathetic attempt of saving face and climbing up the slippery path back to the cave’s mouth. What did she mean by not having fun? He could still smell her starlit hair, and feel her cheek on the base of his neck. I have other duties. Adar stood next to the fire and signed Draddau to approach him. The day was uneventful inside the rock shelter, supper would be served soon. Adar made no promises about the results of the ritual.

The Morion stayed by the central hearth where he had an open view of the door of Ciriarāta’s tent, and he could recover some heat after spending hours under the punishing downpour. The ocean howling his name and then inviting him in, using Veanelen’s alto voice, was going to join the nightmares that have been haunting him for millennia. The fabric flipped and her First Officer left the tent. Adar gave him his most unsettling stare, and delighted in the effect as the dark-haired ello walked towards him.

“Sealord Father, we are all very grateful to you for bringing Ciriarāta back. She explained what had to be done for everyone’s safety. Thank you. She is drained and needs her rest. I will procure her some sustenance. Can I offer you anything? We made some orange cider.”

“I am relieved to learn that she will be fine.” Adar meant it. “I need to be sure I still have an ally. My Uruks will bring my meal in no time.”

“I will get you a blanket and a cider, Sealord Father.”

Adar kept asking himself if Veanelen risked her life for nothing. All he had to offer was his blood, corrupted by Morgoth since before the first Sundering. It is black and it is a mockery of The One. Any Elf he had encountered had made it clear: he was tainted, marred, monstrous and unworthy. She ventured the abyss for her crew, they are the worthy ones. Middle Earth had already rejected his children, persecuted them even after Morgoth's defeat. Now the sea was threatening to consume them. Did the waves call on me an Age ago just to bury all of us in a watery grave? Adar thought it may be the Valar’s way to undo Morgoth’s misdeeds.

Volarno came back with a wool blanket and a steaming cup with a bouquet of orange, cinnamon, and ginger. Adar gestured to Volarno to sit for a moment and the Elven Officer did, uneasily.

“Admiral Veanelen…” Adar paused to observe the ello’s reaction to her name on his lips. Volarno seemed surprised but not upset. “Admiral Veanelen apologised to the healer, why?”

“Ciriarāta gave you her name or did you overhear?” Adar growled and his eyes turned icy once again. “Well, it seems we truly are allies now.”

“I certainly do not climb sandstone walls whilst carrying my enemies to safety.”

“Apologies, Sealord Father.” The mariner sat up straight. “You cannot blame me for being cautious around the same person who made an attempt against my liege’s life just two days ago.”

“I did no such thing.” Adar chuckled and took the thumb of his gauntleted hand to his chin. “I do not make attempts, Officer, I kill.”

“I believe you.” Volarno glanced briefly at his own knife.

“Now, why did your liege apologise to her subordinate?”

“She is protective of us. We are protective of her. We worry for her, when she takes risks, and she cares about how we feel.”

“She does care.” Adar’s tone made Volarno get away.

Adar followed him with his eyes for some time. He saw Volarno grab the healer’s hands and kiss them. They dined together, laughing, and exchanging pecks on their lips, when they thought no one was watching. Then they went together to the crew’s tent. Adar ate what appeared to be barley stew with a meager sprinkling of goat, and wild carrots and mushrooms.

The Sealord Father guarded from a distance the pavilion occupied by the Elven Admiral. Veanelen did this to protect her comrades, vassals and, perhaps, friends. In the middle of his negotiations with himself, his mind wandered and his eyes rested.

Adar dreamed with the raging storm sinking his ships and drowning his camp. In this oniric tempest, he guiltlessly abandoned everyone in pursuit of a mellifluous version of a known alto voice. It was that voice that guided him to the cave and led him to a tent warmed by a brazier.

The Morion woke up, disappointed, and confused about his own disappointment. He fed the communal pyre. Removed his wet boots and his breastplate. His clothes were still damp but he had had worse nights and, at least, he was in a warm dry place. He was there for real. He placed his back against a log and retook his vigil of Veanelen's door.

The ancient warrior closed his eyes. Mairon was laughing maniacally as he tried for his power of the Unseen World, and he washed black blood from his pale hands. Gorthaur turned towards Adar, and grabbed his jaw with his glowing hand still stained, pulling the Morion’s face towards his, while sinking delicately filed nails in his neck. The Sealord Father was back in the cave. He sat up straight, controlling his breath. He listened intently to the sounds of a dormant encampment, he found the distant whisper of Veanelen’s steady breath. He remembered Rúmil’s verse on destiny: The only ignoble act is not serving. And he stared at his ally’s tent. He fell asleep with his head on his knees. 

Adar was dismantling a slavers’ stronghold next to Thanghat, but their own fleet was attacked by the rear and had no way to retreat, he looked up and a flock of swans fell over his enemies, blinding them with their golden beaks. The waves rose and brought down the ships attacked by the swans.

“Adar? Were you too exhausted to walk to your tent? Adar?” He opened his eyes and was greeted with two gold-flecked mahogany irises and a dimpled smile.

“You should not be up, Ciriarāta… Veanelen.” Her smile widened after he said her name, and Adar thought that the fire shone more brightly.

“I am not ready to start the day in full Admiral duties. Apologies for the unladylike presentation.” He had only seen her in naval uniform and did not understand the joke, until she stood tall, and he could observe that she was wearing a base layer made with soft spun grey wool, meant for sleeping. “I needed to observe the clouds.”

“It is not dawn yet, it will be impossible to see. Sit.”

The elleth wrinkled her nose, unused to the imperative. She conceded, kneeling, and then sat on her ankles with her palms on her thighs. “You are probably correct. But I was dreaming about my swan ships. I need to know.”

“Veanelen…” Adar placed his gauntlet over her hand. “Even if it did not work: I am eternally grateful to you. You could have died. If not from your time underwater, from exposure, or a fall from that cliff.” Adar hesitated. “No one outside of our own had ever done anything like that for my children.”

“Since we shook hands, your children became like members of my fleet, as valued as any Falmari Elf, Adar.” She made a brief pause and added. “Under your command, of course.” Her smile widened. “Thank you for carrying me all the way from the cove…  I am in debt with you for your discretion.” She winked. “No one can learn that I tried to climb up the path through the cliff.” She let out an earnest and melodious laughter.

“Watching you on your hands and knees was more painful than a lifetime at Angband, Ciriarāta.” He said the title mockingly and smirked. “I would have carried any one of my children.”

“I am not a hollowed-boned songbird, I am certain that carrying my dead weight was not easy.” She unfolded her legs to stand up, and offered her hand to help him rise up. “You acted nobly. Let us listen to the verdict of Ulmo.”

They were at the mouth of the cavern looking up to the clouds. Adar could not perceive any silver lining at this time, but his new friend looked intently at the dark blanket above. She pulled up her sleeve and exposed her arm to the torrential attack, palm raised up. Looking inwards. Adar was not sure if she was listening to a voice only she could hear, or finding patterns in the gusts. Perhaps she is equal parts savvy and connected to the Valar, as she is both Elf and Wingil. Veanelen brought back her arm, and yanked it off to let it dry.

“It is still too early to be sure.” Adar heard her say. His heart skipped a beat as he relived the image of a marine sepulchre. “But the tempest does not feel as violent as before. It is starting to wane.”

“It worked?”

“It may have worked.”

“The Ainur accepted my blood as an offering?”

“Ossë is very temperamental and enjoys causing fear. You two have that in common.” She explained, her tone was not preaching, she spoke as someone talking about a problematic relative. “But Uinen is just and merciful, she has probably interceded for you and your Children more times than you can imagine. And Ulmo loves all Elves.”

Adar cleared his throat and looked at the elleth who was walking slowly next to him. Since he first saw her, she had sacrificed two men to Ossë’s troop, raising the tide with her song. She had fought him for longer than legendary Elven warriors had, and even made him gasp for air during their duel. She offered an alliance to halt the slave trade. She figured a method to know the transport routes. She dove into Ulmo’s abyss to petition the Sea in his name, and the most surprising thing so far was that she just called him an “Elf”. Not “Morion”. No prefixed “dark” nor “corrupted”. An Elf. Then he remembered something important.

“You may be looking for this.” From a fold in his tunic he took out the pearl knife. “Looks valuable.”

“My gratitude, Adar!” She smiled as she grabbed it from his gauntleted hand, she opened her arms to both sides, flinched, and lifted them quickly, like she almost embraced him but changed her mind, and instead fixed the knife in her braids. “No lies among allies: this is the real reason I left my bed.”

“As your ally I must tell you, honourable Ciriarāta. It is a dirty trick, not removing a weapon, however small, for a Parley.” Adar chucked. “Remember the ancient advice.” Adar got closer to her and whispered near her ear: “Keep the dirty, clever ones on your side.”

“That is no Rúmil.”

“No, it is Sealord Father.”

“Ugh!” Veanelen jokingly wrinkled her nose. “I hear he eats souls. And he can be insufferable!” She waved and smiled as she entered her marquee.

Adar recovered his boots and his armour. Walked all the way back to his tent at the end of the cave. He removed his damp clothes. This new ally comes with a large, well funded fleet, with the trust of the big lords, and she is the bravest person I have met. He wrapped himself in the soft elven blanket, and laid to rest. He thought about Ulmo accepting his fee. The call he heard in Forodwaith an Age ago was not an offer of asylum, it was his real duty. Everything he had endured had been in preparation.

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast

11:30 21 Tuilë SA 3235

The floor of Adar’s tent was impossible to walk on, it was carpeted with charts, maps and logs. He had spent hours working with Veanelen, Volarno, and Nárëwen. Draddau had left and came back several times, whenever he needed a rest from listening to Quenya and “looking at their ridiculous faces.” They had been reviewing the different merchant houses, and the docks in Númenor that were relevant in the slave trade; either by importing goods made by enslaved labourers or by transporting ‘living cargo’. Adar almost laughed when he saw Veanelen’s face after reading that phrase in an inventory, she had twisted her mouth to one side, shrugged her nose to the other and squinted her eyes.

“You look like you just smelled something foul, Ciriarāta.”

“Well, Sealord Father, this smells like a beached whale after seven days in the sun.” Adar was not sure if the Elven leader was joking, being serious, or both. Kalen does that, is he half-Falmari? He heard her continue in her usual alto voice: "I know what kind of Atani we are dealing with here, but hearing the way they distance themselves from their atrocities is vexing to me.”

“Thus are the realms of men, Admiral.” Adar meant not to sound condescending, but the way she arched her brow when he said it made him realise that he did.

Adar had observed her as she marked down the docks where each of the merchants had storage facilities. He also noticed that Veanelen was wearing her braids up in a knot, to keep them out of her face while she stretched through the spread maps. The pearls in her hair reflected the light of the multiple Elven lamps distributed around the tent. The Admiral had cross checked her logs with Adar’s recovered purchase orders, and she complimented him on the comprehensiveness of his records. Thanghat will like hearing that. Adar touched the hilt of the clawed dagger sheathed at his back and felt a quiet pressure on his chest.

Veanelen’s keen eyes followed his hand when he took it to the barely concealed weapon, and her shoulders visibly relaxed when he retrieved his hand empty. The veteran mariner was by his side, pointing at the signature of a leader of the merchant’s guild in a purchase order. Adar wondered what exactly she referred to when she expressed that she never trusted his disgusting adulation. He tried getting closer to read the name. But he obviously had gotten too close to the Admiral, because her First Officer interrupted them and got her attention. Volarno and Nárewën had been looking at alternate routes, their possible costs for the merchant tall ships, and for Falmari cirias to cruise those. She is protective of them and they are protective of her. At least he is competent with charts. The Elven boatswain looked at the Sealord Father and asked smugly about any captures along those routes.

“Those registers must be on another ship.” Adar replied sternly, to shut down Volarno’s pretensions of questioning him.

“Would that be the vessel led by Captain Thanghat?” The Falmari admiral asked naturally, with the irritating confidence of someone who was supposed to know that name. I have never told any of you her name. Adar glared coldly at her fay face. “The captain scribbled at the margins and at the back of some of the logs. Some are very insightful notes, some are… Dissuasion against prying eyes.”

“Not enough to dissuade yours.” Adar growled, and saw Ciriarāta subtly furrowing her brows and lifting her chin.

It had only been only a few days of constant interaction, but Veanelen knew better than to press Adar on a matter he was not ready to discuss. Instead, she made sure that their notes were appropriate for their mission in Númenor and talked to her mariners.

“We have taken enough of the Sealord Father’s time, officers. We should put away all this paper trail, and give him space to work with his captains.”

“That is not necessary, Ciriarāta.” Adar said, trying a friendly tone with his raspy voice. “We must be sure you have everything you need.”

“It seems that we do, for now. Thank you for allowing us to make copies of some of these logs, and for allowing me to take some of the original purchase orders to Rómmena.” She handed Adar the scrolls, with Thanghat’s notes facing up and her thumb pointing at the verse.

The sea was unusually wavy,

When a cook in Thanghat’s Navy,

With a thrust of the ship,

Accidentally slipped,

Overflowing his captain with gravy.»

Veanelen stalled by folding a map in an unnecessarily meticulous manner, just to observe Adar’s face reading the marginalia he was so protective about. He cursed under his breath in Black Speech, evidently embarrassed by the captain’s lyrical expression. He feels directly responsible for this specific captain. Then she noticed how the Uruk leader refocused his gaze towards the entrance of his tent, signed something about an announcement. Veanelen was starting to notice more patterns in the Silent Tongue that made it more discernible, but still struggled to understand it. She saw Shagram confirming Adar’s question and disappearing shortly after.

“We must finish our preparations for tomorrow. It should stop raining tonight, then we will be able to assess the state of the Ciria Lanca, and tend to its needs. We are planning a departure in the last hours before sunset.” Veanelen kept a cordial tone.

“We have another topic to discuss, Admiral.” Adar gave a side-eyed look to Volarno. “About our responsibilities to our subordinates.”

Veanelen had no idea what Adar was talking about, and she clearly needed to interrogate Volarno about his interactions with the Uruk commander. But she was intrigued and it may have to do with the “announcement” Adar was signing about with Shagram.

“Thank you, officers.” The Admiral said, looking at Nárëwen to see if she knew what was happening between these two. “I will confer with the Sealord Father on this new matter, in the meantime convey our mission to our comrades. First Officer, please assign tasks to prepare for departure.”

The Elves took their leave. Veanelen turned around and saw Adar wearing a disarming grin. This is new! What did he do? He was looking at her and said in a low tone.

“I have a surprise.” Adar waited a couple of seconds while inspecting the Elf’s inquisitive look, he was already anticipating her reaction. “We can celebrate the end of the storm, the official alliance, and give your crew a proper send off.”

“How?” Veanelen sounded incredulous, she sided her head a little, and paid him with a heartfelt smile. “We have been rationing, the weather has not allowed foraging yet. We are still to learn what Ossë took from us.”

“It will be modest in comparison to your Elven banquets. But I just got confirmation that our brewers saved their batch of mead, and it will be ready for drinking tonight.”

“Adar, this is great news!” Two bronze palms landed swiftly and gently on Adar’s armoured shoulders, congratulating him. “It is very auspicious to have the first barrels of mead on time for our first mission as allies. And for the start of your settlement.”

“The meal will still have to be rationed, but we can mark the occasion.” As he spoke, Adar placed his gauntlet on one of her hands. Her smile remained wide and honest, but Adar saw an almost imperceptible twitch in the corner of her mouth.

“I am very thankful, Sealord Father.” His ally moved her hands slowly away from Adar’s frame, and she picked up her sailing log. Bound in blue leather and engraved with the silver silhouette of a swan flying over the waves towards a star. Her personal sigil. Adar heard her continue, after she verified her own writing. “We had some bottles of Eressean wine in the ciria’s pantry, I will confirm with Pentro if we brought any to the shelter. If we did, It would please me if you accepted them as a gift to celebrate our mutual understanding.” She paused, looking Adar in the eye. “It speaks well of you that you see this as our responsibility to our peoples.” She said with a warm voice. “Our crews work hard, and they have to deal with us. They deserve recognition.”

“Deal with us?” Adar scoffed with feigned indignation. “I am not out there trying to get myself killed everyday, your crew needs better wine than whatever you are carrying.”

The sea maiden narrowed her eyes and stared down at him, then pretended to point an invisible blade at his throat. “You are trying right now, Adar.” She said with a joking tone and laughed. Then she changed to a serious but gentle tone. “Our two peoples will appreciate this gesture of yours. As do I.” 

Adar knew that life at sea would be easier for Veanelen if her crew was less guarded against him. All they see is Morgoth’s corruption, the beast made to kill for him. And he had been thinking of a way to convince them of his interest in collaboration between both nations, not just in their Admiral. A gesture of good will between the races. And he was very charmed with her answer.

“Speaking of our duties to our subordinates.” Ciriarāta added in a serious tone and looked Adar straight in the eye. “Before I involve my captains, I must understand your fleet’s decision-making process and your chain of command.” She gave him a brief grin. “When we rendez-vous after collecting information from my Númenórean sources, I would be very pleased to meet some of your trusted captains. Perhaps share with them the planned movements of the Merchants Guilds, or some reports from the Seaguard.”

Adar was not as pleased as moments before. Is she giving me orders now? He knew it was a reasonable request, and she has not yet committed an official number of ships. She cannot just summon my fleet. I can barely summon my fleet. Especially if I have no certainty that Nwalya-Nit is safe. Adar understood that she had only seen his non-combatants and a pile of papers, that any allocation of her forces would be dependent on how trustworthy she deemed the fighters under his command.

“Very well, Ciriarata.” He said hoarsely. “I will bring in my closest captains to meet here in three weeks. You find out everything you can, and we will work on a plan together.”

Adar saw her smile and extended her arm towards him. They shook each other's forearms in a naval handshake that lingered for a second longer than expected. I still need to learn more about her fleet, how she runs it, and everything about her. He hoped that a festive environment would help.

22:00 21 Tuilë SA 3235

Veanelen was standing in the centre of the cave with Adar standing by her side. Everything was dark except for the hearth at her back and the brazier in front of Adar, so that everyone could see the movements of his hands. She addressed their audience in Lindárin, and Adar signed while assuring everyone of the benefits of this alliance in Black Speech.

Draddau approached the improvised dias and gave a horn of mead to Veanelen, Volarno gave a cup full of wine to Adar. Both leaders took a long drink looking each other in the eye. Then offered their counterpart their own cup, exchanged it. They again grasped each other’s forearms and held them until they finished their beverages. Still looking into each other’s eyes, they said in unison the word «aþaro», only then released their ally. The elves clapped, the Uruks slapped their chests in approval. The two commanders were handed a candle each, and they lit them in the hearth, then they shared the flames with the lamps in the hands of their first officers. Adar lit the lamps of his Elders and, as agreed after a long discussion, Veanelen lit the lamps of the double-natured and the few Atani living with the Uruks. The alliance was official.

The words of justice against exploitation and slavery were received with unanimous cheer. Other references to solidarity, cooperation, and safety for the displaced peoples of Arda were not as immediately accepted. This is still fragile, but it is more important than the feelings of anyone in this room. Veanelen’s assessment of the situation was soon interrupted by a loud sound. A group of Uruks were playing the largest drums she had ever seen. She stood alone and paralysed at the sight of the instruments in that location. How did they bring those up here? She felt entranced  with the percussion, their bass sound was deep, low and loud.

“You will be able to feel them, Veanelen.” Adar must have been observing her reaction when the drums came out, and she had been too distraught to see him approaching. “The vibration allows both hearing and non-hearing Uruks to feel the rhythm. You and your crew will start feeling it in a while. This also helps to find your footing with Uruk music.”

His pale grey hand placed a horn of mead in hers, and remained there until she gripped the beverage. The Uruk brew had surprised her taste buds: fresh and light, spiced with ginger and pepperberries. She immediately decided that it was a pleasant surprise; even if it was not, she had Adar’s eyes fixed on her, and she did not want to offend him. This had been a good gesture towards her siblings.

“How are you handling the heat?” He said with a smirk, looking intently for any expressions that may betray a less than sincere response.

“I have never had anything like this.” Veanelen pointed at her empty horn. “I do not know what I was expecting, but I am enjoying this tangy mead.”

“Good. I appreciate your fine Eressean wine, Ciriarāta.” He freed her hand from the empty horn. “But I have had the most regrettable experiences with bold reds, I hope I am not offending you by drinking mead. It is also a momentous occasion for our brewers.”

Veanelen felt her own smile big and genuine. And she widened her eyes, appalled by how quickly a full horn appeared in her hand. She expressed that no offence was taken. Both Veanelen and Adar turned abruptly to the entrance. The elves had found Pentro’s small harp and, following the rhythm set by the Uruk bass, were singing a song with verses composed as they went along.

“My heart pulsates with those strings, Adar. Come!” She caught her ally’s hand, she gave it a soft pull in her direction, and quickly let go of him. “You will never meet an Elven company in a better and more open disposition than when we are singing.”

Veanelen walked towards her comrades, gesturing for Adar to follow her. They stood next to where Pentro was playing. Volarno and Nestamā were already dancing together, and Nárewën shyly approached Veanelen and Adar. Veanelen shared some of her mead with Nárewën.

“This is as fiery as those stews from Far Harad!” The alchemist said that as a compliment. Veanelen knew how much she enjoyed when rare missions had taken them to those ports. Adar seemed pleased when Veanelen explained to him. 

Adar asked Nárewën something about those travels, but Veanelen could not hear because Belda ran towards her, and carried her to dance with him. It was like being lifted by Tulkas himself, and the golden-haired Belda always loved that comparison. As they were dancing, he offered her his cup of wine. She could not really taste it after the sharp Uruk mead, but she enjoyed the warmth of his gesture.

The song ended and she lifted her head to see Vilverin and Trumbe making their way across camp, trying to join the Uruks rhythmic march. Dance! It is how they dance, following the vibrations! She tried to meet Adar's face to show him but he was busy holding Nárewën’s hand as she danced around where he stood still. Veanelen laughed, and the Sealord Father lifted his head. He gave her the same disarming grin as earlier, and Veanelen was thankful that Nestamā was offering her a cup and their hand to dance together.

“Vilverin and Trumble are already dancing with the Uruks!” Veanelen told Nestamā.

“The deadliest archers and the friendliest beings out of Aman.” The healer answered with a jovial tone as they moved following Pentro’s notes.

Volarno came up to them and made an exaggerated bow requesting permission to dance with Nestamā. He gave Veanelen a full cup as compensation. Belda swept in immediately and she danced at his frantical rhythm. Thankfully, Nárewën arrived at her side. The soldier scooped the alchemist off the floor and lifted her up to his face in one movement, then kissed her euphorically. Veanelen retreated, allowing the spouses to continue dancing together.

Adar watched Veanelen dancing, her braids were tied and fell together to her back. The silver strands turned into molten metal when she stood closer to the fireplace. When the Elven alchemist noticed that he was looking at the dancing pairs, Nárewën had offered Adar to join them. It was easier to make an attempt than explaining that he could not dance anymore. Thanghat would be grinning at me to let me know about her dishonourable accusations. He observed how dancing partners did not mean romantic partners. Or Veanelen would not dance with anyone in her company. Among Uruks you had the big formations, if you did not have a partner, but you would never dance as closely to someone you were not already very close with.

The Dark Elf paid special attention when Volarno joined his admiral on the dance floor, and asked for the healer’s time. He thanked the strawberry blonde ella for her patience with him, he readied two more horns of mead, and Veanelen joined him shortly after his former dance partner’s face disappeared behind the golden hair of the tall mariner ello.

“You may need to finish that, aþaro.” Adar pointed at his ally’s cup. “Before you insult the Uruk custom by bringing Elven wine to our drum session.”

“I will appreciate it, if you show me the ways of an Uruk celebration.” She waved a bronze hand against taking the horn he was offering her. “Although I better be careful, we have a ciria to tend to at first light.”

“First lesson: it goes against Uruk tradition to break the festive atmosphere by discussing duties.”

“Apologies, aþaro.” Her dimples deepened as she smiled. She finished the Elven wine, with her gold-flecked brown eyes meeting his, as a callback to the ceremony that just joined their forces.

Both leaders walked together towards the area where the drums were playing. The instruments were set under a section of the cave where the ceiling was slightly lower, thus the percussion traveled faster. Adar showed his ally the area where the young Uruks could dance away from some of the unbecoming behaviour from adults. Everyone was passing horns and skins filled with mead. Veanelen asked him where it came from, and Adar felt compelled to show her.

“These are our brewers.” The Sealord Father lifted the cloth that marked the entrance to a tent, and introduced her to the Uruks filling up flagons and skins. “Tell them how you like their product.”

“It is remarkable!” She said in Quenya, Adar translated to Black and Silent speech. With the corner of his eye, he perceived that she may have been imitating his signs but darkness and the position of her hands would not allow for him to know for certain. “I have never tried anything like this, I will be enjoying it for the rest of the evening.”

“They are pleased.”

Adar took two full skins, and they left to meet the others. He made sure to join the Uruk communal formation, where the youngsters, the singles, the widowed and those whose spouses are currently at sea were dancing in a big circle. Adar did not want to give the wrong impression about Ciriarāta. My children would not judge me, but they would question my motivations for the alliance. He then noticed the other Elves were joining the formation. Even the one with the small harp.

“It seems like you are leading by example, aþaro.” Adar got close to her ear, to make his words heard over the drums.

“I told you! Music and dancing will put Elves in our best disposition.” Adar thought he had never seen a bigger smile.

“Your company dancing makes quite a sight.” Adar felt ashamed, for the last time he saw fair-folk in the midst of a celebration he had been spying before an ambush.

“As do you, Sealord Father.” Her laughter set the rhythm for the harp.

Adar showed his ally the way the Uruk would stomp against the floor. He corrected Veanelen when she instead landed on a pointe like a heron. Her imitation of his children was something new, neither the delicate glides of her people, nor the martial strokes of the Uruk. She was imitating him. She unwittingly reminded him of his loss of music and songs, and of his foreign relation with the Uruk pulses. She seemed delighted with the palpitating drums harmonising with the Elven harp, and Adar did his best to share her joy.

After dancing for so long that half of the Uruk adults had left, and finishing all the mead of one of the skins, Adar used his gauntleted hand to lead Veanelen away from the tumult. Adar said he needed a moment to breathe, but he really wanted to be alone with her in a quieter place. He had selected the spot hours before: it was in a public area yet away from the multitude, near enough to his tent that he could easily walk in for blankets and return before someone else could snatch her away. They could sit with their backs against a wall and observe others. They were not exposed, but they could not be accused of hiding. He had taken the brazier there immediately after the ceremony.

Adar invited his new ally to sit and she stared at the brazier for a second, before sitting cross legged in the ground. Her cheeks were flushed like bronze in the forge, and she had not stopped smiling since she started following the Uruks’ movements. 

“You look like you are enjoying yourself.” Adar kept his usual hoarse tone, but he hoped that the warmth of the mead was not infused in his voice.

“Are you not?” The Falmari leader asked, still smiling and fixing the braids that had fallen to her face.

“I cannot remember when I last felt such bliss, Veanelen.” He saw her tilting her head a little to her left, trying to read his tone. Still smiling.

“Well, as you know ‘The drunk shall talk their way to the truth, for they are on their right path’, and I cannot argue against Rúmil”. She recited solemnly, but she was obviously jesting.

“He never wrote that.” Adar deepened his perennial frown, as if misquoting was worse than accusing him of drowning his senses, like Thanghat would be doing in his place. She has to be safe.

“Oh-no! He never penned it down. But he would say that at court while he drank. Full flagons!” She laughed, clearly picturing the most famous Loremaster of Endórë losing his step after searching for inspiration.

“You knew him in person?”

“He wrote the Lhaimmas in Tol Eressea. He was our honoured guest. It felt like he stayed for ages, because it was the longest I have been on dry land!”

Adar found it endearing that life at the high seas, with its limitations and its infamous harsh conditions, was better suited for this King’s descendant elleth, than sitting at court, hosting artists and wise scholars.

“How did you choose this?” Adar pointed at the camp, where some of the Uruks and most of the elves were still dancing.

“What?, this?” She stared at the dancing circle, then chuckled. “A tall pale ello brandished his troll-sized sword as a formal invitation to his camp, and we ended up having to weather a storm together.”

“You know what I mean.” Adar gave her a stern look. “You said ‘no lies among allies’, and if you cannot argue with Rúmil, you are going to have a more unpleasant experience arguing against yourself.” He handed her a mead skin.

“The path to the truth.” She said with a crooked grin and took a sip. “After the War of Wrath, I could not return to a life of leisure.” She straightened her back and corrected herself. “What, in comparison, felt like a life of leisure. I have duties and responsibilities as a ruler. We took in refugees from Valariandë, and building a home for all of them was a huge effort. But Tol Eressea is an invaluable gift from Ulmo. The House of Olwë has been ruling it for so long with the blessings of the Valar, that it seems that it practically runs itself.” She faced Adar and he could see in her face, in the dance of her pupils as she searched for the right words, that she was trying not to offend him.

“I must seem unfairly sheltered to you and I was. I know that before sailing East, I was sheltered from the great malice of Morgoth. We never had to worry about invasions or a harsh winter starving our people.” She smiled sympathetically but without pity. “The most intensive work I ever do at home is the roster for growing the fields, in which we all take part. I enjoy that, working the earth with my hands and sharing its bounty has meaning. The rest is building aqueducts, securing funds for the fleet, and minutia. Small matters I must negotiate with council members every three or four months. It is unreal, compared with how hard life is in Endórë.”

“You did not stay in Middle Earth either.” Adar reprimanded her with his voice, but he did not intend to.

“Nor should I. Enough problems have been caused by the Elves of Aman taking up land in Endórë, and creating a hierarchy where they are on top.” Adar observed her shaking her head as she took a longer drink.

Adar wanted to laugh. It seemed that he had misheard…An Elf complaining about Elves being regarded as the wisest and fairest had to be a trap. And it is the second time she called me an Elf. The Admiral was growing more amusing each time she tasted the Uruk mead.

“All that for some jewels!” She placed her palm on her own chest. “I am from Alqualondë, I always loved the sea and the stars more than any jewel.”

Adar remembered those doomed jewels, and how everything became even bleaker in Angband after Melkor returned with them fixed to his crown. Mairon had once tried to convince him that they were precious because they held a light that would never shine again. Adar had an even more distant memory, a rider talking about those impressive light-giving Trees in a faraway land, beyond the ocean in the far West. Adar still could hear himself speaking with a clear voice, explaining to this hunter that the stars and the sound of water was all his heart ever needed to sing. Then everything was darkness…No stars, no trees, just swallowing shadows and pain. The only rest from darkness was Mairon’s face, his eyes flaming in the dungeons, and in a high peak Adar wished to forget.

“If you are from Alqualondë, were you born after the kinslaying?” Adar observed the small tension subtly pulling her face down without reaching a grimace, it was a sad issue but she could manage it.

“No, I was a child. I was barely able to pronounce my lord father’s name. I was on a practice sail from the Swan Haven, around Tol Eressea and back.” She took a longer drink from the skin and passed it to Adar, he drank in her honour. “My lord-father and his brothers were killed. First they were defending the work of our people’s fëar. Then they were defending the lives of their siblings and comrades. My grandsire was never the same. We desisted from vengeance, or justice beyond the Doom of Mandos.” Adar saw her shuddering and tightening her fist. “After losing my father, my mother returned to the foam, weary of all Ellálie.”

Adar did not need her to say out loud that the Wingil’s grief made her forsake her Elf girl. She shook her head, her luminous smile was gone, Adar wanted to see her smiling again.

“How did you learn how to sail? To read the sea and the clouds.” Adar asked, making her think about what she loved the most.

“Ossë taught me, as he taught King Olwë and his sons long before me.” She looked at him interpreting his reaction. No Maia can be fully trusted, less so with a little girl. She must have noticed his concern.

“Ossë loves the Falmari! He stirs the salt of the sea in the hearts of our kin. By teaching us how to build ships and sailing them, we could stay closer to him and he could hear us sing.” She attempted a cheerier tone. “The sea might seem terrible to those whose hearts do not harken to its will, for it works the Doom of the Valar; but I never feared, for the ships of the Falmari no water may drown.”

“I can attest that the worst wandering in the waters was far better than the Shadow in the North.” Adar did not expect the ease with which the mead made him talk. Perhaps Veanelen was right about it being the path to truth.

“Sometimes, its tumult is a gift. I was practicing alone with Ossë in a very small ciria, learning the way between Alqualondë and Tol Eressea. Word came to him about the tragedy in the Swan Heaven. He heard the wailing of my people like the cold cry of gulls, and I was made to stay on the island until the Ñoldor had finished their bloody flight. Ossë gave them chase with mighty fury.” Adar noticed that she had been twisting the blue silk of her tunic as she spoke. It seemed to Adar that Veanelen followed his stare to her own knees, she let go of the fabric and straightened her uniform.

“I have been fulfilling my father’s duty as Prince of Tol Eressea ever since.” His ally spoke with the composed dignity of someone who accepted a responsibility for which they were not ready. Adar pictured her as a child donning a crown too big for her and could not stop the emergence of a smirk. “Part of the role was rebuilding our ships. I rejoiced in the waves, learning all ship-lore as it were already stored in my mind.” Her usual cheer returned to her voice. “We modified the build of our cirias, from pleasure barges and exploration vessels, to mostly fighting ships. Over the yéns, I eagerly built the renewed Swan Fleet.”

Adar took a long drink from the skin, he looked at his new ally’s face. She had remained expressionless when talking about her family’s collapse. He had seen Veanelen being fiercely protective of her crew, and she would take big risks to avoid exposing them. The Falmari fleet was her soul’s work. They are her children! She calls them ‘comrades’ or ‘siblings’, but they are her children. He saw a part of him reflected in this noble elleth. Her question caught him by surprise.

“Parents? I cannot remember any parents.” He had asked himself that question several times over millennia. “I have few vague memories from before Morgoth’s torture. But I have the impression that I just ‘was’. That I always had the form I had when I first arrived in Utumno.”

“That might mean you are one of the first to awake in Cuiviénen.”

“That is what I have been told.” Adar could not elaborate. He could never ask Mairon such questions, the Maia never acknowledged a time before his command over Adar. If there was no existence prior to Mairon, then there would never be an Adar without Mairon.

“If you awoke with the First Quendi, it would explain your striking features!” She opened her eyes wide. “It is said that Eru Ilúvatar shaped the first Elves Himself, and none had ever been as fair as those crafted by The One.” The Admiral took a long drink, looking at Adar’s face like she was inspecting the craftsmanship on her ciria.

“I could not say I have ever heard such praise.” Adar chuckled, attempting to hide his amazement.

“Maybe those words were said behind your back, you do not seem too welcoming of compliments.” She grinned and shook the mead skin. “But we are walking down the path of truth.”

Adar fell silent. Her words had conjured the recurring voices crying for help, or begging him for mercy. When I was hurting them, It mattered not if I had ever been fair. A flash of crying faces of women made him hold his breath. The unexpected sound of a horn brought him back in full alert. One of the taller Elves, the archer with dark skin and green eyes, was sounding a seashell horn, following the drums’ and the harp’s tempo while winking at the harpist.

Adar returned his eyes to Veanelen, who was in awe at Pentro and Teleplū playing their instruments. Adar took a long drink of mead, and he heard himself saying:

“You are exceedingly beautiful yourself, Veanelen.” He focused on a small dimple when she smiled. He could not look at her eyes or her lips. “How come you are the odd number in your crew? Any ello would be…”

“Elleth” She clarified. “I like elleths…” Adar heard her sigh and her glimmering eyes sank. “I loved one elleth.”

“Apologies, Ciriarāta, I did not mean to assume.” Adar was embarrassed, he knew he had misread her relationship with her First Officer, but he could not fathom how mistaken he had been.

“I am not offended. This was the first time in a long time since someone says it in a way that counts. I usually hear it from someone who thinks that flattery will get them a favour from my station, or from violent men trying to intimidate me, threatening with use of force to satiate their lust. That lust is never for beauty but for power.” She then looked inside, inhabiting a memory. “Panēle called my form goodly because her heart spilled through her words.”

“It seems evident she was telling a universally accepted truth.” Adar took a long drink, looking at the brazier. He did not feel bad after doubling down on his compliment, it could not possibly be construed as seduction, now that he had confirmed that Veanelen was interested in the alliance only for the sake of justice. “What was she like?”

“She was fearless and kind… And gleeful!” Veanelen's smile widened although her general expression was more melancholic. “I should not be sad, she would never accept causing anything other than joy. She was witty, she always made quick and clever japes.” Adar observed her absent expression as she took another drink. The golden flecks in her irises lit again. “Her name means ‘petrel’ in Lindárin and it was perfect for her: she was free and swelled when she sailed, but she felt at home in the Isle of Balar working with master Círdan.”

“Is that how you two met? When you arrived for the first time at Círdan's port?”

“Yes, we had just ferried the Valar.” His ally turned to look at him. “As the main host was making their way afoot, I took it upon myself to gather the strength of the Elves who had taken refuge offshore. We stayed some days preparing the companies to sail upstream to Forodwaith.” Adar saw a faint smile. “She showed me her favourite places in her isle, I showed her how we operate a Swan Boat in the high seas. She had the most beautiful auburn hair. When she stood in the prow of my ship, it was like sailing towards the sunrise. By the time all the forces were ready to march North, I invited her to join my company.”

“I heard that most Falmari mariners did not leave their ships.” Adar knew she fought on land, but she had not given any details during their first parley.

“Most did not. That was King Olwë’s order. I disobeyed.” She stared into Adar. Her eyes were filled with guilt. “I was in Alqualondë for a feast when Elwing arrived on our coast. As Eärendil pleaded to Manwë, she told us of their perils. I also heard from my Linda kin, from master Círdan, and from Panēle about the horror that Morgoth unleashed in the Falas, in Doriath, and in Gondolin.” Adar flinched at the memory of his role in those carnages. Every dead Elf meant numerous surviving Uruks. “And there had been rumours about the fate of those who ended up as his captives.”

“The rumours were nothing compared to what occurred under His command.” Adar tried not to darken her heart with such tales, but he was aware that she had witnessed some of them.

“It seemed petty to ignore the plea of all Endórë, just to nurse our pain and resentment against the Fëanoreans.” Adar had to admire her sense of justice. “I swore to fight for everyone suffering under Morgoth.”

“That is a different kind of oath.” Adar smirked and stared at her winsome face.

“One that has caused me many troubles, aþaro. The reason why we are here, celebrating an alliance.” She laughed at the contrast of her serious words with the festivities around them. “I gathered a company of Falmari Elves who would be willing to fight inland, and we joined the larger Linda legions, but we fought under king Olwë’s banner.”

“You did not get a warm welcome to Angband, I am afraid.”

“Warmer than expected! With drakes and Balrogs… I cannot blame you personally. And I hope you do not blame me. You understand what battle entails.”

“For longer than you have been alive, aþaro.”

“Panēle invited two new recruits, also from Círdan’s workshop. They joined our company. In the worst of the battle. The Linda commander… Andúno, he still lives in the Grey Havens. Andúno ordered a retreat to regroup and change the attack. Panēle had gone beyond enemy lines. I had been protecting her in previous fights, but she did not want me at her side that day. I had been too vexatious for her. Sometimes, I can be too burdensome.”

Adar shook his head in disagreement with that pitiful characterisation of his ally. He remembered that the battle she was describing was the last one where the walls of Angaband served as defence. Veanelen’s narration was starting to unlock a familiar image.

“Once my entire company had retreated safely, I saw that the three Falathrim were missing. I was able to see her trying to make her way out of enemy lines. Drowning in a sea of blades. I ran trying to reach her. But I had to stop to avoid a fell beast. When I rose again, the two recruits were being executed by a tall warrior wearing full black armour, including a helmet with a face mask. I could not allow her to be taken to him.” Veanelen gasped for air. “I slayed my way through the first enemy lines. I was taken down by the Linda lieutenant, and removed to safety.”

Adar was paralysed looking at her grief laden face. He did not need Thanghat’s gift to see clearly the episode Veanelen was revisiting.

“They had to lift me out of there. It was a foolish and undisciplined act that could have put everyone in my company at risk. But I could see how she was taken to the Black Warrior. She was already bleeding when she was made to kneel before him. He used his sword to lift her face and made her look at him. Her eyes were filled with resignation when she lowered her head.”

Veanelen had to pause. Adar saw her laboured breathing and felt compelled to hug her, to grab her hand, to console her in some way. He restrained. The Sealord Father knew she would hate that from him. His new ally would hate him in no time.

“She was given a warrior’s death. I take solace in her courage and stateliness until the end.”

“Let me assure you, you did not want her imprisoned.”

“I saw those dreaded dungeons, Adar. I know that. I just needed to hate the Black Warrior. I hated Morgoth and Sauron. I hated Angband and everyone in it. I blamed the two recruits who did not keep formation. In truth: I am the only one who must bear the blame.”

“No, each of them made their choice.”

“I was the captain of that Ciria, the Admiral of the Falmari fleet. You know I was responsible for my company. And I should not have taken three new recruits, green as summer grass, to fight the greatest evil in Arda.”

“Soldiers die, Veanelen.” Adar tried to sound sympathetic.

“I know.” She growled. “Shipwright apprentices do not. She should have been a peaceful craftsperson, living through the Last Battle and founding the Grey Havens. It was selfish of me to decide that I wanted to live or die by her side. I recruited her because we fell for each other, and I loved her deeply. With devotion. She liked me.” Veanelen placed her open palm over her heart, patted her chest three times, then let her hand fall. “On the eve of that battle she ended our attachment. I offered to protect her on the battlefield, but she wanted to be away from me.” She sighed. “The Halls of Mandos are far enough, there she shall heal. And when she is free in the Undying Lands, she will not look for me. I am the one to blame.”

Adar was shaking just as much as Veanelen was. He looked her right in the eye, but her glassy stare was lost in a scene from centuries ago. As vivid now as it was then. More knowledge could not make her feel better. Talk your way to the truth, that is the right path. He could not hide the truth from his ally. If she figures it out by herself, she will know that she cannot trust me. He searched for any signs of knives, other than the one always lodged in her braids. It seemed that she carried none.

“Please believe me, aþaro, when I tell you that everything you observed in Angband’s dungeons was nothing compared to the fates women and elleths would have suffered. Captives were doomed to the most horrifying torture, Mairon would have wanted to replenish his army. Shall not burden you with the details. But I could not allow that to happen anymore.”

Veanelen sat up straight and pierced through him with an accusatory look.

“You gave the orders.” She wore the emotionless mask she had when he first threatened her with his great sword.

“And executed the prisoners.” Adar sighed and failed in his attempt to grasp her forearm. “I am deeply sorry.”

Veanelen looked at him, the gold-flecks had disappeared from her eyes. They were as cold and as hard as black pearls. They emanated an incandescent rage. They were the deep abyss of despair. Her face was tense. Trembling. Her lips were shut and pressed. A spasm curved them down while she struggled to keep them straight. All the muscles in her long neck were visible, tense, hollowed and ready to spring against him. Both her fists were tight. The downpour outside had been waning for hours, but now it waxed as the storm within her made all her sorrows resurge.

Veanelen knelt in front of him to meet Adar’s face. She was looking at him like a huntress before leaping to his throat. Her thunder-laden voice was a great wave breaking in the rim: “Ulgundo!” The elleth cursed him in her language, as she used the heel of her hand to smite him with three fast blows directly on his heart.

She arose in fury. Long, quick and wroth strides took her to her pavilion, where she disappeared without looking back.

Adar remained immobile, following her steps with his gaze and his exposed hand at the centre of his cuirass. All Elves, Peredhil and Atani were in their tents. The Uruk still up were playing the drums. The fire in the brazier Adar lit for Veanelen was almost extinguished.

What did she call me? Adar had many faces haunting his nightmares. The face of his ally would haunt his waking hours. Is she still my ally?

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast

5:36 22 Tuilë SA 3235

A pale grey light strained through the canvas covering the rocky mouth of the cave. Adar could still hear the faint sounds from the leftover wrath of Ossë ceding to a light rain. He was more concerned about a choleric outburst by another sea creature: the mariner Elf whose paramour he killed at the end of the previous Age of Arda.

The Morion had spent what was left of the night sitting by the brazier, tormented by remorseful reveries. He had set that cozy corner to drink merrily and talk with Veanelen in private. The conversation was still playing in his head, her melodic laughter halting, he still could see her warm smile turning into a burning fury. She did not pull back her punches, but Adar knew that she could have used her pearl knife or tried hitting his face; instead, the blows over his heart echoed her malediction: ‘Ulgundo’? Am I the ‘ulgundo’ or is it a doom that might befall me? Having their lives intersecting as foes, then as friends, only to be violently sundered has to be another one of the uncountable cruelties of the Valar.

His keen Eldar eyes had remained fixed to the door flap of her blue and silver pavilion, and clearly perceived the subtle movement near the fabric. Before the Ciriarāta slid the cover and stepped out of her marquee, the Sealord Father had risen and gone into the Peredhil tent. The sun was finally out. The settlement needed supplies and a first account of the losses in their camp.

Half-Elves and Atani had had a night full of excesses, if the smell of fermentation inside that canvas shelter was to be believed. Adar spoke softly to awaken them, but his voice sounded tense.

“Arien is visible now.”

“Sealord Father!” Usqueil greeted him, still sleepy. “Great news! I can’t wait to get out of this cave.”

“You might need to, Nitya-Lopoldë.” Adar said softly as he looked at her prominent belly with concern. “See Shagar before we think of moving you out of here.”

“She might be asleep, Sealord Father. If she’s not at the infirmary, I’ll seek Nestamā’s advice.” Her words made Adar aware that, as skilled as Pohop was as a healer and as resourceful as Shagar was as a midwife, they both were working blindly with Women and Half-Elves.

Uruk healing tradition had no concern for the physiology of other races until a decade or so ago. The knowledge the Falmari artificer had of both Atani and Elves was needed for this ever-growing branch of the Uruk nation. ‘Ulgundo’. Adar bit the inside of his cheek. He finally replied to Usqueil: “Go find them now. They must see you before the Elves start their preparations.”

“I reckoned they’d stay and forage with us today.” Alenesso said so earnestly that it took Adar by surprise. “It’s a pity to see them go away, I like their singing.”

“Yea. That’s why you like having them around!” Walda’s crackly laughter had a higher hiss than usual. Atani do not fare well in the damp; they are more fragile than Uruk and the Eldar.

“Well, now I know why they’re called ‘fair folk’.” Alenesso had a playful smile that died as soon as he found Adar’s stare. “I mean no disrespect to our allies, Sealord Father.”

“Walda, you should also find the healer before they leave.” Adar said more sternly than any of them expected. The aging woman turned to her husband, Hallgrim, who just shrugged. “Everyone else, you are to come with me after breaking your fast. We are going to the original campsite.”

Adar left the tent, holding Walda with one arm and Usqueil with the other. He stopped for a moment to briefly inspect the structure they were exiting. The Elven waxed canvas has sheltered his Children for now, but its owners are sailing away. Mayhap forever. The Sealord Father was in charge of providing shelter, food and safety.

Adar saw Draddau leaving the kitchen with a water skin before retiring to the tent he shared with his wife, and gestured for his Quartermaster to approach. He explained in Black Speech that the women needed to see the Elven healer, and asked for his help taking them there. Adar hesitated before adding.

“Ask their First Officer how long they are planning to stay away from this island.”

“In our meeting yesterday, Elf-Captain said three weeks.”

“Please, get confirmation from the First Officer.” Adar saw Draddau containing his irritation. He worked hard with Shagram planning the celebration, now he needs some rest. “I am taking the able bodied soft skins to start inspecting the campsite, meet me there after sundown.”

“Aye, Sealord Father.” The troubled leader followed with his eyes the three figures until they reached the black-haired ello. Adar heard him calling for Nestamā. The healer came out of the large communal pavilion and cheerfully led their patients to the infirmary.

Draddau clearly asked for Volarno's confirmation, because the First Officer turned towards the stony entrance and addressed a tall figure bathed in sunlight. The ethereal silhouette moved forward and revealed itself to be Veanelen coming back inside. She listened to the Uruk quartermaster and raised her head. Adar could feel his ally’s stare darting through him as he turned towards the back of the cave; he was in urgent need of parchment for his assessment of their landfall site.

Adar bursted into his tent and knelt in front of the chest holding his most valuable assets: scrolls and rare bound books. He never thought about getting a change of clothes for the shelter, he slept in one of the blankets distributed by the Falmari company, but he saved the knowledge he had scavenged for through Beleriand and guarded for the yéns that followed.

The Sealord Father opened the chest and he picked the chart of the waters surrounding his island. He pictured Thanghat sailing southeast and his exposed hand twinged with faint pain. When a black droplet trickled from a fine cut on the tip of his index finger, he realised he had mindlessly reached for the claw dagger. He looked at his chart again, it had new distance measurements, smaller islands with topographic symbols for forests and freshwater sources, and a subtle inscription on elegant sarati calligraphy describing the main currents. Adar grunted with annoyance, and turned towards the entrance where he could hear someone waiting.

“The soft skins are eating with the Elves, Sealord Father.” Draddau walked in and gave Adar a bowl of porridge with goat’s milk and small black dried fruits that Adar had never seen. “I figured you wouldn’t join ‘em.”

Adar pointed at the chart and Draddau’s face lost its harshness for an instant. “They may have let the warm western current push them away, and might be somewhere East from this chain of small rocky islands.”

“She better be keeping everyone safe.” Draddau took a drink from a pungent pouch he had been hiding since the storm kicked off. His tone was rough, but Adar knew he was truly concerned for his son’s maiden voyage as a captain.

“I am sure she is.” Adar said warmly and placed his hand on his quartermaster’s shoulder.

“If you’re so sure ‘bout everything, why you sent me asking questions that Elf-Captain  answered yesterday?” Adar could not explain how an admission of a battle millennia ago could alter this alliance. Uruk do not hold memories the way immortals do.

“They just saw their swan ship. They may have learned something that changes their schedule.” Adar said, trusting that Draddau did not care enough about the Falmari to keep asking.

“Well… Elf-Quartermaster said three weeks, if the weather permits.” Draddau looked into Adar’s face after he let out a sigh of relief. The Uruk rolled his eyes and added. “See you at sundown.”

Draddau left Adar alone, he kept looking at the new information in his nautical chart. 'You cannot claim as your own a place you do not understand is true even for the surrounding waters.'  The Sealord Father knew that he should be thankful for the help, yet he was furious with the audacity. That chart was his work with Thanghat, and this Elf could not just scribble in it like she was the only one who sails the Sea.

Adar heard the Falmari leaving the cave together. He caught fragments of their conversations with his people. Walda’s crackling voice thanking an ointment and asking Nestamā if she could smoke her pipe weed if she did her vapours later. Mortals will always try to negotiate their short time with their passions. He heard Alenesso wishing them that their ship was in good shape. He heard Usquiel thanking someone for the gifts. What gifts? As soon as he could not hear the rhythmic footsteps moving away, the Sealord Father joined his people by the hearth in the centre of the cave.

The canvas of the entrance had been rolled to the side, allowing the first golden rays into the common area. The fresh air was already flowing in, dissipating the smoke, freshening the smell of damp clothes, dirt and leftover food. Until now, Adar had avoided focusing on the smell of fish scales and burnt fat in the kitchen, more so the unpleasantness kept away from the sleeping tents, in dire need to be buried in the forest.

Adar was now surrounded by the scouting party, The able bodied Atani and Peredhil were the smallest subset of the Uruk nation, most Half-Elves preferred sailing with Captain Thanghat, and most of the Followers did not live long lives in the harsh conditions of the Atoll. This island should be different, we just need to settle on its gentler side. They were all ready to carry materials with rope and canvas bags.

“We do not know what might be standing after the storm. You will be the first to see what we will be working on in the upcoming days.” Adar sighed. “The will of those who chose to become Uruk is as persistent as the wind that brought you to us. Come with me.”

Adar walked to the entrance of the cave, and he crossed the threshold as one awakening from a dream. A strange dream populated with pulsating Uruk drums, the intoxicating taste of wine, and the enchanting sight of friendly smiles that were not meant to survive the daybreak. The Morion let the light coming from the cliff at the opposite end of the valley shower him with its warmth. Let this be the start of our peace. His mind pleaded to no one in particular. A stubborn habit that endured despite the millennia of hopelessness and unanswered prayers.

The small group descended the thin path of wet limestone sculpted from the mouth of the cave to the valley below. They stopped for a moment to observe the fallen trees over the greenery, and filled their water skins in the stream. It will be fully clear a few days after the rain. A lesson that would serve his people, even if the teacher never returns.

They followed the singing waters of the creek out of the valley into the forested canyon, almost to the shore where it would surrender itself to the sea. Instead of reaching the northern coast, they turned southward. They crossed the thick forest, then made it through a wide buttongrass moorland with patches of old trees holding together, surrounded by their fallen kin.

Adar reached the crossroad that offered a gully lined by hard water ferns; if he followed it westward, he would see again the cove where his most recent problems began. To the East, the woods climbed up into a distant highland that ended in wave washed cliffs. The Morion led his party south, slightly south east, through a dense old-growth forest. Myrtle beech, leatherwood and pine trees gave way to 100 metres tall flowering mountain ash trees, releasing their aromatic vapours at the subtle touch of Arien’s rays.

The group walked as fast as their slowest could under the emerald and beryl canopy. The soft mossy terrain was slippery after the long downpour. The insects were buzzing among the bushes and the birds were singing in the branches. But Adar’s sight was fixed in the distant mirror reflecting light, and sending it through the space between the trunks. He hoped for the freshwater pools, he wished that the sand strip would keep them separated from the sea.

The Sealord Father saw the fate of their camp before any of his companions. ‘Those trees you fell at the edge of the forest, they were your protection against any seaborne storm.’ She mocked me when she said that. ‘By high tide the next full moon, salt water will intrude those pools because you destroyed the barrier.’ She enjoyed goading on that threat. ‘How long can Uruk survive drinking brine?’ We have a stream. We have a spring and a stream. The raspberry bushes under the forest were still alive. Adar sighed with relief but twitched at the memory of a skeptical grin accepting a small fruit.

The surviving bushes were the only silver lining, now they were standing on the edge of the forest, just a few steps from the waves.

The tide was still high. What little was still standing was flooded to the knees. Shreds of canvas hanging from broken poles was all that was left from his council’s tent. One of the Peredhel women, Manveri, pointed at the table, half buried in sand between the first lines of trees, the cases where he used to display his scrolls were broken near the table, but still usable.

Instead of the walls made of repurposed hulls, there were loose planks scattered in the forest floor and floating dispersed as far as Adar’s Eldar eyes could see. The wind blew making him taste the salted breeze with his lips to accompany the bile on the back of his mouth. I do not have anyone I can lean on here, but I cannot let them crumble. Hallgrim stood strong by his side despite his grey head and slightly curved back. Manveri was looking directly at Adar with nephrite jade eyes searching for guidance. Anondō was trying to make himself useful, he was one of the few Peredhil who chose staying to learn armourer skills. Adar could not bear to betray their trust.

“The wild waves hunted us like living things full of malice, dragged our labour away; the lightning smote us; and when we were helpless, the sea leaped upon us in fury.” Adar could feel their pain and knew it was a consequence of his shortcomings. “Yet we were spared. And we must now toll and recover what we may. Our beds might be five fathoms deep, but we will lie in our shelter of stone among our brothers and sisters.” Adar saw the igniting effect of his words in the eyes of the undefeated mortals. The next phrase came out full of spite: “The sea nymphs will ring no knell, for we endured their punishment.” Finally, he returned his mind to his people. “We cared for one another and, together, we will thrive in our new dwelling on a more welcoming shore.”

“Nampat!” His adoptive Children chanted in defiance of the clouds. “Nampat!” They promised their whole strength. “Nampat!” They placed their faith in his guidance.

Adar brought Anondō with him, the spindly youth with wild curly hair helped him recover as many floating planks as they could without being pulled by a treacherous current. With the corner of his eye, Adar saw a silver glimmer in the water. Then the entire side of a hull surfaced, with planks piled on it. ‘Uinen is just and merciful, she has probably interceded for you and your Children more times than you can imagine.’ A wave taller and yet calmer than the others took the resurfaced hull and bore it high upon its shoulders, and rolling to the land it cast the salvaged wood upon the surf, and then drained away. Leaving the vital pieces on the edge of the forest.

Manveri and Hallgrim ran to secure the returned wood. The black-haired apiculturist asked the man for help dragging it into the forest. They had already rescued two solid tables that had been taken from Númenórean ships, and Adar’s shelves.

“I found the beehive boxes, Sealord Father.” Manveri informed him with a pained voice. “But the colony is gone, we will need to attract the queen again.”

The last phrase stung Adar, but he focused on the resources immediately in front of them. “The raspberry bushes are still alive and the tall trees are flowering, you can gather wildflowers from those patches. Remember to wear a sharkskin cloak when you are out there chasing for the colony.”

“Should I do that instead of carrying wood to the new settlement?”

“We have shelter. We are in more dire need for food.”

“Usquiel cannot carry heavy loads, but the healer Elf said she could walk. She is foraging with the older children.”

“We might as well take what we can from the mussel farm.” The woman looked at him with surprise. Adar explained: “The Elves left one on the shore near the new settlement.”

“There is also a field with wildflowers up there. Perfect for the new colony.”

Adar saw her tying planks together and fixing them to Alenesso’s back. They walked together the leagues up to their new home. Adar stayed cleaning up the beach that slowly gained terrain over the retreating waves. By the time the pools were separated from the sea and the ebb, the intrusion had left them brackish. Adar and the Atani had piled together rescued wood, empty oil lamps, a chest full of wax candles, and several chairs that miraculously appeared half buried in the sand.

Most of the canvas or rope he could find was rotten. They better capture some textiles on their upcoming hunt or no one will have winter clothes. First we need to find the Flagit Ora-Nen, my clever girl is unharmed. Adar again touched the clawed dagger; he knew that he should not submerge it, but he could not remove it from his back. All armour and weapons were in the cave, building and smithing tools as well, and Adar found that comforting.

The blue skies turned vermillion, then gave way to the indigo mantle of a clear night with a crescent moon. Ithil’s bow showered with its silver light the diverse shapes of his Children emerging from the brackens. Adar moved quickly towards Draddau and brought the gruff Uruk close to him, and enveloped the stern Quartermaster with his arms before noticing he did that.

“The Swan ship left before sunset, Sealord Father.” Draddau said recovering his dignity after being released from the hug and taking a step back. “But the First Officer showed Alenesso where’s the mussel farm. He also said that we should use all the tents and canvas they took to the cave.”

“We do not need their charity.” Adar said in a petulant tone.

Draddau looked around and scoffed. “We do. Don’t be ridiculous. And if they’re our allies, then it’s not charity.” Draddau looked at Adar searching for an admission. “So what’s it? Cooperation or charity, Sealord Father?”

“We will know in three weeks… If they return.” Adar spoke and signed unconsciously, ashamed of his earlier omission. “We shall use the tents anyway. My pride has no place where the needs of my Children are not met.”

“That trade caravan better be a big one, Sealord Father.”

Adar nodded and placed his palms on Draddau’s shoulders. “All our captains will be there.” Adar emphasised the word ‘captains’ to reassure Draddau about his son. “We will have all the might of the Uruk to take it.”

The strength and endurance of the Uruk carried the surviving furniture to the Northern shore in one night. They moved together silently in the shadows, like they did generations ago after emancipating themselves from the yoke of the Dark Lords.

Nuzû and Shagram had arranged the fires to dry the wooden furniture and building materials, they also lifted the first tents in the new settlement, sparing the heavily pregnant Usquiel and Usbi from climbing up the wet cliff carrying baskets. Shagram was with them. The midwife assured Usbi that she was still safe from any signs of early labour, she could not tell with Usquiel at this point. With the help of the younglings, they had gathered enough mushrooms and wild roots for weeks.

Adar reached the new settlement with the last usable planks on his back. He saw everyone eating a filling stew, and drinking leftover mead in the hour before sunrise. Only seeing his Children fed and covered could lighten the weight over the Sealord Father’s shoulders.

5:00 23 Tuilë SA 3235

When Eärendil rose, Peredhil and Atani came out of their sleeping areas. Everyone was exchanging accounts of what they salvaged and what personal goods they could not find. Adar had not yet looked for any of his personal effects. He was still wearing the same clothes he had on when he reached the island. The Dark Elf was now glad that he wore his full armour for scouting the Eastern coast, but unsure if that had been a fortunate or fateful endeavour.

Uruk teens had carried barrels of water to this new camp. Adar drank, he filled his water skin, and used it to wash his face. Olcma and Oldash showed him the baskets full of nutritious supplies.

“We just set traps for eels and crawfish down the stream. Do you think we will catch some, Sealord Father?” The talkative teen signed as fast as the thoughts arrived in her agile mind. “The Warrior Elf taught us how to make them-...”

“You might catch many eels, Olcma. What do you need to make more traps?” A pain like grief weighed on Adar, who preferred talking about how that new knowledge would serve them than about how it was acquired.

“A bundle of sedge reed stems…” The girl stopped.

“Do you know what sedge reed looks like?” Adar saw an opportunity to compensate the girls for the failed ginger root collection.

“No, Sealord Father.” She looked up at him with magenta eyes thirsty for learning. “Will you teach me?”

“Tonight, after sundown. Now go and rest.” Adar gave her a slight smile, but he felt too tense and thought his grim expression might scare her.

The teen girl threw her arms around the aeonian teacher and placed her cheek next to his, the way the youngest Uruklings do with their parents. “Thank you, Sealord Father.” She ran immediately. Adar saw her grabbing her younger sister by the arm and almost dragging her to the tent where their parents were waiting for them.

By the fireplace, the Atani and the Half-Elves were eating some of the hearty stew and washing it down with pine needle tea. Manveri was firing up Walda’s pipe full of that earthy smelling weed that keeps them in a good mood.

“Nestamā said that it’s making my coughing worse, but I told them it makes me forget about my coughing.” Adar heard Walda explaining. “Their ointment helped me sleep better.”

“Mayhap spend a day or two without smoking, when you’re better, you can smoke again.” The raven-haired Half-Elven apiculturist suggested the older woman.

“Nah, you just want more for yourself.” Walda laughed and coughed simultaneously, her chest still gave that high hiss, but Adar could see that she was feeling well.

The Morion approached the group, moving with slow paced long strides. He was looking further than the pines around them, into the open waters beyond the stream, waiting for the sun to rise. Alenesso was the first to see him, and waved an arm to greet him. Manveri was explaining to Anondō the importance of deepening the skills of his trade and becoming a caring partner.

“Sealord Father, we are ready when you are.” Alenesso acknowledged Adar’s obvious intention.

“The overnight shift brought here everything we found on the beach during the day. We must start building shelter against sunlight, so my Children can move between tents during the day if it is necessary. Those rolls of canvas were in the ships, Nuzû and Draddau confirmed that.”

“Sealord Father, the swans are gone. My family was among those who tended them, so I could send my children looking for them.”

“If you are sure they will be safe, then go and search for our birds.” Adar felt a weight on his chest. The peat was too slippery and the woods were filled with half-fallen trees. “And give the little ones clear boundaries, we do not want anyone going missing in the forest.”

“Néndo is old enough to take care of his little sister, and Itarë always feeds the birds.” The Half-Elf was fixing a messenger bag across his chest after Manveri helped him by passing it over his head. “But I can go with them instead of hugging poles while others fix them.”

“As you see fit.” Adar deferred the wellbeing of the younglings to their main carer. He gets easily distracted, that made him barely acceptable back when he was a pirate, he better be careful with those children, we should avoid severe injuries in such fraught times. Adar looked at the Half-Elf and reminded himself how well Pohop and him worked together despite his impairment, and how scared Pohop was when the rot would not leave the young man’s wrists. He did not lose his hands by accident, I should not blame him for a maiming incurred during battle. Then Adar turned to Manveri. “Any news about the beehive?”

“I’m almost certain I found them.” The green-eyed Half-Elf elaborated. “I will smoke them out of the tree and offer the safety of the box.”

“Of course you will smoke them out. Remember to-...”

“Aye, I’ll wear my sharkskin cloak. I won’t get stung.”

“Again….” Alenesso japed, then turned again to their leader. “If we have enough light after setting the first canvas corridors, could we try and search for more missing items in the South?”

“We should do that.” Adar kept thinking about recovering as many of the belongings of his Children as possible. “It might be a more fortunate time after the high tide recedes.”

Adar held all the recovered poles that had spent the night drying by the fires. Anondō and Hallgrim buried them with dirt and rocks. Once the reticule was properly drawn, the softskins fastened the canvas saved by Draddau, with rope that the Elves left behind.

“We could make more planks and poles for the permanent dwellings, Sealord Father.” Said Hallgrim. The man had worked as a carpenter before being forced into a Númenórean vessel. “We have a big forest.”

Adar contemplated his options: they had moved into the island to use its resources. ‘Disrespect its streams and forest, they will stop providing for you.’ She was not preaching, she was concerned. Adar had not stopped looking at the Elven rope in his hands, then he turned to see the man. “I will ask my Children to bring as many fallen trees as we can gather overnight. We will use those, and anything we can dismantle from the caravan next week.”

Adar was satisfied with the fabric ceiling, it would avoid any sunburns among the Uruk, and allow them to have more time building their home. He left the Atani moving tents from the cave to the new settlement and took all the Peredhil to the Southern beach.

He left the forest half a league to the East from where they made landfall. They were next to the rock wall where the cliffs started. The curl had dragged some chests and furniture to this area. Adar was dragging a long table through polished grey bedrock, and his breath faltered when he stood in the same spot where he was first blinded by the lighting that warned them of the raging tempest. At that moment, the sharp blade against his neck had been the least of his concerns. ‘Disrespect guest rights, and curses will befall on you and yours.’ She tried to warn me of this bitter loss. His frail alliance should now be the least of his concerns.

Anondō brought in a barrel and all together placed everything they could find. The group laboriously carried the treasured findings rescued from the wrecked encampment: clothing, cookware, footware, tools, leather surcoats, shark-skin capes, they especially rejoiced at the sight of wooden toys. Even after everything crumbled, he saw the Half-Elves building hope for all Uruk. And seabirds were also building nests in the cliff: kingfishers, cormorants and petrels added their songs to their cheer.

Adar lifted his gaze and saw Arien starting her descent into the secret sea of the West. He left the bounty in the new camp and set out to find Alenesso. After walking one league into the southern woodland, the Dark Elf adjusted his eyes and ears searching for any clues to the whereabouts of the Peredhel and his family.

The forest glowed green and gold with the amber light before sunset. It would be a peaceful landscape, except for the two children and their father alone in an area none of them knew well enough.

The voice shattered the uneasy quiet.

“Sealord Father! The swans, they’re angry! One bit Itarë when she tried to touch the babies!”

The Half-Elf boy Néndo burst through the underbrush, his small body a whirlwind of mud, twigs and leaves. The child skidded to a halt before Adar, his trousers so caked in filth they looked more earth than clothe. Adar reached down, gripping the boy’s shoulder to steady him, his own fingers streaked with grime as he tried, and failed, to futilely brush away the worst of it.

“ Where ?” Adar’s voice was rough, worn thin by sleepless nights.

Néndo pointed toward the hill beyond the sassafras and banksias, his breath coming in quick bursts. “Under the big leaves! Itarë was following them, but the mother swan, she bit her and she’s crying now.”

Adar exhaled, slow and heavy. “Take me to her.”

The boy darted ahead, swift as a hare, weaving through the fallen trees and devastation without a second glance. The children had adapted too quickly… already laughing and playing, as if the storm had been nothing more than a passing shadow. As if the winds had not howled like dying things, as if the sea had not tried to swallow them whole.

Itarë’s wails reached him first. The small girl crouched in the brambles, her face streaked with tears, her fingers clutched to her mouth. When Adar lifted her, she curled into the crook of his arm, her tiny body trembling with wounded pride. She thrust her hand toward him red and already swelling.

“Mean bird,” she hiccupped.

Adar nodded. “Very mean.”

Néndo shifted impatiently. “They’re all up there, Sealord Father.”

Adar set Itarë down. “Take her back to the cave. And tell your father about the mud before you track it inside.”

The boy grinned, already forgetting and racing toward the next adventure. He seized Itarë’s uninjured hand and tugged her away, their voices swallowed by the rustling undergrowth.

Adar turned toward the hill.

The black swans had sheltered beneath the broad, rain-heavy leaves of the tree fern, their low trills humming through the air like a warning. He moved slowly, his boots sinking into the sodden earth, the weight of the storm still pressing down on the island. Around him, the forest breathed like a slow, wounded thing. Branches groaned. Water dripped from the leaves like blood from a reopened wound.

He paused, closing his eyes.

In the distance, the new settlement murmured…voiced calling, laughter rising with every finding in the barrel, the clatter of salvage. Life, stubborn and relentless.

But beneath it all, beneath the breeze and the rustling leaves, there was only one thought, gnawing at him like a rat in the dark:

Thanghat. Sauggath.

Alive. She has to be alive.

And if she was not?

His jaw and shoulders tightened. What then, Father of the Uruks? Will you mourn her? Will you forget?

A fool’s hope, to think he could keep her. A handful of decades at best, barely noticeable for an Elf his age. Adar turned to leave, he would send the Uruk children tonight and let them stalk the swans in the dark, when movement flickered at his feet.

A cob, massive and ink-black, reared up with a hiss, wings flaring like a storm cloud. Adar jerked back as the bird loomed, his poppy coloured beak gaping in threat. Behind him, small grey heads peeked out from beneath the shelter of their father’s feathers, their tiny voices piping in alarm.

Then the pen arrived. She came in a fury of beating wings, her cry sharp as a blade. Adar threw up an arm, the swan’s beak glancing off his wrist as he shoved her back. The cob joined her, hissing, their cygnets huddled between them.

“Go!” Adar barked, clapping his hands. The sound cracked through the air, sending the young ones into a frenzy of panicked cheeping. The cob held his ground, his dark eyes unblinking, while the pen postured, her feathers bristling. Adar stepped back, his pulse a dull thud in his ears. Around him, more swans watched from the undergrowth, their heads tilted, their gazes unreadable.

Do they see the change in you? Are you still the same Sealord Father that went into that cave a few days ago? Do they know you are not the same man, the same Uruk, who survived Angband? Or do they see you for what you are: A corruption.

The pen still stood guard, her wings half-spread, her body a shield between Adar and the cygnets. She hissed again, a last warning. Adar exhaled. “Yes, dame swan. I understand. You do not want me near your crew. I will take my leave of you… Admiral.”

“Protect them,” he signed, the old gesture clumsy on his fingers. “Do not let them out of your sight.” Then he turned away, leaving the swans to their vigil, and walked back toward the ruin of his people.

19:00 23 Tuilë SA 3235

The sun had taken cover and the Uruk could now roam free in their new home. This had become his favourite time, when the entire Uruk nation was awake and spent time together. This dusk, the Sealord Father was working with Draddau and the strongest boatswains of the Kartart-Burguul , dragging the debris to their new settlement. The pristine forest first encountered by their scouts was now piled with dead trees fell by the torrential downpour. Their defeated roots lifted the soil offering new burrows for the wild animals hiding from the hunting party, and the breeding pairs of black swans resisting rescue from their keepers.

Adar had shown Nuzû the area where the Half-Elf children had led him to the combative couple and left them in charge of coordinating their retrieval. Shagram was with him, carrying with her the crawfish traps gifted by the Falmari, she said that she could use them for the cygnets. The dame swan is smarter than that. Adar thought as he left the settlement coordinators to deal with putting waterfowl and goats in a suitable space for them.

By the time the waning moon was high in the sky and the softskins were resting in their waxed canvas tent, Adar and the Uruk had dragged the giant trunk of a mountain ash gum, the smaller branches of the aromatic tree taller than any of his children. Walda picked up leaves and seeds for the vapours and ointment that Nestāma had prescribed for her incessant coughing. These will become the main posts of our hall. Adar heard shy footsteps behind him and spoke without turning:

“You will never let me forget a promise, did you bring a bag?”

“Aye, Sealord Father.” Olcma was holding on one hand a canvas bag, fashioned from an old sail, on the other hand that of her younger sister. “If it’s a good time.”

Adar looked at both girls, they were eager to help their people. “Come, I am in dire need of reeds and refilling my water skin.” He started walking, and he could see them signing with the corner of his eye.

Adar led the two teens to the stream near their settlement, and showed them how to pick the oldest reeds of the embankment. He refilled his skin and saw them working quickly, collecting as much as they could. He joined them in their labour, knees deep in the creek. The ancient Uruk felt some relief as their laughter raised above the babbling brooke. The rhythmic stream reminded him of a cheerful water chant but, when he tried listening to the memory, ‘ ulgundo ’ rang as the only word in those lyrics. The girls laughing brought him back.

“It is time to return.” Adar said calmly. That goes for my captains as well: they should be on their way back to us.

“We still need to set the traps that are already woven.” They pleaded with glistening eyes.

“Very well.” Adar grunted his answer. “We can also check if you caught anything during the day.”

He helped the teen girls securing the conical traps with the entrance facing downstream. “They get in when they come swimming from the sea.” He listened to Olcma explaining. They made sure the line holding them was tense enough to turn upwards when a prey was caught in it. There were five traps from the night before, all of them had a prize.

“How would my fearless eel killers want their celebratory supper?”

“Smoked!” Olcma’s excitement raised the pitch of her voice to an inaudible register. “With kelp bubbles and saltbush!”

“We will have to check with Shagram if we have those ingredients. Our divers were busy during the day and now they went to sleep.”

“You can dive, Sealord Father.” Adar’s heart skipped a beat after reliving the call from the sea under the storm. The girl continued: “And there is kelp growing next to the mussels farm.”

“I must make sure that we build appropriate shelter for everyone, and that we recover our livestock. I will get you those kelp bubbles for tomorrow night. Are you happy with spiced and smoked eel tonight?” Adar gave the child a warm but stern look.

“We can celebrate when we are all ready, Sealord Father.” She spoke and signed the words simultaneously. “Thank you for showing us the reeds we needed.”

“My pleasure. Next week after the mission, we can work on your map of the island.” Adar allowed for a tired smile, he was beginning to feel the effects of his third sleepless night. The Sealord Father patted the shoulders of both girls and he saw them running towards the group of younglings carrying the reeds. Oldash invited smaller children to join, while Olcma distributed materials and started giving instructions.

Adar handed the eels to Shagram, moving the kitchen to the new settlement had been easy compared to the work it was taking her to organise the storage:

“I’ve food where we’d have tools, building materials where I’d have cookware, shark cloaks everywhere! And we still don’t have enough wood for both building and cooking. Sealord Father, can we get more?”

“There are enough fallen trees for all our current needs. I will call for more people to carry them. Maybe some of your helpers?”

“They are busy making flour.”

Adar growled, the flourish Shagram did with her hands and her gestures showed her displeasure. “What flour?”

“None of our grains, black hard seeds. Them Elves called them ‘wattleseed’, they said they’re all over the island. Manveri brought more after looking for the bees. Now the kitchen hands are pounding the seeds to make bread. You see an oven?”

“No.” Is there anything in this island unchanged by the Falmari? “Would the hearth in the cave work?”

“If you don’t mind ashes…”

“Better than hungry and tired Uruk.” These kitchen problems were a nuisance Adar would not normally think about. Shagram was probably trying to say something else. “We will get more grain after the mission.”

Adar saw Shagram grimacing. She signed low so no one else would spy on her words. “How can we know, Sealord Father? That storm wanted to kill everyone in the Sundering Seas.”

Adar shook his head in disagreement. Ossë wanted to punish me. Sinking the caravan that carries our next meal would be a crueller punishment for my Children. Instead he said: “The storm was moving in a different direction than the caravan and our captains. We will capture our bounty, and we will need more safe storage space for all the goods we will bring.”

Shagram looked at Adar half hopeful and half fearful. She has children serving under Captain Sauggath, she knows he is too young, too inexperienced. Adar did not regret naming him captain, they needed the votes to secure the move to the island that would allow for a better life, he is loyal and he is learning under the best captain of the Uruk fleet.

“I will secure more wood for the kitchen.” Adar growled and ended the conversation.

Adar walked back to the edge of the mountain ash forest, where twenty of his Children were using their axes to separate the long branches of the fallen giants before attempting to drag the long trunk. Tall enough to become a main mast for a large cargo ship. So far, the Uruk had been using vessels whose original owners were honoured with the Gift of Ilúvatar. They had dismantled more ships that he could remember to build and furnish the atoll, but this island may allow them to build their own. We will find out how by ourselves, we have no need of a shipwright teacher. They can repair almost any problem in their fast ships.

Draddau and Nûzu had been working on the damage that some of the vessels suffered. The greatest they had accounted for so far was the wheel of the Moonrise Vow, a swift response from the Sealord Father and his closest fellows should help captain Vregu remember who has always looked after him and his crew.

The Sealord Father had not received any message from the Black Blood and Smoke, it is not unlike captain Murzush to pretend like she only answers to herself. Yet her silence was starting to worry Adar. He touched the claw dagger even before reviewing possible scenarios for Thanghat's whereabouts. The bottom of the ocean was the least likely, but Adar knew it was not entirely impossible.

He joined the team dragging the large fallen trees. The mossy terrain had a slight slope descending on the new dwelling. Still, the heavy weight made the labour painful even for the strongest Uruk. More people were called to help with the task. An hour before sunrise, three massive swamp gums were in the new carpentry area, covered with waxed canvas to protect them from any rain.

Shagram made sure Draddau and Adar tasted the wattleseed bread. As she warned, it was covered with ash, yet it soaked the spiced eel stew and was quite filling, according to Draddau. Adar walked between the tents, unable to sit still. He saw Usbi helping Glasha eat and he approached the women.

“Sealord Father!” Usbi tried to stand up but Adar stopped her, she was too heavily pregnant to make any swift movements. “Nûzu insisted we get the first pallets, he said it was your order. Thank you.” The young Uruk woman signed, making sure her mother in law could see her.

“The infirmary and our Elders must be the first ones getting furniture in their new homes. We will build more solid structures before winter.” Adar looked at Glasha as he spoke. “First the Common Hall, where we can gather and shelter if we must. Then the family dwellings.”

“For now, these Elven tents will serve.” Glasha used the modified Silent Tongue to sign with just one hand. She kept her eyes fixed on Adar, reading anything his posture and gestures might reveal. He felt exposed but he offered full honesty. “I’m feeling well, Sealord Father, if that’s why you’re here.”

“I needed to see that the two of you were safe and comfortable.” Adar smiled at the sight of Uzbi lifting with her hands the weight of her swollen belly. “And I must formally invite you to the planning meeting tomorrow night.”

“You’ll need guidance from an old woman to plan an attack?” Glasha asked with half a smile.

“The Uruk always need the wisdom of our Elders.” Adar signed with a humble expression.

“You’re the Eldest in Arda, Sealord Father!” Glasha cackled at her own observation. “But you know I’ve my ways around these young warriors. They think they’ve salt water in their veins, but they still need fresh water to stay alive.”

Adar placed both hands on her shoulders, the revered grandmother was both frail and unbreakable. He thanked Glasha for her support and both women for their time. He left their tent and walked along the straight line of tents, the space between them now covered with canvas to avoid rain and sunburns.

Adar had to prepare the island to receive the returning ships, he forced himself to think about all his loyal captains and sailors. I cannot act like Nwalya-Nit is the only one who matters, all of my Children must be accounted for and protected. Adar continued his round, taking mental notes of which families were living in what tents. Who settled next to whom.

The night was ending and the Uruk were getting ready to rest after their labour, but Adar still had the day to prepare for the meeting. We will take a big prize and prove that no storm can sink our might. Adar heard two syncopated chirps that made him turn. At the back of the camp, he saw two young Uruk teens, each sporting a black eye, leaving behind an improvised enclosure with fern leaves for cover. The swan couple was calling at each other, their long glossy black necks bowing at each other until their poppy beaks met.

6:30 24 Tuilë SA 3235

The sky was clear of any clouds and Adar could see Arien rising early. He sat on a rock by the coast near the new settlement, waiting for her warmth after the Uruk went to sleep and before the Peredhil and Atani were up. He had hoped for an island full of gleeful sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not. Instead his people now must toil to recover what they lost and double their labour before building a better home than the one they had in the atoll. Soon they will not see themselves as fortunate survivors and will resent the storm, the Elves, and everyone who voted to settle in this isle guarded by nymphs of the sea.

The effort had been especially hard for the Atani, they would need the sunlight before leaving their blankets. Now there was some movement around the camp, the Peredhil were feeding the flames at the common hearth and reheating the eel stew that the Uruk left out for them before the night was over. Adar met them and Maveri gave him a cup of lemon myrtle tea that she had clearly brewed for Walda.

“It has some honey for your coughing, I will recover our colony today and set them near the manuka trees. We will have some of that medicinal honey Nestamā talked about.” The green-eyed Half-Elf was rubbing Elven ointment between the older woman’s shoulder blades.

“That’s very kind of you.” She had another coughing fit and sipped the concoction. “Mmm-...tasty.” She turned to Adar. “Sealord Father! How did you get so much done overnight? I’ll help Hallgrim make as many planks as we can from so many trees. Some of these are as long as ships.”

“You know how strong the Uruk are, and there are more of us working at night.” The Morion spoke without hiding the pride his Children filled him with. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a sick old woman who won’t stop smoking and won’t rest.”

“You could, if you need a respite.” Adar was concerned that she might get worse during her labour.

“Thank you, Sealord Father. If I need a breather, I’ll sit with Usquiel and help her with her sewing.” She stared at Adar’s clothing and his hair. “When was the last time you rested?”

“I am doing that right now.” Adar said softly. “My kind never needed sleep the way you do.” And I do not wish to hear the voice of the Sea calling for me in my dreams. But he started feeling his shoulders heavier and the woman’s words seemed to invoke the first sensations of weariness.

Adar crossed again the leagues from the Northwest coast to the Southern tip, clinging to the hope that the waves may still drag some more debris that they could use or, perhaps, recover someone’s belongings. The beach was littered with wooden fragments that used to be pallets, chairs and tables. The pools that Adar had thought would provide the settlement with freshwater, still connected with the tides, too salty to even call them brackish.

The Sealord Father personally dragged whatever he considered useful, he was not sure if this unending labour was a penance for his pride, for his reckless deployment of his closest captains, or for crimes committed back when he still followed orders. A merciless captain of Morgoth turned into the Father who sent Uruk to their death.

Adar returned to the settlement, Maveri was nearby attracting the queen to the new beehive next to the flowering manuka trees. The men were splitting the long trunks to make planks, the Peredhil children were foraging with Usquiel. Adar saw Anondō looking confused next to the woodwork and called him with one look.

The skinny Half-Elf followed the Morion to the coast and they jumped together into a small rowing boat. Adar could see the damaged vessels lifted to the beach and fixed with ropes for repairs. When we took our first ships, we had no knowledge of how to raise sails, let alone how to repair them. We have endured. Anondō rowed to the discreetly decorated buoys holding ropes, and lowered their anchor.

Only when they reached the mussel’s farm, protected from the strong currents by the same short coral atoll that guards the coast near the new settlement, Adar removed his armour and his breeches.

“You get more mussels for everyone, I will get kelp pearls.” Adar saw the question on the Peredhel’s dark face. “Apparently, it goes well with eel.”

Adar saw Anondō dive and he was taking a long breath before jumping in, when he froze. The same mellifluous version of a known alto voice that during the storm invited him to join him under the besieging waves, was now mocking him. It is not her: if you ever see her again, she will probably charge against you and tear your blackened heart out. Nevertheless, Adar dove. He made a promise to his Children, to the first generation that will farm and build, instead of scavenge and survive.

Down under the turquoise light, Adar swam to the kelp trees and carefully picked their floating pearls for Olcma and Oldash. He went up to breathe and saw the boat remained close to them. The dark Elf sank again, collecting the small prizes for the young girls, and keeping Anondō in sight at all times. The Peredhel moved with the grace of the Eldar both in land and underwater. A sudden flash of silver on the corner of his eye made the Morion shiver, so he signed Anondō to meet him on the surface immediately.

Adar knew he was being watched, unsure if the report went to Ossë, to his alleged ally, or if it served only the sadistic curiosity of the cruel Wingildi. He kept the questions to himself.

“Climb on the boat. Now.” The young man acquiesced.

When Adar jumped back in the boat and was doing his best to dry his skin and hair, he realised that Anondō’s unruly curls were so closely knitted that they remained impervious even after a dive.

Adar had ignored the young Peredhel’s perplexed grin, he was looking at the Sealord Father without knowing if he could ask why they rushed back. He deserves a straight answer, but how could I explain this to him? Instead of talking, Adar picked up his dagger and cut the side of his wrist, next to where Veanelen had cut him days before. A lifetime ago or yester eve, he could not tell anymore.

“Uinen has been generous to us so far, but Ossë’s troop is as temperamental as him. We must keep them content before taking more from the Sea.” Adar managed a coherent justification for his actions. His people had paid dearly for that lesson, imparted in the early hours before sunrise by a loremaster whose faith in Ulmo and his Maiar outweighed any concerns for her own life.

“How often must you do that, Sealord Father?” Anondō seemed even more vexed than before. “I’ve never seen you doing that.” His dark brown eyes seemed unsure whether he was safe next to the ancient warrior.

“This is only the second time.” Adar paused. “It was what appeased the storm.”

The young man had twisted his mouth to one side, he seemed unsure but then spoke frankly: “Better this small cut than what’s going on in some ships.”

“What do you mean? In our fleet?” Adar studied Anondō’s face, trying to remember if he ever sailed with any captain other than Thanghat. He brushed a finger along the blunt of the dagger. A strangely familiar voice sang in Quenya, but only Adar seemed to hear it: Estel mi ambar. Oryande i earello! Adar sighed with resignation and tried to comfort the smith apprentice: “This will be a safe rest from the perils of the high seas, even the dangerous practices of our own people.”

Anondō appeared satisfied with Adar’s honesty and the two of them rowed back to the shore. Adar could only think about the voice of the water. Was it a threat or a truce? I must be sure everyone is safe at sea. A small wave bumped the dinghy before they reached the sandstrip. I have never been sure that the sea is safe for us, for most of our time it has not been gentle, this is the life the Uruk chose. They got off the boat and dragged it above the high-tide line. Before the Sealord Father ordered him, Anondō took the bounty of their dive directly to Shagram.

Adar moved between the lines of tents to the pile of rubble from where a new hall was supposed to rise. The Atani and Peredhil had lifted the trunks of giant gumtrees, the four main posts marking the corners and two at the entrance. They were beaming with pride at their accomplishment. The Sealord Father got closer to them, looking up, strong midday rays crowned the posts.

“Even if we don’t get back all the wood we brought from the atoll, we can use part of the hulls of ships that are in no shape to sail.” Hallgrim spoke with a big smile, the old man was sturdier on land. It seemed to Adar that he had gotten younger after he found this new purpose.

“he captains may not be pleased with us prioritising wood for land dwellings. We can build it from stacked blocks of turf sod.” Adar had been considering this option to speed up the process and make it more durable.

“The roof will still need a bent wooden beam and posts.” Hallgrim said, pointing at one of the largest trunks. The one that was not marked to become a mast.

Adar nodded. “Start bending it, teach the younger ones.” He observed the first attempts at compacting dirt inside the building’s perimeter. “Use the hull we dragged from the South for its façade.”

“Aye, Sealord Father.” The older Atan was proud of himself and all of the Uruk. “We also set the largest pavilion for your council meetings, the table’s dry and sanded, the chairs are dry and repaired.”

“The captains will be as thankful as I am, Hallgrim. Which pavilion did you prepare for the council?”

“The blue one: Big enough to fit the table and your library, not too large that it would be a waste of a common shelter. It was the Admiral’s marquee, with silver patterns.” Hallgrim was already looking at Adar asking for his leave.

“Thank you, good man. I will let you continue.” Adar bit the inside of his cheek, he will have to make a case for Uruk might inside an Elven tent. In the same tent where his aþaro bled from cuts he delivered, and where she had to be tended after the undersea ritual. The marquee where judging Elves stared accusing me of unspeakable damage to their half-dressed liege. Where she laid pondering if she should break this alliance. Adar walked up and down the coast before reaching the inevitable tent.

The Sealord Father brushed his fingers against the doorflap before opening it, the same way he stopped short of bursting in when he first saw the blue marquee where his recently released prisoner was getting care from her artificer. He sat at the head of the table and pictured the faces of every one of his captains. Thanghat by his right side. Draddau at his left with his son, Sauggath, next to him. Glasha would chastise everyone with one look.

Adar walked around the open space, he got closer to a clothe panel and he felt distempered by the traces of black honey and sea salt. She will never stop inhabiting this pavilion. Adar sighed and left the marquee, the sun was starting its descent.

Soon the captains will come. Thanghat will be among them. We must be ready for any outlandish story she tells us.

With the progress we made, even after the storm, everyone will see this was the home the Uruk needed. Soon, we will sow our first crops. We shall not hide our existence anymore.

23:30 24 Tuilë SA 3235

The tent reeked of damp leather armour and salt, the air thick with burnt oil, the lingering bite of storm wrack and the mildew that always accompanies it. Adar’s fingers pressed into the warped wood of the table, the grain swollen from days of rain, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined letting his weight sag against it just to rest, just to close his burning eyes. Not yet. His mind was on alert after hearing a violent hiss.

Captain Murzush’s voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, sharp as a shattered conch shell. “I take it the great hall you promised us is delayed?” Her signing hands rested on the curve of her pregnant belly, but her gaze was anything but maternal. It was a challenge, leveled openly in front of the other captains. Murzush’s dark red eyes reflected back at Adar, unblinking and predatory. 

Adar exhaled slowly, willing the throbbing behind his temples to ease. “You saw the beach,” he said, voice flat. “The typhoon left little standing. I heard the Black Blood and Smoke lost both masts. Cracked like soup bones. Will you be ready to sail in five days?”

He kept his face impassive, his tone devoid of reaction. Murzush had grown bolder, her dissent no longer whispered in shadows but laid bare before the others. If he acknowledged it now, the fracture would spread.

Draddau snorted, then disguised it with a cough when Adar’s glance silenced him. The quartermaster knew better than to stoke the fire. Let them think she is still loyal. Let them think I do not see the knife at my back. But the truth was, Murzush’s defiance was a slow poison, and it was only a matter of time before she called for a vote to strip him of his title.

“Aye, we’ll be ready, Sealord Father.”

“The Sealord Father saw that we gathered long trunks for new masts.” Draddau added with strong motions. “If you’re ready in five days it’ll be ‘cause the Sealord Father provided for you.” The captains remained speechless after Draddau’s reminder.

Adar dragged a hand across his brow, the grit of sand catching under his nails. Every blink was a battle. If he let his eyes shut for more than a second, he would collapse where he stood.

The map sprawled across the table, Draddau’s canvas cloak the only barrier between it and the slightly damp wood. Adar shifted shells to represent the convoy and coral shards and rocks as his fleet, with deliberate slowness, forcing his mind to focus past the fog of exhaustion.

“Uzzef and Agda have been tracking the caravan since it left port,” he said. “They were ordered to return only if something prevented the attack.”

Jukkhag’s hands flicked, his signs quick and pointed. “How do we know they weren’t sunk? Or the caravan?” His gaze darted around the tent, lingering on the empty space where Thanghat should have been.

Adar’s jaw tightened. “They were east of the storm. It never reached them.”

“How do we know?” Jukkhag pressed, his tone just shy of insubordinate.

Before Adar could answer, Draddau slammed a fist down, sending a rock skittering across the map. “Did the storm knock the sense out of you, Jukkhag? We don’t have time for your mewling. Either stand with us or crawl back to your ship.”

Adar raised a hand as a token gesture for peace, but he did not stop Draddau. He allowed the quartermaster to remind them all who still held command.

Jukkhag dipped his head, his apology swift. “No disrespect, Sealord Father.”

Adar’s voice was a rasp. “Prove it with victory. Six days. New moon. No survivors, no traces. Nampat, bagronkat.” He touched each rock, assigning ships, positions, and roles. The words came by rote, his mind clinging to the plan like a lifeline.

Murzush watched him, her fingers twitching in silent conversation with Jukkhag. “The Elves told him…” The words gestured between them, but Adar let it pass. He had no will left for her games.

When the captains finally filed out, Draddau lingered, his face carved with deeper worry than usual.

“Sealord Father…-”

“I know,” Adar muttered. He had not lied, not exactly. Thanghat would be there. She had to be.

Draddau hesitated. “The ships will be repaired on time.”

Adar nodded, his vision swimming at the edges. “Good. Focus on what we can control. The ships. The crews. The rest…-” He trailed off, his voice fraying.

“I will take care of the rest. I will not tell you to stop worrying about them, about your son. But help me get this attack launched. Then you can tell me every little thing I have done wrong since you first started to serve under me.”

“I look forward to that!” Draddau laughed, but his hand lingered on Adar’s back letting the Sealord Father know that his quartermaster still stood beside him. “Nuzû asked me to let you know he set a pallet and your blankets behind the division of this tent.”

Adar saw Draddau’s eyes begging him to rest and return stronger to his people. He nodded. “We should have some of that smoked eel with kelp pearls and saltbush.”

“Sounds delicious. Good Uruk food.” Draddau declared, it did not matter who taught them to weave or set the traps. Nor who farmed the kelp. Uruk made it theirs, as this island was theirs. “I hear the Uruklings gathered the last raspberries for the captains.”

Adar left the marquee with his quartermaster. He supped with Olcma’s family and congratulated the young girls on their ingenuity and their dedication to their people. He took a hot brew of pine needles tea to Glasha and he thanked her for her support.

When the Uruk were getting ready to retire to their encampment. Adar finally followed his feet to the blue and silver marquee. He stood by the table where his captains met. Thanghat will meet us to take the caravan, of that I am sure. The Morion moved away the patterned clothe panel separating his sleeping area, a long pallet was set for him.

Adar removed his cuirass, his gauntlet, his maille, he doubted before removing his battle skirt. He felt a subtle relief sitting down without that weight, stretching his neck and rotating his aching shoulders. He removed his breeches and at last the old black embroidered tunic. When Adar finally laid down with his grey skin against the Elven blanket, he sighed and closed his eyes. The Sealord Father drifted away following a dreaded dimpled smile.

Chapter Text

25 Nautical leagues northeast of Rómmena

4:30 25 Tuilë SA 3235

The glorious star, Alcarinquë, was visible in its fixed position on the firmament; fixed on it was the thankful stare of Veanelen. This was the first night it was visible since departing the no longer uninhabited island. The last vestiges of the storm had followed the Ciria Lanca for four days and four nights, an overcast sky as gloomy as her barely beating heart. After four days and almost four nights sailing, they were getting close to Númenor.

The morning of their departure, Veanelen had asked Volarno to arrange the tasks and chores so that she could have all the night shifts at the wheel. She did not sleep after the celebration for the alliance turned into mourning. She needed no dream to see a vivid reenactment of Adar plunging his egregious black sword in Panēle’s lung. In this new vision, he would lift his head to meet Veanelen’s eyes, and give her the same charming grin he used the day before to announce the festivities. With a full day of physical labour and two sleepless nights, I will be able to sleep in my cabin. The sea will heal me. Veanelen gave no explanation to Volarno, but there were no questions on board.

Her crew saw her leaving the cave before Adar in the morning. They saw him walking towards their group accompanying two women in need of Nestāma’s care, then walking back on his own steps, unwilling to face the Admiral. In case his absence at the shore when they lifted their anchor was not clear enough, he had sent Draddau to ask Volarno about their itinerary and expected return for their rendezvous with the rest of Adar’s fleet. Veanelen wanted to call the Sealord Father a coward for sending his subordinate to investigate if their Alliance was still standing. But she could not trust herself not to drive her pearl knife through his bright aquamarine eye. Not that morning. Not mere hours after learning Panēle died by his armoured hand. I never knew Vairë to be as cruel as to weave a friend into my course, only for our painful pasts to haunt any glimpse of happiness.

Now, on the last night of their voyage to Númenor, Veanelen could appreciate the red glow of Borgil. It had risen several hours ago. The “steadfast friend” in the sky reminded her how, when she was desperate for rest after finishing her first night on the wheel, she was reliving the dungeons in Angband. Instead of embracing sleep surrounded by the warm light of her cabin, her sight was darkened and revealed the chained putrid bodies of Elves, Men, and Uruk. I call them ‘Uruk’ now, back then I could never imagine that I would be their ally. Was she? She had not changed her instructions to her crew. Her word was more important than all the silver in Alqualondë. She had tried to bring her mind to those pearly halls, to the voice of her grandsire praising her work at rebuilding the Falmari fleet: her soul’s work. Instead she was plagued by the visions of Angband: the battle, the underground enclosures, the torture devises, the enslaved fighters. And it was worse for the women . Veanelen knew Adar had truly saved Panēle from something worse than a warrior’s death.

Veanelen had centuries to negotiate the loss of her beloved. She had accepted her own failure for a long time. A liege has no friends, they have vassals; an admiral has no friends, just subordinates. The fair Falathrim was not her vassal, she was free of her authority, and was interested in her. When Veanelen asked permission to kiss her for the first time, Panēle laughed, caught her jaw and taught her how two people could live with one breath. Veanelen had dove for pearls and fixed them in her luminous auburn hair. Panēle learned how she loved using bird calls to communicate between vessels, then taught her to imitate the petrel. Their call. When the admiral recruited the boat builder, Veanelen ruined their romance and the chain of command in one move. Before that, it had been Panēle guiding the young mariner and warmly giving precise navigation instructions, pleased with Veanelen’s eagerness to learn and love. Panēle had not been so keen on receiving orders from her paramour, regardless of how accomplished she was as a warrior. Her disobedience made her vulnerable in the battlefield. Then Veanelen had disobeyed orders from the Linda captain in charge of the ground attack. On land she was not the Admiral, she was an officer who almost got Captain Andúno killed. But Veanelen always knew that a shipwright apprentice had no business in the vanguard. She felt guilt for not mourning Intyo and Fendon, the two friends that Panēle invited. They died together moments before Panēle. Those two left together for the Halls of Mandos, the way Veanelen felt she should have left with Panēle. I am the only one to blame.

Back in the wheel of the Ciria Lanca, Veanelen adjusted their course to catch a generous wind and the warm southern current that circulates to Númenor. The last time she was at the wheel before dawn upon their arrival to land, had been the night before they reached the supply island where Adar founded his new settlement. Veanelen had seen luminescent algae surrounding the ship and determined it was auspicious to have stars above and below them. Meeting the Morion changed many things. She now had confirmation on a slave trade she had been after for years, and was on a new mission to eradicate it. She was also allied with the people Morgoth bred for his army. Exploitation is a leftover of Morgoth’s corruption and evil will advance if no one with power stops it . Emancipated slaves fighting the oppressors, that is the only war worth fighting . She now had a clear view of the Morwinyon, confirming that they moved westward.

Helluin was shining bright and blue. As bright as Adar’s tourmaline eyes. Veanelen had spent her second day on board in a feverish vigil. Instead of getting rest, she could not turn without seeing the granite face of the Morion approaching hers. Veanelen's waking nightmare alternated between revisiting their duel, and a myriad of Uruk getting in their way. Her own voice was screaming “Ulgundo!” from a throat sore from holding in her tears. It could not be her voice, for Veanelen knew he was no monster, he was an Elf. An enthralled Elf forced to kill his kind. She lifted the same petrel call she had used centuries ago to let Panēle know she was on her way to her. She cutted through the swarm of his children to fight him. The sea of hostile Uruk opened, and she charged against their ancestral father, only to be paralysed by that grin he used when he wanted to please her. When he wanted her with her guard down. Her Elven steel weapon had disappeared from her hand. Adar kept the same warm expression, as he thrusted his sword as black as the Void in the centre of her chest, and rejoiced at the sight of her heart on his gauntleted hand, still beating even when exposed. He placed his chiseled mask near her holding her forearm with his exposed hand, he did not move his thin lips, but she heard his hoarse baritone “better than being a prisoner of Sauron.” I never knew Vairë to be as cruel as to weave a friend into my course, only to make me choose between the ally or my heart’s only love. Veanelen laid in a pool of cold sweat. No tears. She had not shed any since Panēle’s execution.

She had left the cabin near sundown to share the evening meal with her crew, but she felt nauseated, so she only sipped some water and nibbled on waybread, a little strength was restored to her for serving her people. No ship is big enough for secrets . It was evident that everyone on board was concerned for her wellbeing. Last time she was this erratic, everyone on board was grieving with her for friends and kin met and lost in Endorë. They all had lost comrades, but she had made sure that no one from her company lost their spouse. They valued her dedication. Veanelen did not dismiss her crew’s concerns, and she thanked them for caring. All she could do to appease them was tending to her duties: she had arranged shifts and listed inventory with Volarno, she had reviewed the Númenor strategy with Nárewën and Vilverin, but she was only relieved from painful visions at the wheel under the stars.

This night, the last one before reaching Númenor, she could appreciate the silhouette of the Telumendil constellation, the Lover of the Heavens, reminding her that she would soon have to shed her mourning mantle. Only the sea could heal. The previous night she had been piloting and, with the corner of her eye, she saw the tall dark Elf stripped even of his name, looking up at the Valacirca constellation praying for the Valar to come. The Valar and us who joined their host only brought deliverance to our own, not to all who suffered under Morgoth . She then heard her fæ cousins in the waves. This time the Wingildi were not giggling, they were not sharing knowledge: Veanelen heard them weeping. They had seen her prostrated in front of Ulmo on behalf of Adar. Veanelen thought that they must have heard his name as she drowned again in her pain. Veanelen could not leave her post, she was keeping the course and keeping her word. I never knew Vairë to be as cruel as to weave a friend into my course, only to make me betray my word or the memory of Panēle. The wind slowed down and stopped blowing. Her sails were as empty as her hope. Veanelen tried moving the wheel to catch a current. She prayed for a rising tide. The Ciria Lanca halted. She needed to calm her masochist mind: the sea gave her calm. They were stalled. Suspended. Becalmed.

When Pentro came to take the wheel from her at sunrise, he had already noticed that the vessel remained immobile. Veanelen instructed Volarno to organise the crew to drive it with oars, at least to try and catch any flow, water or wind. They could course-correct once they were moving. It was not to pass that morning. The sky was overcast but the pressure was high. Under the swan ship, no waves. Nestāma had offered her a botanical aid to get her to sleep. Veanelen said she did not want to cloud her judgment. Truly, she was afraid of enhancing the realism with which Panēle and Adar accused her with their stares. Instead, she had remained on deck. There was only so much that she could do. Belda rejected her offer of rowing one of the oars. Veanelen knew that the golden ello was right, she could easily cause an accident.

On that fourth day of sailing, the lack of wind meant no calm for her mind. Have I offended the Valar? She had stopped wearing any form of protection since taking control on the first night: no cuirass, no maille, not even her gambeson. With this calm no one will be able to sail to us and attack, and we would see them long before they could even try. She lied to herself while she removed her knee boots. In full honesty, she had stopped guarding herself since she last dove into the abyss and last visited Ulmo. Whilst pleading for Adar and his children, the water had revealed much more. She had felt the agony of so many beings: the prison in Utumno, dying in childbirth, the self-loathing that came from fighting for Morgoth, the hate of everyone in Endórë, the indifference of the Valar, and endless despair and abandonment. Better than becoming a prisoner of Sauron. Veanelen felt closer to understanding the motivation behind Adar and his unforgiving black blade.

Arien, veiled behind the clouds, had reached her zenith, but inside Veanelen all light and warmth was gone. Most of her crew was below. Volarno had decided that there was no point in exhausting them if it was impossible to sail. She agreed. Remaining static was eating her away. She stayed on deck, waiting for the faintest blow of wind. When she heard the dissonant weeping, Veanelen checked her own cheeks. They were dry. The voices wailed not for her sake. They were not grieving Panēle. Veanelen could swear they were announcing the end of all voyages for her comrades. Without thinking, she ran to the edge of the ciria, pivoted in the handrail, and jumped overboard.

Veanelen did not use her Wingil note when she fell, instead she chanted Panēle’s petrel call. Veanelen broke the water with her hands, before entering stretched and aligned. She propelled with her legs together in strong and efficient kicks, reaching down until the last beams of light stopped touching her. The water around her was cold. Empty. She waited for the coral wails of the Wingildi. They were nowhere to be seen or heard. She waited for a pull to lay in front of Ulmo. Still nothing. Not even a sea turtle eating luminous jellyfish. Since when do Wingildi weep for Atani or Ellālie lives? Veanelen realised that the sorrowful voices were her own. Everyone I delivered to the depth and darkness . No one is calling, this is me . And her company was waiting. She swam up the water column. Her chest started burning as soon as she could see the threshold.

Veanelen came up to the surface and lifted her left fist indicating she was well. She did not struggle to reach the ship, still floating in the waveless water. Volarno let the rope ladder on the side of the ship. Belda offered her a hand when she reached the top, and pulled her up with fury. Veanelen’s chest sank when she saw the faces of her comrades. They were not worried, they were furious. They had every reason to be. They had tolerated her fugue state as long as she did not make it their problem, she had just made it very inconvenient for all of them.

“I owe everyone an apology.”

“The best apology is for you to get some sleep, Ciriarāta.” Nestāma said, with the authority of a healer, what everyone was thinking. “When was the last time you shut your eyes?”

Veanelen could not answer, maybe it was the night after the ritual at the cove. She knew Nestāma was right. She dreaded dreaming, but by now there was no difference. The Admiral walked silently to her cabin. She removed her wet clothes. Once again, she felt Adar’s sword buried deep inside her chest. Again Panēle was knelt, and breathing with resignation. Veanelen lied down and was trampled by every Atani and Uruk she had given the edge of her sword, or hanged, or gifted to the sea. They were all pleading, telling her that they were loved and missed. Adar looked through her cradling the inert body of the Uruk she had drowned in the battlefield’s icy mud.

Someone knocked on the door. Veanelen asked them to hold, she put on a dry sleeping gown, then gave permission to enter. It was Vilverin. She came in carrying water and what little fresh fruit she could find. The green-eyed elleth sat next to Veanelen at the admiral’s small table, and observed her drinking small sips and taking pitiful bites. After some time, the lead archer talked.

“Adar killed Panēle.” It was not a question. No ship is big enough for secrets.

“And I knew as soon as I first looked at him, but I would not see the truth in front of me.”

“Why?” Vilverin said with more curiosity than judgement.

“I guess I wanted to hear what he had to offer, so I blinded myself to the obvious.”

“If the offer is breaking the trade of enslaved people, we can do that without him.”

“I gave my word.” Veanelen said defensively, then sighed. She knew Vilverin was not asking about any future for the alliance. “I did not jump ship now because I am sad for the death of my paramour centuries ago.”

“Why then? Did you think you could sacrifice yourself to break this calm?” Vilverin guided Veanelen to the bed, then sat next to her liege after she laid down, and massaged her temples.

Veanelen knew she had not answered her question. She had nodded, letting her think that it was that simple. But she could not lie, not even by omission, not when her entire crew was about to request dismissal as soon as they touched port. “I do not possess the words myself: ‘For those who were given Immortality, stopping for death is a long wait, they must invite her in.’ Rúmil wrote the closest to what I am feeling.”

“That is worrisome.”

“Today I understood that it is not that I want to cease, I cannot simply vanish.”

“That is a relief, then why did you jump?”

“I need someone to pass judgment.”

Veanelen saw the fair face of the officer in front of her. As calm as the sea keeping her ciria in suspense. Her life was Veanelen’s responsibility, and her recent tide of self-flagellation was putting her and everyone in harm’s way. She sunk her body in her bed, while Vilverin stroked her hair like she would do for a sick child. Admirals have no friends, they have subordinates, this is unfair to Vilverin . Still, she owed her and all of their siblings some honesty.

“I need to be judged for everything and for everyone. Not just because I should have never invited Panēle, Intyo, and Fendon to join our company. It is every kill. We tell ourselves they were honourable deaths in a battle against the Greatest Evil, that we execute Ulmo’s laws and protect his waters, and that we bring hallowed justice when we offer the gifts to the sea. A kill is a kill. And I am proud of being a warrior, but I feel ashamed of being a killer.” Veanelen sighed and closed her eyes. “Adar was an obsidian mirror. Panēle’s executioner is not a faceless monster savouring his murders and his service to Morgoth. His killings are no better and no worse than mine. I needed to be either punished or absolved.”

“You know that you will get that at some point. The only thing you can do is to make sure that your reasons are still correct, and keep doing good things for those in need.” Vilverin kept rubbing Veanelen’s temples.

“This is really helping, are you ‘whispering’ to me?”

“No, you are opening up.” The talented elleth smiled tenderly at her troubled commander. “You needed it.”

“Thank you. I promise that I will come out of this cabin tonight a better captain. Thank you.”

Veanelen closed her eyes and breathed deeply. This time, there were no accusatory looks, no penitent moans, no lamentations. She could see the prow of her ship and feel the ocean breeze. Veanelen felt grateful for Vilverin’s friendly gesture, and for the treasure that is life at sea. She breathed intently again and let out a slow sigh. They felt a bump in the ship. Someone outside the cabin yelled: “We caught wind!” They were riding the waves.

Steering on the fourth night of her voyage, Veanelen was glad that they were on course again, with wind and tide in their favour. The Ciria Lanca has an intelligence and diplomacy mission in Númenor, she ought to be focused. Eärendil had just risen with the Silmaril on his brow to give his hopeful message to all the peoples of Middle Earth. Shortly after that, the first sunlight peered through the horizon. It was at the back of her ship, but everything turned scarlet, auburn and gold. They must be close to shore because, with the first light, came the first bird sightings. Seagulls, an osprey and, just for her, a petrel. Veanelen finally cried.

Chapter Text

230 nautical leagues Southwest from Druwaith-Iaur

22:00 29 Tuilë SA 3235

“How are you getting ten silver coins and I’m only getting eight? My uncle is the one that hired you!”

“Then take it up with your uncle. Maybe he didn’t think you were worth ten.”

“I never shoulda told him to hire you.”

“Don’t be like that. We just started our watch and I don’t want to listen to you griping about two silver coins the whole night.”

Adar listened to the murmurs of the two sailors just a few feet away, their voices carrying across the black waters. Tonight, Tilion was absent, leaving the sky dark and concealing the Uruk ships. The Kartart-Burguul and the rest of the attack fleet moved like shadows, silently stalking the caravan of cargo vessels for the past hour. They kept their distance, far enough that the faintest flap of their midnight blue sails would not betray them. Now, the pirates patiently and relentlessly waited as the cargo ships’ watch shifts changed and most of the crew retreated below deck for the night. 

“There, two of them facing each other on the quarter deck.” Adar signed towards Draddau and then raised his hands to sign to the rest of his pirates to get ready to board. One by one, the Uruk pirates started to tap their feet while gripping their weapons. Sealord Father clapped Draddau on his shoulder and the quartermaster raised his trident.

“If it’s just two silver coins then you spend three months at sea-…” 

The trident came without warning as a blackened blur hurtling from the void. Its prongs punched through the first sailor’s back and then burst from his chest in a spray of blood before slamming into the second man’s sternum and ribs. The impact lifted them both off their feet, their bodies jerking like gutted fish on a spear.  

For a heartbeat, they were suspended, their faces twisted in identical masks of shock and agony. Metal gleamed between them, slick and unnatural, as if the night itself had spat forth this brutal union. 

”Nampat!” Adar’s roar tore through the gloom like a wind ripped canvas. The Uruks on board the Kartart-Burguul answered in a thunderous, guttural chorus, their war cry rolling across the waves as their vessel careened toward its prey. He cast a swift glance to either side…yes, the other ships had taken up the chant, their voices a rising tide of hunger and fury. Boarding hooks arced through the air, their iron claws biting into wood with a splintering crack, binding the fated vessel in a web of chains.

Without hesitation, Adar seized the railing and vaulted over the side. For a breathless moment, he hung in the air as a shadow against the moonless sky before his boots struck the enemy deck with a hollow boom. The sound reverberated through the timbers like a death knell, calling for the doom of the sailors still below who scrambled from their hammocks, bleary-eyed and gasping. But their shouts of alarm were drowned out by the Uruks’ rising chant: Nampat. A word that was more than a battle cry. It was a promise. 

Adar walked over to the two impaled sailors, facing each other as if they were slumbering lovers, and then reached down to yank the trident from the pinned bodies retrieving it for his quartermaster.

The trident in his hand dripped, each bloody drop hitting the deck like the heartbeat of a dying man. His black sword hummed through the air, parting flesh with the ease of a lover’s sigh. Around him, the ship shifted and groaned not just from the weight of the dead, the dying, and their killers, but from the joy of it all, the way all things revel in its wreckage when the destruction is inevitable and fated.

Atani sailors burst forth from below decks, eyes wide with the frantic hope of men who already knew they were dead. The Uruks fell upon them like wolves upon penned up spring lambs. A deckhand, a beardless youth still soft with boyhood, made it three steps before an Uruk equal in age split him from crown to collarbone with his war axe. Adar met the gleaming eyes of the young pirate and nodded with approval. Efficient. Fast. Brutal. These were not slavers. Not tormentors or Ulmo cursed monsters. Just meat in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no need to seek sport in their deaths. 

Sealord Father stepped over a gutted man, hitting his boot into a loop of spilled intestine. The sailor beneath him whimpered, fingers clutching at the ruin of his belly as if he could stuff himself back together. Adar paused just long enough to drive the trident down, punching through the man’s rib cage with a loud crunch. The sailor arched, mouth gaping in a silent scream, and then went still. Fast. Brutal.

The air was thick with the stink of butchery. Mannish blood, hot and full of metal, mixing with the reek of split bowels and the acrid tang of fear spilled piss. Beneath it all, the darker musk of Uruk wounds, like iron left to rust, but there was little black blood being sacrificed this night.

A blade sang out towards Sealord Father’s side, some brave fool thinking to end the nightmare. Adar twisted, his sword licking out, and the man’s hand fell to the deck with a ‘plop’, fingers still twitching around the hilt of his now useless sword. Before the scream could leave his throat, Adar’s gauntleted thumb found his eye and burst it like an overripe fruit. He ran the man through with his sword and dropped the carcass. Then Adar laughed, a low, hungry sound, lost in the chants of “Nampat” and howls of dying men.  

He should not relish this, but he did, Ulmo help him. Every single body was a promise. Every red puddle was an oath to his Children that they would have food in their bellies and a safe shelter from the Sun. His Children would live and if the weight of their survival was measured in butchered innocents? So be it. Ulmo could drown his guilt, the sea would always be salt and blood and Adar would add both. 

The Weeping Trident suddenly lit up with torches, signalling that the ship they were attacking was now theirs. “Nampat”  and foot stomps rocked the defeated cargo ship and Adar smiled. He came upon Draddau, who had a screaming Atan sailor by the hair and put an end to the shrieks with a flash of his sword. Sealord Father gave the Uruk his trident back and inclined his head towards the second ship in their fleet to light their torches.

“That was their captain, Sealord Father,” Draddau nodded towards the dying sailor at his feet. Besides the ones that are still hiding below, the ship is ours.”

“Nampat!” Adar shouted and Draddau returned the call back while thumping his chest with his trident, encouraging the rest of the pirates to also stomp and chant as they lit their torches. Only the Flagit Ora-Nen, captain Thanghat’s ship, seemingly was still in mid-fight, but Adar could not hear any sounds of swords or screams from their direction. He helped his crew remove the clothing and boots from the dead and started to pile the bodies up to be tossed into the sea, now and then looking over towards the Flagit Ora-Nen. He sighed with relief when their torches were lit and he could hear the more subdued Nampat stomp from the Half-Elven crew.

“Damn She-Elf took long enough.” Draddau complained.

“That was the largest of the cargo ships and she took it because she also had Sauggath and his untried crew. You can be very harsh towards her where it is unwarranted.”

“Then it is good that it is almost always warranted.” Draddau snapped back as he broke open a barrel and started scooping fresh water into his mouth.

Adar felt something uneasy settling itself around him like a heavy cloak as he continued to watch the Flagit Ora-Nen. The victory should have been sweet, the decks were slick with blood and the holds were already being cracked open and explored for plunder. All around him the air trembled with the chanting and glorious shouts of his Children. Yet Adar stood motionless, his fingers tightening around the damaged hilt of his star-fallen sword as his gaze locked with Thanghat’s ship.

Something was wrong.

The torches still burned, but the singing had died. No laughter, no clatter of blades being picked from the dead, just Uruks and Half-Elves moving in an uneasy silence, their usual post battle celebration muted. The Flagit Ora-Nen and the cargo ship she took sat unnaturally still, both lashed together like inert bodies being prepared for the pyre. Where is she?

“Draddau?” Adar’s voice was low, but the quartermaster snapped to attention at once. “You have this vessel, I want to go see what is happening on the Flagit Ora-Nen.”

Before Draddau could protest, Adar was already moving, leaping back onto the Kartart-Burguul with the grace of a shadow slipping between worlds. He stalked across the deck, his boots leaving dark bloody footprints on the sea bleached wood, then he vaulted to the second captured cargo ship. Around him Uruks paused in their looting, raising bloodied fists in salute. He acknowledged them with a nod, but his eyes never left Thanghat’s ship. Why did they stop chanting Nampat so soon?

He crossed the third cargo ship, stepping over tangled corpses, their faces frozen in final agonies. Captain Uzzef called out to him, grinning behind a mask of gore, but Adar barely heard her. His pulse was a tattoo beating steadily in his skull, growing louder with each step. Then, movement.

A complaining groan from rigging and a snap of canvas. The Flagit Ora-Nen’s sails billowed suddenly, straining against the boarding hooks that still bound her to the prize. One by one an unseen hand severed the lines and Adar broke into a run.

Sealord Father wanted to call out Thanghat’s name, but he knew he was still too far for her to hear and he did not want the crews witnessing his panic. By the time he reached the cargo ship Thaghat had taken, the Flagit Ora-Nen was already a silhouette being gobbled up by the quivering maw of the starving night.

Around him were the combined crews of Thanghat and Sauggath, also watching as their captain’s ship left them behind. He searched for Kalen or any of her closest officer’s faces, but they like their captain, were gone. His stomach turned to ice.

“Captain Sauggath?” He yelled out. The Uruk captain whirled, his face a familiar expression of perpetual worry inherited from his father, Draddau. Covered in the blood of the Atani, the Uruk stumbled forward and saluted Adar, but the gesture carried no pride in conquest or sense of duty. Only fear.  

“Sealord Father, forgive me-…”

“Where is she?”

Sauggath shook his head, “She… She gave orders before the attack. Said I was to take her crew home once the fighting was done. I thought you knew, Sealord Father. I would never have let her…”

“Let her? Sauggath you sailed with her for almost two months, do you believe you could ‘let’ her do anything?” Adar snarled but immediately chastised himself for taking his anger out on the young captain.

“Did she seem like herself? Was she drunk or intoxicated?”

“I don’t know, Sealord Father. It’s hard to tell when captain Thaghat is drunk sometimes.”

“That is a fair observation. Besides her usual madness and antics, did anything happen out there? Think hard about it, Sauggath, even if it seems unimportant to you.”

Sauggath hesitated. “We took a slaver a few days ago. There were some bad things on that ship and it made her quiet for a while. Well, since we took the ship.”

“What kind of bad things?”

As Sauggath spoke, Adar turned back to the railing, staring into the void where the Flagit Ora-Nen vanished. No lanterns, no signals. Just the sea and the night, endless and uncaring. 

Chapter Text

Port of Rómmena

14:30 25 Tuilë SA 3235

The Ciria Lanca was safely docked in the bustling port of Rómmena, and the Númenórean shipwrights could start tending to it after the inclement storm. Veanelen had been taking note on the costs of reparations, the long list Volarno and her wrote for resupplies: from food and fuel, to healing tinctures and materials to build shelters. They have not tended to a fateful shipwreck in over two hundred years, but that was their original mission and the Elven Admiral was not going to give up on that.

After testing the sturdiness of her masts and the state of the sails, Veanelen was glad that the swan ship could soar unharmed. I hope that Adar’s ships fared at least as well as ours, we will have to bring repair materials to the settlement. She had paid upfront with Eressëan purpura, a handful of the powdered gift from a snail was worth a King’s ransom. She had stayed near the ship to supervise the works with some of her own boatswains who lost the draw, they kept their vigilant eyes over the hired labourers, while most of her crew had some well deserved free time.

“Remember not to let Vilverin play darts: Men hate it when she wins, and we must not cause a tavern brawl.”  Was the only instruction anyone heard from their Ciriarāta. But the Elven company knew they would have to listen to everything being said around them.

The presence of the swan shaped ciria was probably being informed to the merchant guild on port and to the Palace in Armenelos the Golden, even before they stepped on the pier.

Veanelen had just removed her Falmari Fleet uniform and wore a more discreet Númenórean attire: her olive cotton trousers were loose around the upper part of the legs and between the knees, and tight at the ankles; her dalmatic tunic was sandy brown. She kept her soft boots to silence her footsteps, but changed her Valinorean shortsword for a long Númenórean knife. She did her best to placate her conspicuous black and blueish silver braids under an olive green headscarf, and she kept the pearl knife hidden. The Númenóreans might be taller than their mortal kin, but any Elf would be taller, and there are not many copper-skinned people in the star-shaped island nation. She knew she would not go unnoticed for long, but Veanelen wanted to be unidentified for a couple of hours.

Veanelen walked to a nearby stall and bought an order of steamed mussels with crusty bread, and a wheat ale. She sat on the floor with her back against the wall of a storage unit, near the dock entrance to the shipyard. This smells so good! I hope he comes soon. A tabby cat got near her, attracted by the smell of her dish, Veanelen scratched the orange chin and waited patiently. Like clockwork, he came: the keenest observer and the most trusted source for anything happening around the seaside of the Bay of Rómmena.

“Do you have a spare coin?” He asked in Adûnaic, with a rehearsed pitiful look.

“Apologies, I do not have any.” She gave him a big smile. “Do you want to sit next to me and share this lunch?”

“Venn!” The voice was high with true excitement.

Veanelen pressed a finger on her curved up lips, so that the sandy blonde green-eyed child in front of her would not announce her identity to everyone. His face, the colour of sun kissed wheat at the end of the summer, was radiating as he sat next to the Elf and took a sip of her brew.

He could not be older than nine, but Veanelen had no experience with mortal children, so she was not sure. They met five years ago, two summers before Khenbêl lost any of his baby teeth. The Admiral had observed him as he picked the purse of an elegant lady dressed in rich silks, and took a piece of paper. Veanelen grabbed him by the elbow then, after taking a studious look at the offender, she asked him for that parchment and offered him to choose one pearl from her hair. When the Admiral asked little Khenbêl why he took the paper instead of anything else, the child said that the lady was guarding it closer than her coin, so he thought it was of value.

The woman he stole from was the wife of the richest merchant in Númenor and, at that moment, Veanelen’s suspicions were confirmed by the scroll: the accounting of the number of hours workers spent spinning silk in Númenor and in Near Harad, and the cost of wages was only accounted for the Númenórean artisans.

“Did you come looking for me?” Veanelen asked the boy, after he had eaten some mussels and most of the bread.

“They said that it was a bad day for the swan to land, and I ran to see you.” He cleaned his face with the sleeve of his rough hemp tunic. “It’s always good when the swan lands, because I see the prettiest girl in Arda!”

“Do not flatter, if you want something, ask openly.” Veanelen gave him a stern but warm look.

“But it’s true, Venn!” He smiled and took another sip of her ale.

“Have you seen anything fun today?”

“The new oarsmen arrived. The ship masters are choosing them.”

“How are these new oarsmen?” Veanelen felt like she had just heard thunder in the high seas. Why would Númenor bring in men from Hendor for their galleys, if not for reducing costs?

“They are shorter than any man I’ve met. They are covered with dark hair, even in their knuckles! They wear dirty clothes with hides and pelt. They all look straight at their own hands all the time.”

“Why do they stare at their hands?”

“That’s where they have their chains.”

An open auction for enslaved workers must be somehow justified for them, they cannot simply take people from their homes and bring them here for their galleys. Or are they getting so cynical? She looked at the boy, as he ate.

“Khenbêl, do you know who is showing them to the ship owners?”

“It’s a captain from the big East land.”

“Have you seen him walking around with someone from Rómmenna? Or from Armenelos?” Veanelen needed to confirm her suspicions.

“With Lord Zim-”

“Oi! Water rat! I told you not to come here!” A guard rushed toward them and grabbed the boy by his tunic’s neck.

Veanelen rose towering the man and hissing. “The child is not a problem, he is just hungry!”

The man looked up to her face after scanning her whole body, stopping at his preferred spots. “What does an Elf know about hunger?” He said with disgust, his fingers pressing the back of Khenbêl’s neck.

“Enough to understand that a city so rich that its dock watchmen can afford silver buttons on just their salary, should not have starving children.” She hoped the man was clever enough to understand the accusation.

The guard let go of the boy’s thin neck but pushed him hard enough that he lost his footing. Veanelen caught Khenbêl before he hit the ground and shielded him with one arm as she reached the hilt of the Númenórean knife with her other hand.

“If you are not supposed to be in this area, take the rest of the food. Be careful, little one.” She said gently as she straightened his soft hair.

“Thank you, milady.” Khenbêl brushed his forehead against Veanelen’s shoulder. He then grabbed the clay dish and the cup, and ran.

When the watchman had moved on, Khenbêl waved at Veanelen from the distance. She walked to the entrance of the shipyard, thinking about that auction of trafficked Atani. If the mussels had opened her appetite before, she had lost it now. I must find a way to stop it.

“There you are, heri Veanelen!” A tall man with chestnut hair and blueish grey eyes said politely. “Lord Amandil of Andúnië sent me to extend his hospitality to you and your noble delegation. He is currently representing royal interests in Rómmena and my lord will be honoured to host the Princess of Tol Eressëa in his villa.”

“My heart sings when hearing the name of such a well regarded friend to the Eldar.” Veanelen gave the Eldar answer to accept her host’s offer, the friendship of Lord Amandil had seemed genuine over the last yén. “My delegation is the crew of the Ciria Lanca. I will send word for them to join us at the Villa after they have enjoyed their leave.”

“They have already received their invitation and will join us at their earliest convenience.” The man paused with intention. “We only had difficulties finding you, milady.”

The man, dressed as a household guard, ordered four footmen to take the luggage Veanelen may point at, but she only carried a small satchel. Then he took his place at the right of the Lady of Tol Eressëa and offered his arm to escort her. On her way to Lord Amandil’s villa, Veanelen spotted Khenbêl elbowing his way through a crowd trying to enter a large storage in the main dock.

Chapter Text

Port of Rómmena

16:30 25 Tuilë SA 3235

Veanelen was very grateful to her host. Lord Amandil of Andunië, had been a friend of the Eldar of Tol Eressëa his entire life. His love for Eru, and his fraternal relations with the Lonely Island and the House of Olwë had caused the Adûnaic court to be wary of His Lordship. Recently, he was honoured with a lucrative position in Rómenna, and with constant visits to the palace for reporting on the functioning of the bustling port.

Lord Amandil and his wife, heri Silissë, welcomed Veanelen in their villa with warm embraces and kissing both her cheeks. They assured the admiral that her crew was going to be well looked after, and they would be offered a small feast upon their arrival to their wing of the villa. But she would have to join her comrades after a formal dinner with Zimrathon, the head of the Merchants Guild. Veanelen was not comfortable with him nor his grand gestures. She was looking straight at one of his displays of power: a delicate dress of copper and coral silk. Each time he sends a gown, the neckline falls deeper. I must grant him that he is very observant. She held the dress against her inner forearm, the tone matched so perfectly that only touch could distinguish between skin and fabric.

“Are you traveling with any attire that befits for your station, Princess?” Lady Silissë had asked while pointing at Veanelen’s shapeless cotton trousers and wide-sleeved tunic. “That seems practical for your deck and the shipyard, but I fear it does not meet the formalities.”

“I am afraid that, for this cruising mission, practicality has toppled the trappings of power.” Veanelen saw the hurt expression of her hostess, and immediately tried to soften her words by adding with a smile. “When traveling the high seas and fighting filibusters, it is safer to be the Ciriarāta than the Eressëan liege.”

“I see. Fear not! Zimrathon sent a dress for you to wear during the official dinner.” The lady revealed the intent of her other guest.

“Generous as always.” Of course he did, he is paying for access.

Veanelen was sitting on a chaise-longue at the apartments assigned for her use during her stay. The room was inundated with silks and velvet, furnished in sandalwood that still emanated its fragrance. Blood orange and pomegranate trees were visible from her meticulously adorned window. In front of her, a table decorated with abalone, mother of pearl and lapis lazuli. On it, a blown crystal pitcher with cool water, infused with cucumber and spearmint. She heard a knock on her door.

“With your permission, Princess.” A woman introduced herself in the Adûnaic language. "I’m heri Silissë’s chambermaid. She sent me to prepare you for dinner.”

“Thank you, what may I call you.” The Elf said warmly.

“As you wish, milady.”

“What is your name? Veanelen was smiling to help the woman feel comfortable around her.

“Rerisse, if it pleases my milady.”

Veanelen repeated the woman’s name and tried to reassure her that she was more than capable of bathing and getting dressed by herself. The woman struggled between the conflicting orders and asked ‘the Princess’ to please allow her to follow Númenórean custom and fashion. She complimented the dress, saying that all eyes would be on Veanelen. The mariner Elf felt nauseated by the thought of Atani men feasting with their sight . There will be enough exposed skin for them to choose where to direct their gaze . But she was concerned the woman might be chastised for her Elven stubbornness.

The bath was relaxing at first. Veanelen realised she had missed the warm water after all those months at sea. Doing her best with a small basin to keep hygiene and freshwater discipline, had made her dream about a proper bathtub. While she soaked, Rerisse left briefly the bathing area and walked back in carrying a comb. She undid Veanelen’s carefully knitted thin braids, meticulously setting the pearls, seashells and silver thread adornments on a table to incorporate them to the Númenórean coiffure. She used almond oil to relax the hair while she untangled and trimmed it.

“Pardon me, Princess.” She timidly started. “I’ll make sure to redo your mariner braids before your departure.”

“You noticed my concern.” Veanelen gave her a grateful smile. “Thank you, it is just easier to sail when I do not have to worry about my hair.” She made a short pause “How long have you been working for Heri Silissë?”

“Ten years. Since they moved in. I’ve been working on this villa since I was a child.”

The woman was applying a fine soap that smelled like jasmine and bergamot. Then she asked Veanelen to stand while she brushed her body with sea salt. This is embarrassing for both of us, and it feels excessive! The scrubbing, the oiling, the rinsing, and the number of repetitions seemed an indulgent ritual to Veanelen.

“How did you start working at the villa?” The Ciriarāta needed to keep her mind on something beyond the sting that the honey and salt concoction was causing on her face. Then she remembered a keyword. “You were a child.”

“My mother fell gravely ill, and the medics helped her get better, but my father went into debt to pay for her treatment.” Then she added with pride: “We have good healers in Númenor, no other kingdom of Men holds such knowledge.” But she changed to a resigned tone. “I’ve been working to pay the debt ever since.”

“You have been working to pay your parents’ debt since you were a child?”

“I shouldn’t burden you with my story, milady.” Rerisse stopped for a fragment of a second and looked at her red knuckles, peeled from her labours. An Atan eye would not have noticed, but Veanelen did.

“I am not commanding you to tell me.” Veanelen was the one laying bare in a bathtub, but Rerisse was the one exposed. “You can trust me, if you choose to share with me. There is so much about your fair nation I do not know, and I wish to learn.”

“The debt comes with interest, and most of my labour pays for room and board.” The woman said with a voice thin as a hair.

Veanelen was appalled. She has never seen her due wage . The woman poured warm goat’s milk into the bathtub, and asked Veanelen to stay in it. Starving children and house workers with no real salary. Is this nation not supposed to be a gift to Men from Ilúvatar? What have they done with their blessings? Rerisse came back to the bathing room minutes later carrying soft cotton towels, and helped Veanelen open the pipe connected to the aqueduct to remove any leftover substances.

The hairdo took so long Veanelen almost fell asleep. It was an elaborate sculpture of braids, manufactured curls highlighting her silver strands, knots, bows, strings, filigree nets, and sewn pearls. Save for five pearls, Veanelen gave those to Serisse: “Keep them, these are mine to give as I please, they might help pay off your debt. I insist.”

The woman accepted the gift with a scared look and continued grooming Veanelen for the formal dinner. The pearl sheath was the most important element in the composition. The same cypress oil perfumed her skin and hair. She had been offered coloured beeswax ointments for her lips and eyelids, but she politely refused. 

Then the handmaid finished adjusting the elaborate dress, that did not allow for a chemise underneath, Veanelen felt as naked as in the bathtub. The body length silver mirror, held by the woman working to pay a debt smaller than its price, did not show a mariner, nor an Elf-Maiden, but a member of a mummers troupe. Let the farce begin. The admiral became a visiting princess, unsuspecting of the misdeeds men committed in the name of growing their wealth.

Veanelen was instructed to wait in her apartments until her hostess came by to escort her to the main hall. But she heard her crew coming in and went out to greet them.

“How exactly are you planning to interrogate the guildsman, Ciriarāta!” Golden-haired Belda asked with a roaring laughter.

“Make another insinuation of that sort, and I will send you undercover as an oarsman.” No smile. She said it so deadly serious that her own tone reminded her of Adar’s whispered threats.

“Apologies, Ciriarāta. I meant no offence.” Belda sounded sincere and covered his fear.

Veanelen regretted her words immediately, she knew she had the authority to make good on that promise and the loyal ello would obey, her company would miss him but not even his spouse could protest her command. I cannot treat my siblings in such a manner, not even in jest! She had the power to hurt him, even if I do not make use of that attribute, it is unjust that I have it .

“Clearly, Númenóreans had forgotten all Ellālie modesty.” Veanelen sighed and gave a repentant look to the tall warrior. “And I must stay in our host's good graces, that means entertaining his other guests.”

“Well, Ciriarāta, never underestimate what wine and a gentle smile can make a man reveal.” Said Naréwën encouragingly as she intertwined Belda's fingers. “We have interesting findings from the docks and the entertainment district.” The strawberry blonde alchemist glanced at the servants bringing food platters and flagons to the common area of the crew’s wing. “We should probably discuss them in the privacy of the ciria.”

“Your mind is always on the mission, Officer. Well done, everyone.” Veanelen paused and her mouth twitched up with an idea. “You are all safe from the heinous threat I just raised against our dear Belda.” She whispered. “But I will repeat it, see how the household workers react, and if they open up more to you.”

Veanelen looked at Pentro’s eyes seeking for his ability to perform in the follies, he was behind Teleplū with his arms around his husband’s waist. The two ellos smiled, encouraging her to play the part of the cruel mistress.

“You may feast, sirrahs, as it was a gift from Lord Amandil to the Eldar.” She spoke loudly. “Mind your manners, all of you.” She raised her pitch. “If you embarrass me with our host, you will find no grace that saves you from the galley of a tall ship.”

“Aye, Princess.” Teleplū projected his bass voice for the entire villa.

Volarno smiled subtly at his leader and nodded his approval. Wine and warm smiles would reveal more than seeing stones.

Zimrathon laughed resoundingly, his half-chewed spiced lamb and black currants were visible when he did that. He also timed every thunderous laughter with a swift touch of Veanelen’s exposed upper arm. She curled up her lips but the smile never reached her eyes nor his.

“We live longer lives than other men, here in Númenor, but not long enough to enjoy all the beauty brought in by your visit, my Princess.” He did not bother to dissimulate his inspection of  Veanelen’s body. “And we are always honoured to receive the crew keeping the Sundering Seas safe for everyone.”

“The Sea Guard has learned a great deal from the training that the Falmari armada has given them since the reign of King Elros.” Lord Amandil said as he chose a stuffed fig from the platter offered by a young serving girl, but kept his bright blue eyes fixed on his lady wife. “Our Eldar friends have shared invaluable knowledge and gifts with Númenor.” He took a sip of his aromatic wine. “My first-born son will be graduating from the cadet training in the upcoming Sea Trial.”

“Elendil was still in his mother’s arms when you first introduced him to me. He was always asking about life at sea when he was a child. He will be a cadet by the next full moon!”

“He used to think you were Uinen visiting us.” Heri Silissë let out a melancholic laugh. “Now he is taller than any Eldar in your company.”

“You must be proud, seeing him rising in such a respected institution.” Veanelen said, always drawn to mariner talk. “Have they encountered more foes at sea lately?”

“Have you heard of the Ghost Elf, my princess?” Zimrathon used an overdramatic expression of concern. “May Eru spare you from finding him!” He leaned towards Veanelen and tried to place his hand on the bare skin of her back. “You must be so scared!”

There are fouler beasts in this room than the ‘Ghost Elf” could ever be. Zimrathon’s words confirmed that his guild’s ships were being targeted by Adar’s fleet.

“Sailors say he drinks the blood of everyone on board!” Zimrathon continued his calumnies with his eyes fixed on Veanelen’s décolletage. “You better be careful, my princess. Eru knows what depravities he might try at the sight of you.”

“He sounds fearful!” Said lady Silissë, wide blue eyes glinting with wit. “How do we know such things, good Zimrathon, if he leaves no survivors?”

“My crew aided one of the few survivors not so long ago.” Veanelen explained. “To us he mentioned nothing about absorbing souls from the sailor’s mouths or sucking blood.” The admiral did her best to suppress a side smirk. “The Elven loremaster Rúmil would say that the problem with legends is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete: the captain we rescued did mention that they executed his crew, took their cargo, and left him chained near the wheel but unable to steer. Waiting for exhaustion or thirst to finish him. This is the only direct story we have, but it cannot be The Story.”

“The Sea Guard has been chasing him unsuccessfully, Ciriarāta Veanelen.” Said lord Amandil. "Your ciria is faster and your armada is unmatched. You are our best hope.”

“My fleet, especially my company, has found constant evidence of his attacks.” Veanelen set her gaze on Zimrathon and feigned dismay. “Even though we can trace your mercantile routes and I have part of your transport schedule, it always seems that I am on the opposite side of the Sundering Seas when he strikes.”

Zimrathon had a coughing fit. He appeared to choke with a spoonful of freekeh with pomegranate seeds and pistachios. When he finally settled, he drank his entire glass of wine in one gulp. “Sounds like the Ghost Elf is scared of my Princess, he may have heard word of your beauty and think it is exaggerated. He does not know what he is missing.” He said with a wide smile and licking the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps he has heard about your Eressëan fire, and is staying out of reach.”

“That would be a wise move from any commander.” Veanelen tried a demure smile but delivered a threatening tone. “The substance should be a deterrent by itself, but we use it when it is needed.”

A heavy silence fell over the elegant table covered with silks, fresh flowers, long white candles inside lamps adorned with glass mosaics, and platters of fruit, cheese, and Númenórean cuisine staples. More wine was brought in and, always an impeccable hostess, lady Silissë redirected the conversation to a more affable topic.

“There was a storm recently, Ciriarāta. Were you on its route? How did your crew weather it?”

“I saw it forming in the early morning, and luckily we were already on our way to a small uninhabited island.” It was no one’s settlement when we set the course. “We took cover there, the little damage to the Ciria Lanca was not vital for reaching port, and was easily fixed before I received your invitation to join you.” Veanelen segued into her pressing interest.  “We were more critically delayed by a calm: neither wave nor wind pushed us forward in any direction.”

“That sounds awful!” Lady Silissë sympathised with the crew’s desperation.

“That is why the Númenórean ships have oarsmen. Their strength is always available, even if Uinen is not blessing them that day.” Lord Amandil said with a tone of pride for his people, especially his son.

“Tell me more about these man-powered vessels.” Veanelen said with the curious tone of someone buying a warhorse. “I have inspected their build, and it is achievable in only the largest shipyards in Arda. But I am intrigued by how you assign that labour among your crews.”

“They are not crew members like your goodly officers, my princess, not even your lowest rank boatswains or swabbers.” Zimrathon was striking his long oiled beard. “These are criminals, closer to beasts than men.”

“Prithee, my lord, explain to this Amanyar shamefully removed from the realms of the Edain, how do these 'beast-like' criminals get in a Númenóreans vessel?” Veanelen widened her eyes and lowered her pitch. “Your countrymen are known for their virtue and faith in Eru.”

“Ah, yes! You know us well, my princess.” Zimrathon licked the hairy caterpillar over his lips that he had the audacity of calling a moustache. “Those are low men from the Númenórean settlements in the mouth of the Anduin river and the lands that surround it. They are sent here to serve. It gives their Eru-given brutality a good use: they serve the sea, just as yourself.”

“Just like me and my siblings? Do they also get a calling and choose to pledge their lives to the Sea and the safety of all seafarers? My comrades share the most unpleasant tasks and receive a wage: do they?”

“Not exactly, Ciriarāta.” Lord Amandil cleared his throat. “They are offered a choice. But their crimes are usually so heinous that their options are the gallows or the galleys.” Lord Amandil was notably uncomfortable with discussing such unsavoury topics during an evening he planned for affable entertainment with jugglers and singers.

“How is Númenor completely certain the men arriving at its docks are all dangerous criminals?” Veanelen widened her eyes like a child asking their parents why the stars are so bright.

“We know because they behave like untrained beasts, my Princess.” Zimrathon tried putting his arm around Veanelen’s waist but she recoiled like it was a constricting snake.

Lord Amandil gave his guest a look demanding he behaved with decorum, he also seemed surprised by the dehumanising answer. “The guild’s master means that we have a close relationship with the main houses in the region, most of them descend from our lower nobility.” Lord Amandil intervened. “They upkeep the lawful tradition of Númenor. And we trust their application of the law.”

How convenient, my Lords. Veanelen decided that justice required she pushed further. “If some members of these noble houses conducted their businesses in defiance of Númenórean law, is there a way to prevent them? Or are they the only ones dispensing justice?”

“Gondor is Númenor for as long as Númenor lives.” Lord Amandil reflected. “They would be subjected to our King’s Justice.”

“How? Are there any representatives of the Crown or Tar-Palantir’s court?” Veanelen questioned her guest.

“The Merchant’s Guild serves as a mediator between Gondor and Númenor.” Zimrathon coughed and looked straight at Veanelen’s eyes for the first time since they met. “It is in our best interest that Gondor enforces the law on those savage low men.”

“Your interest is clearer than reef water on a sunny day, ser.” Veanelen stopped hiding behind a mask of courtesy. “Perhaps the Sea Guard should keep a station in Pellargir and strengthen the bonds with the houses of surrounding kingdoms: both Eldar and Atani.”

“That is a brilliant idea!” Lady Silissë agreed. “They would protect the coast, and the captains are honourable men who swore an oath.”

Veanelen hardened her stare, fixed on the Merchant: “Ulmo does not look kindly at those who act against the will of the Valar, and the Sea Guard remembers.”

Chapter Text

90 nautical leagues West from Umbar

17:00 36 Tuilë SA 3235

Adar looked down at his hand which held his clawed dagger. It picked up the light streaming through the open window in his captain’s quarters and when he spun it with his fingers like a water dowser’s wand, it revealed the dust motes that floated in the air like dancing brine shrimp caught in a tide pool.

“Damn, her.” Adar muttered, the breath from his scoff of anger pushed the motes away from him and sent them spinning into the other side of his cabin. Sitting at the small table that he used as a desk and for the occasional meal, he dropped the dagger onto the polished driftwood surface with a clatter and a vibrating hum from the fallen star’s metal.

The knock came too softly for a warship’s quartermaster but Adar knew it was Draddau just handling Sealord Father with silk gloves. Adar did not look up from the dagger when Draddau entered, though the Dark Elf’s shoulders tensed.

“Sealord Father.” Draddau’s voice carried that particular hesitation Adar had grown accustomed to when he knew his own temper was being worn like a glittering red crown upon his head. “We have her ship in sight, they are anchored off the repair cove. They have already raised their flag and know we approach.”

“I will be up in a moment, thank you quartermaster.” Draddau quickly made his exit.

Adar stood abruptly, the dagger heavy in his palm, a slight sliver of the fallen star that had no business still being in his possession. In the chaos of establishing the new settlement, he had forgotten to pass the blade to Thaghat before she departed only hours before the storm descended upon them. The dagger burned against his skin, as though freshly torn from the heavens with a birth scream that shattered the sky. This fragment, forged anew into a small dagger with a decorative clawed finger ending in sharp metal, was meant to return to her. Not as a gift, never that. A weapon must rejoin its kin, he told himself. This is about reforging what was broken and nothing more. 

Yet through all of those days trapped in the cave, with Ossë’s fury shaking the cliffs above them, his fingers had strayed to the blade hidden at the small of his back. Not checking if It was still there but seeking the heft of it. As if he could feel the pull of her, of Thaghat… alive, fighting and surviving. 

The night the fleet took the caravan, Adar felt the weight of Arda lifted from his shoulders when he saw Thanghat’s ship take her place among them as they launched the attack. For the first time in what felt like years, he was able to fully enjoy a battle knowing the risks were low and that both Thaghat and Sauggath had made it through the storm in one piece. But then once the cargo ships were taken, she fled. 

After a week of searching for a sign of the Flagit Ora-Nen, Adar and his crew returned to the settlement for resupplying and to see if Thanghat had come home on her own. One of his Uruk captains had spotted her ship slipping into the maze of small coves and sand bars that the fleet often used to avoid pirate hunters or to seek fresh water. When he took the report, he merely nodded, his face carved from stone. He then went down to his cabin and with the door locked Adar allowed the mask to crack, his hands trembling as they covered his face. Alive.

The relief was a wound that terrified him. Loss was Adar’s oldest companion. He had buried generations of Children, their names and faces etched upon his heart. But this anarchistic Half-Elf with her filthy mouth and unkillable spirit? She was not allowed to disappear into the depths and shadows. Not just yet.

To Draddau’s great irritation, Adar ordered the ship to set sail immediately after the supplies were loaded, but his long serving officer kept silent, keenly aware of the Sealord Father’s angry dedication to finding the Half-Elf captain. 

Now it appeared she was alive and at this moment digging for clams and gathering seaweed to steam them with, probably washing it down with a bottle of wine or two that she liberated from the cargo vessels before she took her leave. The vision was drying Adar’s mouth with a slow building fury. All the worry, all the obsessive worry that the storm had killed her and she was dead at the bottom of the sea, or that she had been mortally wounded in battle and was dying alone. Everything he had been enduring these last couple of weeks between the settlement getting destroyed only hours after its birth and… That Falmari admiral seemingly taking over every thought that did not involve his Children or that bloody Half-Elf with her maddening grin. He picked up the dagger and slid it back in the concealed scabbard under his belt, then made his way topside.

Adar climbed the stairs to the deck and stood next to Draddau, who was watching the Flagit Ora-Nen riding low at anchor with his spyglass. Sealord Father could see the sails hung slack as an empty bag of wine. Only one figure moved on the deck, Sceli’s bright red hair he could make out and felt a slight wash of relief to see her safe. But still a skeleton crew for a ship that should have been teeming with a boisterous one.

“I have not seen either captain Thanghat or quartermaster Kalen yet, Sealord Father. Just now I spotted three of the Elves leave the ship and wade to shore carrying buckets. Getting water or foraging I imagine.”

“Thank you quartermaster. They are Half-Elves, not Elves. I am sure you noticed the difference between them and the Falmari guests we entertained during the storm.”

“Barely. Our Elves were louder, probably fight better too.” Draddau grumbled. 

“At least you are calling them ‘our Elves,' so I suppose I should welcome that.”

Adar’s gaze kept flitting across the deck of the Flagit Ora-Nen, waiting and hoping to see Kalen at least. The absence of the phlegmatic quartermaster who was always at his captain’s side indicated something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The clawed dagger’s hilt pressed against his spine like an accusing finger. You knew. You felt it the moment she left. 

Adar exhaled through his nose, the breath bitter with the ichor of combined fury and fear that coursed over his body. Relief and rage warred beneath his ribs: Relief that her heart still beat and rage that she had made him fear it stopping. He touched the hidden scabbard once, a silent vow, then turned to the waiting skiff. 

Adar stepped on the deck of the Flagit Ora-Nen with only Sceli standing awkwardly by the rail. After he wrapped his arms around the usually cheerful girl he stepped back with his hands still resting on her shoulders.

“I wish I had seen you when you took the cargo ship, Sceli. I am sure it was your usual grace and flourish with your blades.”

“Kalen did this trick where he kept blocking the doors for below decks and would only open them now and then, letting four or five of the sailors out at a time. I actually decapitated five of them at once!”

“By Ulmo’s mercy, that must have been a sight! Meanwhile, I almost tripped on the guts of one poor fool. I am getting far too old for all this, am I not?”

“No! Captain Thaghat said you’ll be alive while we are all just floating dust and ashes. Is that true? I know sometimes she says things that are silly about you.”

Adar smiled, “No, Sceli, I will not live forever but like the Elves I do have a very long life and it appears that getting old is unavoidable for all of us.”

“Yes, but you aren’t old. Just lonely.”

“How can I be lonely when I have to chase a ship full of Half-Elves across the Sundering Sea to find out why they left the battle before the prize could be divided?” The girl demurred and looked away.

“Where is Kalen, Sceli? I never see him without you nearby.” Adar realised that the teenage sword master was not going to take him right to Thanghat so he tried to be indirect with her.

“He…he’s down below. He’s keeping watch.” Sceli’s eyes had become wide and shone with unshed tears.

“Keeping watch. I see. Is he keeping watch over captain Thaghat?” The girl nodded, the tears now flowing freely.

“I heard what happened on that slaver you took, before the attack on the caravan. Did you see it?” She shook her head, wiping the tears with the back of her hand. Adar sighed and then put his arm around the girl, squeezing her shoulder.

“I am going to go below now, Sceli. I would like you to go ashore and collect the rest of the officers and let them know I am here. We will be leaving soon.” Looking relieved, Sceli left Adar alone on the deck as he turned towards the stairs below.

He gave himself a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Unlike most ships, Thaghat did not use the larger room for her captain’s quarters and had turned the space into a makeshift infirmary. But Adar knew where to go from the smell alone. Somewhere in this dark corridor was rotting food, the smell of an unwashed Half-Elf body, and the usual musty odor from all the alcohol consumed by the crew and its famously libertine captain.

In the middle of the hall he saw a pile of laundry and several plates of food that had been set out in front of one of the doors. He almost pulled his sword on the laundry when it moved and sat up.

“Kalen? Why are you laying on the floor?” Adar crouched down and put his bare hand out to help the quartermaster up. Kalen did not take it, instead looking up at him as if the Sealord Father was a figment of his imagination. 

“Sealord Father? Why…how did you find us?” Kalen dropped the blanket he was wrapped in and Adar glanced at the tattered bedroll by the cabin door. 

“Luck and determination.” Kalen nodded but barely looked at Adar. Around him Sealord Father could see the plates were filled with food, most of it spoiled, all left out for the shuttered captain of their ship.

“Is she in there then?” Kalen nodded again.

“Look, Sealord Father, you know I have nothing but respect for you...-"

“You do not, but go on.” Kalen stopped speaking and signing, then sat back down, his back against the door and folded his arms.

“Forgive me, Kalen. I am… short on patience and I have no reason to be. Now that I know you are all alive and safe, then any purpose to my anger has been concluded. Are you actually sleeping out here?”

“Yeah, sometimes if I sing to her when she cries it calms her down somewhat.” Adar swallowed, feeling humbled by the simple act of love Kalen showed Thaghat that he would stay so close in case she needed his comfort.

“Tell me how you fared the storm?” The quartermaster sat unmoving for a moment, peering up at Adar then shrugged.

“We saw it coming up behind us and captain had both ships lower the sails to save ‘em from getting ripped apart, then she steered us into a gulf stream that was being fed by that monster typhoon. We were able to skirt it for days but it was howling behind us the whole way.” Adar smiled, impressed with the woman’s seafaring skill and dulling his veiled ire slightly. 

“The settlement was destroyed. We did not lose anyone, but it set us back further than we had hoped. Your assistance with the cargo caravan will see us through winter at least. That and… Well there is more but we will speak of it another time. Are you going to try to stop me from going into that room, Kalen?”

“Try to stop you? You, Sealord Father?” Kalen flashed the rare smile that was more a grimace. “I reckon I would have a better chance with both hands tied behind my back against Sceli and her Elf blades. No, I am sure a man like you goes into any room he wants to. But my captain gave me an order. She told me no one was to come into her cabin while there was still breath in my worthless body.” Thanghat’s quartermaster leaned his head back against the door again, lightly tapping it while he hummed an unfamiliar tune. 

Adar sighed and with the toe of his boot he kicked at a plate with a slice of moulding bread sitting on it.

“Kalen, I am going to go into that room. I do not wish to fight you and I am fully aware that your loyalty to Thaghat supersedes any loyalty to me.”

“No offence, Sealord Father. I know you outrank her and all that.”

“I do outrank her. If I ordered you to step out of my way, would you do so?”

Kalen pushed himself up, slow and deliberate, flicking the dust from his knees like a man unshaken by the world’s weight. Then he straightened, his shoulders locked into place in a warrior’s posture that was battle ready and Adar froze. The Half-Elf’s eyes gleamed with the same lethal shade as his captain’s and sharp as the glint of starlight on the waters of the Bay of Balar. A warning, in a single glance. But while Thanghat’s were the indigo maelstrom of an approaching storm at sea, Kalen’s eyes reminded him of a frozen lake that had dangerously hidden depths over thinning ice. 

The two men stared at one another, a silent challenge hanging between them like a drawn bowstring. Adar’s pulse thundered in his ears as memories flashed of Kalen in battle, a specter of lethal efficiency. No wasted motion, no embellishment, just the brutal precision of a predator, unlike Thaghat, who fought as if she were a graceful dancer who was touched with madness. No, Kalen would be inside his guard before his sword cleared its sheath, a knife already buried in his ribs. Then do not let him. A plan crystallized… Draw the strike, let Kalen commit, then crush his windpipe with his gauntlet. Simple. Clean. Of course! Then just step over Thanghat’s quartermaster and beloved cousin to knock on her door and tell her it was time to come home. Kill the man that swore an oath to the Uruk as if he were just a Corsarian deck hand. A man who sings to the pirate captain when she could no longer endure the agony of her heart being torn to shreds.  

Then on the other side of the door was a bump followed by what sounded like slow footsteps dragging themselves. Thanghat. Kalen’s head turned slightly in the direction of the noise, but still kept Adar pinned to the spot with his stare. Both waited for the sound to stop and when it did Adar could see a momentary flash of pain in the quartermaster’s set expression. He is not prepared to die for the order she gave him. He is prepared to die for her. Would you do any less? 

A flicker of understanding passed between them. Adar’s hardened glare softening just enough for Kalen to notice. The Half-Elf’s chest rose in a slow, measured breath, as if exhaling a burden. Neither man wished to cross this line. Kalen knew with cold certainty that if he reached for the dagger hidden in his tunic, he would die before his fingers found the hilt. And yet, that was not what stayed his hand. The truth was simpler, heavier for both men standing in front of the door, and that was breaking Thanghat’s heart would be the real killing blow.

“No, Sealord Father, I will not step out of your way because you ordered me to do so. But I will stand aside because I want my captain back. Usually when this happens she just needs to go quiet for a day or two. She says that having everyone’s thoughts and feelings all the time floating around gives her a headache. A day or two is all she needs. We can keep going and function without her, like when she goes on a bender or has a new situation with a man or woman or both. But this…it's been a long time and she ain’t getting better.”

“Sauggath told me what happened on the slaver. With the woman and her infant.” Kalen reached down and picked up a wine bag that he had tucked within his blanket. He took a long dink from it, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked past Adar.

“If she has anything to say on that subject then I suspect she will. Good thing you brought all that ‘luck and determination’ with you. See you topside.” 

Sealord Father stood before Thanghat’s cabin door, his breath shallow, his ears straining for any sound of movement within. The dread that had spiraled in his stomach now tightened around his throat. He knocked sharp, insistent, the metal of his gauntlet striking wood with a sound like a war drum. Then, silence.  

“Captain Thanghat," he called, his voice low but firm. “It is Sealord Father. Open the door. I would like to speak with you."

A faint rustle answered him, the shift of fabric, perhaps, or the creak of a floorboard under weight. Then, nothing. His hand closed around the handle. The door was unlocked, but when he pushed something heavy resisted, a chest or a table, barricading against intrusion. His jaw tightened.  

He struck the door again, harder. “Thanghat!" The name was a command, fraying at the edges into something like pleading. "Let me in. Just to talk."

A sudden, violent crash shook the door in its frame as if a weapon, a boot, or some great weight had been hurled against it in defiance. 

“Eat shit, Kalen! That is the worst impression of Seacunt Father, yet. You sound nothing like him.” Thanghat’s muffled voice snapped. With a snarl, Adar reared back and lifted his boot and then slammed it into the center of the door, cracking the frame when the wood collided with the heavy object she had pushed in front of it.

Adar caught the broken wood before it could fall, lifting it from its ruined hinges with quiet strength. He set it aside like a mourner laying down a shroud, then pushed aside the chest of drawers Thanghat had used to block the entrance and he moved into the room.  

The cabin reeked of sour wine, of sweat and unwashed wool. Thanghat had never been one for tidiness, but this was her devastation. The room looked like the aftermath of a battle with scrolls, weapons, and discarded clothes strewn across the floor like war-tossed flotsam. A blanket had been jammed violently into the porthole smothering the daylight, yet no candle flickered in defiance of the dark. Empty bottles rolled with the ship’s slow heave, their hollow clinking the only sound besides the rasp of movement somewhere in the shadows.  

Near the bed, a pillow had been gutted, its feathers strewn in ragged clumps, caught in the stale air like ghosts reluctant to settle. Adar’s eyes adjusted, but the darkness clung thick, and Thanghat… he could see her outline sitting on the ground in front of her cot, legs crossed and head down like a praying Drughu shaman.

Adar felt around on the shelf near the door until his fingers caught a flint stick and a lantern. Using his body to block the light from burning Thanghat’s eyes, he lit the candle inside and moved across the cabin to pick up a toppled chair and sat the lantern on its seat. 

“Seldë?” He whispered and lowered himself on one knee in front of Thanghat. The riotous, vibrant braids that were usually pulled back into a single plait and adorned with beads of bone and shells were gone. She had torn them out, leaving her blonde hair tangled and wild, like the matted locks of a corpse unearthed from a plundered grave.  

Her arms, once strong, were now thin as brittle twigs, as if she were little more than a crude doll fashioned from mud and broken branches. She had them folded across her chest, a gesture that seemed to be an attempt to protect her breaking heart. When she lifted her gaze to his, the crown of her greasy hair clung to her skin like a widow’s cowl. Her flesh had turned sallow, the hollows beneath her eyes dark as bruises. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Sealord Father?” Her voice was a wraith’s rasp, as if dredged from the Halls of Mandos itself. Adar stiffened, this was not Thanghat’s voice. Where was the boisterous lilt that could rally a crew through a storm? The woman before him sounded hollow, a specter wearing his captain’s face.

He edged closer but kept a deliberate gap between them. Her side-eyed glare tracked him, her muscles coiled like a sprung trap, until he paused at a distance that made her nostrils flare instead of snarl.

“Why am I here?” Adar tilted his head, feigning calm. “Because you fled a battle you helped us win. Forgive me for finding that… concerning.”

She pushed upright with a wince, fingers straining for the water skin just beyond her reach on the bedside table. Adar seized the excuse to rise quickly, but not quick enough to startle and handed it to her. This time, he allowed himself a half-step nearer.

Thanghat snatched the skin from him with a scoff, her knuckles whitening around it. She muttered a curse in what started as Black Speech and ended in Quenya, but the venom was thin, frayed at the edges. Then she reached behind her and pulled the blanket from her cot to cover her shoulders. Adar wanted to help her with the tangle of the blanket, but knew she would lash out if he got too close too fast. 

"You looked like you had it all in hand. Didn’t need me. So, I left." She tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders, as if armour against his presence. "Sorry."

Adar exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the side of her bed, settling in. "Do you remember the slave market fortress?" His voice was low, deliberate. "Our first big raid on land. They never even rang the warning bell, you made sure of that." A faint chuckle. "You hung one of them from the rope though. It was still ringing when we sailed away with those we freed."

Thanghat did not smile. Her gaze stayed fixed on the guttering candle across the room, eyes glassy with reflected flame.

"Aye, I remember that." Her voice was dull. "I just didn’t stand around dancing and chanting like an idiot when the caravan was won. I didn’t think you’d need me to hold your hand afterwards or brush the hair from your eyes like some sea sicken recruit." A shrug. "But here we are and now I am forced to listen to an old man croak about a raid from years ago."

"I am not talking about the past to reminisce and you know it," Adar said, sharper now. "What happened when we took the cells below," he pressed. “You and I breached the gate first. Down into the slave pens."

Her eyes flicked to his face, wary. A nod. No words.

"What happened, Thanghat?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "What did I do?"

When she finally spoke, her voice was a rasp, worn from disuse: "You remembered and I heard it."

"We never spoke of it. I thought you might bring it up. You never did."

"If it concerned me, you’d have told me."

A twinge in his chest. He had mistaken her silence for indifference or worse, pity. But it was restraint. She had been waiting for him to speak on it first. "I have always wondered," he admitted, stretching his hand toward her, close, but not touching. Letting the hand rest near one of her feet that was curled under her. "What did you see? When I fell apart in front of you?” The space between them hummed with unspoken sorrow.

Thanghat shook her head. “I was relieved you never asked. You were already drowning in... in that Angle Bang place, or whatever the fuck…-”

“Angband.”

“Yeah. That.” She took a swig of water, the swallow loud in the quiet. “Terrifying. Torture. Death. Snow like a grave, so many frozen graves. I saw a place made of ice that went on forever and every part of it had a grave.” A cough rattled her chest, stopping her voice from rising.

“When we breached that door…” Adar’s voice grew distant. “The stench hit me first. Unwashed flesh. Blood. Faeces. It does not matter who it belongs to. Filth all smells the same in the dark for those that have been taken from the world and left to rot. 

He shifted closer. Thanghat’s teeth ground together like a millstone crushing grain, but she did not retreat.

“When I fell,” he continued, “you shielded me. Lied to the crew. Said I had been injured outside.” His fingertips grazed the back of her hand, a ghost’s touch. “You did not let them see me broken.”

“So now you want to know what I heard in your hellscape of a mind?” Her laugh was a crow’s caw, brittle.

“Indulge me.”

Silence. The candle in the lantern sputtered.

Then, a whisper: “Your Children. The ones from before. They were screaming for you. Begging you to save them.”

Adar’s breath hitched. He took her hand, lacing their fingers together, letting the weight of her words press down on them both. “Do you remember what you said to me? After the crew passed?”

She blinked too fast. He smelled salt before she could hide it.

“No.”

“You put your mouth to my ear, ‘Adar, they are safe. You protected them. Now stand up. I need you.’” His thumb traced her knuckles. “The only time you ever called me by my name.”

“I shouldn’t have lied to you but I didn’t think telling you they were long gone, a thousand years and a thousand leagues away would have helped.”

“I knew.” His voice frayed. “But it was not the lie that pulled me back. It was you saying you needed me.” Thanghat turned her head towards Adar and then rested it on his arm.  

“The spells used to come every few months after Angband. Then years. Decades, centuries. But they never leave. They just wait. The other day I was struck down for a moment when I thought I had heard the voice of Mairon, telling me that I was going to lose everything and everyone.” Adar lowered his nose onto the top of Thanghat’s head as he spoke, taking in the scent of old sweat and the misery that had embraced her. He tugged her gently against him. She resisted only for a breath, then sagged, her forehead thudding against his chest.

“No matter how much time passes,” he murmured into her hair, “it finds me. It will always win too, it will always catch me when I am least prepared for it. As if I fell through ice, freezing me in place, wanting to just curl up and cover my head while screaming. I have no way to stop it because Morgoth and Mairon were particularly good at inflicting so much pain and suffering that, to this day, they still have that power over me. Morgoth… Mairon… they carved their power so deep into my bones, and I had to learn to accept that what they did to me and who they were is now as much a part of me as anything else I am.” Adar had a quick image of Veanelen smiling at him, an invading thought, but not an unwelcome one.

"Sauggath told me what happened." Adar's voice was low, the words measured like footsteps on cracking ice. "The woman and child. How you were not able to use your gift to stop her from running away and she took the knife off of the dead slaver.” Thanghat's sob shuddered against his chest, dampening his tunic. Adar did not tighten his embrace; he simply became still, an anchor for her to cling to.

“It wasn’t that I couldn’t see in her head, but it was so…so loud! All I could hear were men grabbing her and hurting her, making her…making her…she kept saying ‘but not the baby’ over and over in her language and it swallowed everything else. Nothing existed but her and her needing to save that baby.”

“She got that knife and ran, I could hear her all over the ship… 'But not the baby. You won’t hurt my baby.’ Then I found her. She was right, no one would ever hurt her or her baby again.” Thanghat’s voice broke into quiet weeping.

"I will not insult you by saying you will not blame yourself. You will for the rest of your life, and the death of that woman and her infant is now resting inside of your bones." His fingers traced slow circles between her shoulder blades. "You will carry this guilt to your grave, just as I carry mine for the Children I failed in Angband. And the Children I have failed since. Time will not make any of it go away, it will only make it quieter. It is as much a part of you as your breathtaking violence and promiscuity.”

She had curled into his lap like a wounded animal, her knees pressing into his ribs. Thanghat’s breathing rattled as her body shook.  Adar waited, counting each ragged inhale until the tension bled from her shoulders.

"The knife was her choice," he murmured. "But when you are ready, you will also make a choice. To go back out there and stop other women like her from being taken, or you will let what happened destroy you. Neither path is one of weakness, but I know which one I would prefer you take.”

She turned to look up at him, eyes swollen and wet. “What does 'promiscuity' mean?”

“It means you have very little standards when it comes to your intimate partners.”

“Oh, you mean I fuck a lot?” He sighed and rolled her off his lap, letting her fall to the floor giggling.

As he stood he said: “When it robs you of your senses again, when it is gripping your heart and mind, do what I have been doing for the last ten years.”

“What do you do?”

“I seek you out. You are the only one who has ever pulled me out of Angband. You have saved me from two prisons so far. Find me and let me save you.”

Adar stood up and then reached down, lifting Thanghat up and guiding her towards her cot. He removed the blanket from the port hole and shook it out, then covered her with it. 

“I am going to go fetch Kalen and Sceli now. We need you to eat and bathe. I want to try to fix your door.” Thaghat nodded, rolling up on her side and closing her eyes as if it was the first time in a long time she had gotten any rest.

As she slept, Adar and Kalen put her cabin back in order and removed the door until they could get back to the settlement to find more hinges. Sceli gently woke Thaghat up to a bowl of conch and rice soup while Kalen sat behind his captain, slowly brushing the tangles from her ravaged hair and looping it back into braids.

The crew returned topside to get ready to set sail and Adar sent a message to Draddau that he would be joining Thanghat’s ship on the journey home. While she loudly slurped her soup and occasionally gulped it down with a cup of cider, she became chattier. Adar sat in the chair next to her bed, keeping her cup filled while they talked about the cargo caravan raid.

“Oh! Before the attack on the convoy we ran into this insane typhoon. Ossë sent I am sure, but as you know I’m the blessed one here. It chased us for days. Did you happen to see the storm?” Adar then threw his head back and laughed. 

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast

20:00 51 Tuilë SA 3235

A crescent half moon shone over Adar’s granite face as he glared at the horizon, his stance as still as his stare. The Morion’s mood soured more after each day of his wait: the Swan Ship had sailed on a waning moon from the same north western shore he had been standing on that evening since the skies turned vermillion. The Elves were expected three days ago, at least that was what the First Officer had reported to Draddau before they left, those words were nothing but wind and not the kind to fill their sails. They are not coming back. She preferred leaving behind all their tents and shelter materials, over seeing the face of her lover’s killer. Adar had given good use to the Elven canvases after they inspected all their losses from the storm. He swallowed his pride and chose to shelter his Children.

The convoy captured two weeks ago rewarded the Uruk with a sizable loot filled with immediate supplies: building materials, tools, even fabrics humble and rich. The Dwarven jewellery and the Atani fine clothes could be resold at port by captain Thanghat’s connections. She might drink and hump half of the earnings, and she will still bring good steel, more food, and Pohop’s list. The sea was providing and they are no longer ragged refugees bundled into boats with babes in arms.

The camp was now resurging. The Falmari goods had helped them at the beginning, but this is all Uruk work. The Ciria Lanca’s collective pavilion was now a common area where young Uruk could learn skills safe from the sunlight. They had used the screens to create shaded corridors. After he had given up his own tent for the Elders, Adar was now inhabiting a backspace of an Eressëan marquee turned into a council tent. Never mind that it was formerly occupied by his brief ally. More accurately, he had been lying sleepless under the blue roof panels of waxed canvas. At sunset he stood up from the new table gathered from the convoy, carpeted with maps and plans, and left the camp.

His steps first took him southwards, but he retraced them to avoid the cove where the Wingildi feed. He ended up on the northwest shore of the island. The night was cool and pleasant, and the clear skies allowed him to enjoy the stars with Tilion's silver patina bathing the landscape. Adar found a small contentment in Varda’s gifts, starlight and the hushed song of the ocean had always soothed him. He reached his uncovered hand to touch the foam left by a retreating wave. When he raised his gaze, he could not believe his ancient eyes.

Low in the horizon, bobbing up and down, a small orange light was growing slightly bigger every time he looked up. They may not distinguish the shore. The Sealord Father shouted an order to light up the fires near the encampment and bring torches to the coast, and hoped that the vessel announcing its presence was the one he was waiting for. Moments later it was clear that a Swan Ship was anchored in the small bay in front of the camp, and its crew were making their way to the shore.

Adar saw the glow of the Elven lamp reflected in the silver of the cuirass and the braids, long before he could distinguish the nymph-like silhouette of the Admiral, standing tall on the small boat while her closest officers rowed. He perched on the sandy beach and, when they finally reached it, Adar walked up to the leader of the arriving party.

“Elen þíla lumenn omentielvo, Ciriarāta Veanelen.” He said in Quenya, doing his best to sound friendly.

“El sīla lūmena vomentienguo, Sealord Father.” The seafarer answered in Lindárin, with what seemed like a timid smile.

Adar offered his gauntleted hand to help his ally descend from the dinghy, she hesitated but took it, as she gave a nimble jump to land. She now was close enough that Adar could perceive the cedar oil in her braids. He was slightly disappointed that the perfume polluted her usual ocean scent. I cannot waste my wits on frivolities. He turned towards Veanelen and, for the first time since he met her, she would not meet his eyes. A small northern gust felt colder than it should be on a late spring night.

“I trust that your journey was uneventful, Ciriarāta” Adar caught the glimpse of a small twitch in the corner of her eye. “And that your time in Númenor turned out fruitful for our common cause.”

“We lost valuable time in a paralysing calm, that is the main reason for our delay.” She was explaining with a calmed voice, but not apologising. “We gathered important information for our shared purpose, and useful supplies for a new settlement.”

“Your pavilion is set at the centre of the encampment, I made sure that it is available for your furnishings.” As soon as Adar caught sight of the vessel, he requested that anything of his was removed from the sleeping area.

“I am grateful for your arrangements, Sealord Father.” She answered politely and looked up to the moon. “On a night like this, I would feel happy just setting a hammock.”

“Hardly appropriate for an Admiral. Unacceptable for an expected guest.”

Adar observed her as she stood at the edge of camp. Still as a sphinx, only her gold-flecked mahogany eyes danced. She was clearly making sense of the layout of the campsite. Adar could see her diplomatic disposition counteracting her military mind. The temporary formation inside the cave had followed her orders, and gave the Elves easy access to the exit. The position of her hogan, now at the centre of the Uruk settlement, meant that she would be surrounded by his Children.

“It seems that the settlement has found use for the resources we left at your disposal.” She finally spoke, still looking at the lines of tents. “I am glad to be of help after the storm, Sealord Father.” She turned to Volarno. “We should set our own encampment parallel to that of our allies.”

Adar could not stop the left corner of his mouth from curving up ever so slightly. We are still allies. He pressed his lips again. Because she gave her word. Adar finally paid real attention to the three other Elves who descended with Veanelen. Volarno, Nárëwen and Belda were inspecting the ground near the treeline before installing their pavilions. Nárëwen approached the closest shore-signaling fire and threw shavings of rusted copper in it. The tall flames changed to green, eliciting a hiss from some nearby Uruk. The Ciria Lanca answered with another green blaze, then three more boats made their descent.

“You and your company are always welcome to my hospitality, Ciriarāta.” Adar said in a formulaic tone. “I hope you could join me for supper once you and your officers are set for the night.” He made a short pause to study her expression, but he could not be sure of how she felt about the offer. She does not know how to react. “My children are more comfortable working at night, if you are in need of more hands to unload your bearings and get settled.”

Still standing further than an arm’s length, she looked up facing him directly. Her bronze visage caught the light of the closest fire as she gave him a small smile, real but contained. A silver braid remained on her temple and her cheek. Her eyes were wide but she had to force herself to unclench her jaw.

“Supper seems like the best setting to agree on the terms of our alliance, Sealord Father.” She made a short pause. “We will set up just one pavilion tonight. We are grateful for your offer, and we will meet you as soon as we are set.”

“We will speak again soon.”

Adar found Shagram and gave her detailed instructions for the upcoming parley with the Elven Admiral. Her crew would be hosted at the communal tent, since the young ones were collecting wildflower seeds with Manveri and they would not move anyone out of it.

On his walk back to the council tent, Adar saw Alenesso and Anondō approaching the Falmari and picking up some of their load. He followed officer Volarno’s movements as the black haired ello took the hand of the Artificer and kissed it, before carefully placing a satchel across their chest and placing a peck on their lips. Nestamā followed Alenesso to Pohop’s infirmary, Usqueil had not complained once during this pregnancy but she was now in the uncertain time between an Atan term and an Elven term. It is the Valar’s choice, may they treat her kindlier than they treated so many mothers in the past.

Veanelen opened the colourful patterned entrance to their recently acquired Númenórean pavilion. The large leather panels of the conical roof gave way to a circular canvas wall in indigo and saffron, the interior had tapestry panels covered with rich maritime embroidery in shades of turquoise and gold. The large tent allowed for screens dividing the space to give its occupants some privacy.

Veanelen had readied herself for her solemn supper, after quartermaster Draddau led Nuzû and two Uruk carrying large containers with precious freshwater. She had washed and changed from the salt-stained sailing leathers to a lighter blue silk tunic and linen trousers. She kept her soft knee-boots. She was not wearing any maille nor her cuirass. Not even the gambeson, I do not wish to insult my aþaro any further. She still donned her belt and her short sword, more as a symbol of her investiture than as a precaution. The silver knife in its pearl sheath was already lodged in her hair where it belonged. As soon as she stepped out of her tent, she could see Adar’s dark elongated figure standing guard at the edge of his camp. 

The company of the Ciria Lanca walked together and were met by the Sealord Father, he was even more attentive and diplomatic than during the austere feast to celebrate the alliance. The Morion welcomed every Elf by their rank and name, he showed them the way to the communal pavilion. He stood there overseeing the Uruk who brought wooden bowls full of fresh fish, cooked inside aromatic leaves, with some wild roots and greens, and tangy Uruk mead.

“If you agree, Ciriarāta, we have prepared the council table for our parley.” His thin lips remained straight and unrevealing, but his brow softened as he spoke. Thin lines appeared on his forehead the longer he waited for her answer.

“I agree, Sealord Father.” Veanelen said, studying his expression as intently as she did during their first encounter. “I appreciate your hospitality towards my siblings.”

He asked in Black Speech and signed to the Uruk who brought in the food to see that their guests were well tended. Veanelen imitated the signs, with special emphasis in ‘guests’. She needed to learn a more peaceful vocabulary. Adar signed to her to follow him and smirked when she did.

“When did you have time to learn the Silent Tongue, Ciriarāta?” He asked both in Quenya and signing, as they walked together to the new council table.

“I would not say I have properly learned it” She said, slightly embarrassed and smiling unconsciously. “Most of what I have gathered comes from body language and my modest grasp of Black Speech.”

Veanelen heard her host grunt. But he just seemed pleased that I made this effort, perhaps calling his language ‘Black Speech’ offends him as much as not calling his children ‘Uruk’. Adar’s smug smirk remained on full display and Veanelen did not know what to make about his guttural interjection.

“As I told you before, it is important for me to bring the dirty clever ones to my side.” Adar lifted the doorflap of the blue and silver marquee, and made way for Veanelen to walk in first.

The deep blue hogan was lit by a brazier made in white clay, with different coloured rocks creating a pattern. The oaken council table was set at the centre, with beeswax candles in the middle and near each of the two chairs. Ready for them was a mead skin and a ceramic pitcher full of water with matching cups. There was a plate with the same roasted roots and greens that were served for the crew. Veanelen wanted to inspect the ceramic and guess its provenance, but Shagram interrupted as she placed her dish in front of her. What had been stone cooked for the Admiral inside aromatic leaves was not fish but quail. She looked up to the other side of the table and saw Adar observing her. Waiting for her to try the first bite before starting with his own dish. The Elf could not hold a nervous grin.

“I am very pleased at the arrival of your swan ship, Ciriarāta.” Adar spoke first, after his first sip of mead. “I hope that you do not mind me asking what motivated your return?”

“I see that we are once again up front with each other.” Veanelen relaxed her shoulders and drank some water. “I believe that suits us better than rigid courtesy, Adar.”

“I could never agree more, Veanelen.” Adar answered in a lower raspier tone.

They both sit in silence for a couple of seconds, grinning after trying out each other’s names. Tasting them like fine Elven wine. If familiarity allows honesty, then I welcome it. Veanelen took a deep breath and tried to fit all her tribulations from the past weeks in one phrase.

“I came back because my word is worth more than all the pearls in Alqualondë.” Veanelen saw Adar press his lips tighter and furrow his brow. “Also because our common cause is noble.” She took another deep breath looking for a sign of Adar’s thoughts. “And because you are the only other force in the Alatairë who cares about stopping the slave trade.”

“Rúmil would not advise the liege lady of a virtuous Elven nation to sign into close alliances with reavers. He might consider it unsafe, repugnant even.” Adar said with his lowest hoarse voice, the register he used when he tried to intimidate her.

“I am not as dovish as you would think: I hunt sea rover vessels, execute their crew for their misdeeds, and give the cruellest of them to the Wingildi.” She also deepened her voice, and looked directly at the pale incredulous face of the eaonian ello sitting across the table. “If you still think I see myself as morally superior, you have not been as observant as you fancy yourself to be.”

Veanelen sliced the quail open, she surgically extracted a clean muscle fibre, and placed it in her mouth. She chewed slowly, using her silence to punctuate her statement. Adar was a marble statue with his hunter’s eyes fixed on her, the flickering light of the candles danced and made his irises shift between green and blue. He finally curved his lips up, he slowly stabbed his quail with a dagger, and chuckled.

“Were the Númenórean lords so unsavoury that they made me look unblemished in comparison?”

“I decided to remain in this alliance before the first sight of Elenna on the horizon, Adar.”

She hated the condescending smirk he used when he thought that he had cornered her in a discussion. But she saw him slightly soften his expression, and the smirk lost its mockery. He was still testing my honesty. Both leaders knew that, more than anything else, they owed earnest answers to each other.

“I spent most of our journey to port weighing the implications of joining forces with you and your fleet.” She hoped it sounded like she had been pondering strategic moves, instead of cursing the Valar for forcing her to choose, and the haunting images of Panēle and Adar. “Our discoveries in Rómmena helped confirm the importance of our joint mission.” She smiled. “We brought grain and flour, herbs and medicine, seeds to sow, tools and material for any repairs your ships might need.”

“Your Elven heart is immensely generous.” Adar chuckled again with an indignating crooked grin. “Perhaps we should have tried our luck with Eressëan vessels, they seem lucrative.”

“None of our goods are made by enslaved workers, aþaro.” She sipped from her water and gave him a big warm smile. “And all the Eressëan cirias are part of my armada, I would not advise you to take that risk.”

Veanelen saw her counterpart taking his knuckle under his chin and leaning to his right, the curve on his lips told her that he appreciated her sense of humour as much as he respected the strength of her threat. Ciriarāta knew that she would have to address the Uruk reaving and looting practices, and they would have to agree on a proper way to conduct their joint takeovers at sea. But she enjoyed having a conversation that felt normal to them. Both Elves finished their meal, and Veanelen asked Adar to show her the works in and around the settlement.

They were walking between the alleys of Adars' carefully reticulated camp. A common cooking area, a place for the carpenters and the smiths to work, a section for fixing sails and nets. Veanelen was curious about the state of his ships, so they walked up the northern shore to the sheltered beach where they had pulled two small cogs up and set them in wooden frames for key repairs. She inspected the damage, with the critical eye of someone who had faced similar adversities over the centuries, and offered support for the repairs. Adar thanked her earnestly and agreed to have her and Trumbe come back the following night.

“Adar…” The admiral took a deep breath. There is no way to sail around a storm, the Istari say that the only way out is through. “I owe you an apology.”

“You?” Adar turned to look at her and stopped walking.

“We are both warriors and, when we last spoke,” Veanelen gulped without hiding her discomfort. “I took out my pain on you for the loss of Panēle.”

Adar was cocking his head, incredulous. He thinks I am being insincere. She continued.

“I am sure that the moment you saw me in that cove, an Elf with a sword, you knew I have slain more of your children than I could ever count.” Her eyes sank and Veanelen bit the inside of her cheeks as she said that, still shook by her visions.

“That is what armed Elves do.” Adar said, as if he was stating that the Sun rises from the East. “You know that is why Elves first forged swords.”

“A part of me knew that you killed Panēle the moment I laid eyes on you, but I did not want to admit it to myself until you made it inevitable.” He was looking directly into her eyes, the shy moonlight made his irises seem moss green, seeking for an unspoken truth behind her words. “I should have never behaved in such a juvenile way: lashing out against you, for what you did following orders.”

“For what I did defying orders, Veanelen. You saw the dungeons. I tried to show your kinfolk the mercy that was never given to us.”

“You gave your opponents a clean and honourable death.” She looked at her ally’s face, her stare stopped at his deeply marked temple, then she searched for his gaze, his right eye shrank momentaneously. “I would never know the cost you paid for defying Sauron’s orders, but I do know that I am not the only one here who has lost someone they loved to the War of Wrath.”

“That is quite an understatement, my valiant vanguard fighter.”

“I was flooded by the great guilt and sorrow that I had buried in me for millennia. I should have never behaved the way I did.” She extended her right arm for him. “Please accept my apologies.”

When Adar grabbed her forearm, she felt his strength but knew he was controlling it. She grabbed his lower arm and applied enough pressure for him to feel her grasp through his perennial black chainmaille. He walked one step closer to her and a gentle breeze made two strands of raven hair fly and fall on his cheek, Adar met her gaze and slowly leaned his face forward.

The words escaped Veanelen’s lips like a loose arrow: “I am especially ashamed of hitting you and insulting you. I am deeply sorry, aþaro.”

“Yes, about that…” His tone turned afflicted again, her ally continued talking without letting go of her arm. “You called me something in Lindárin.”

“It was ill done, I should have never called you that.” Veanelen shook her head and took her free hand to the center of her chest. “I was so bereaved that I reverted to my native tongue. I do not see you as that, you never deserved to be called that. I regret it, Adar, and I take it back.”

“What was that word?.. ‘Ulgundo’, was it?” Adar’s expression hardened again, his stare piercing her, accusing her, and anchoring her to where she stood.

“That word was a mortifying mistake, aþaro. I should have never said that, no matter how hurt I felt at the moment.”

“I await your pleasure, Ciriarāta, although I will not take your refusal.”

“Please, do not make me translate.” Veanelen had not stopped shaking her head since he brought it up. “It is not true. I do not-”

“You are the one who set the precedent for our ‘no lies among allies’ rule.” Adar was still holding her below her elbow without hurting her, but she could not recover her arm. Then he whispered next to her ear: “Aþaro…” His voice cold and stinging. “We swore to be honest with each other.”

“It means…” She sighed, lowered her eyes before they filled with the tears that had not stopped invading since she allowed them a moment at dawn. Veanelen met Adar’s interrogating stare with a repentant expression. “I called you a ‘monster’. But I-”

Adar growled and threw her arm away from him. Making her jump back two steps. The ire seemed to soar from his shoulders to his tightening neck, his clenched jaw, his snaring lips, his deeply furrowed brow. His black opal eyes were wide open, glaring at her like she had just killed young Olcma in front of him. Veanelen heard familiar footsteps coming from the other side of the ship, they were coming from Adar’s side but she could not step forward. Adar was opening and closing his gauntleted hand, his right hand a marble fist, still looking at her like he wanted to tear her head off.

“Ciriarāta, you are needed for author-”

Adar grabbed Volarno by the neck as soon as he appeared next to them. He used his gauntleted hand to hold the ello’s windpipe. Swung the mariner off the ground, lifted him, and threw him down. The Admiral was petrified as her choleric ally pinned her brother in arms against the ground and kept pressing.

“Adar stop!” Veanelen warned him once.

The Morion had placed his knee on Volarno’s chest, while the unarmed First Officer gasped for air and tried to land disoriented punches. The Admiral took out her sword.

“Adar, let him go!” Veanelen ordered full-throatedly with her Wingil alto voice, as she made a cut on the Uruk leader’s right brow.

The resonance made Adar look up at her, and the hemorrhage blinded him enough for Volarno to free himself. Veanelen helped Volarno up and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of her sword. She took out her knife. The Falmari comrades stood shoulder by shoulder, ready to defend one another from the person who called her ‘ally’ mere minutes ago.

The Admiral observed Adar standing up slowly. Staring at his own hands. Then at the two Amanyar.

“This is what monsters do.” The Morion grazed his temple, looked at the black blood on his pale grey skin, then he raised his armoured hand pointing with his iron-covered finger at Veanelen’s blades. “Fortunately you came prepared for one.”

Adar turned away and disappeared behind the beached vessel. Veanelen and Volarno now stood alone on the northern coast of an island full of people she had just insulted. Two Elves isolated from their companions. On that clear night the only sound near them was made by Ulmo’s waters, witnessing his servant berating herself for returning to this cursed isle.

Chapter Text

250 Nautical leagues northwest of Andrast

05:00 52 Tuilë SA 3235

Eärendil found its place sailing across the vault, announcing the imminent dawn, while its titillating light illuminated the stark face of the Morion who was standing at the mouth of the cavern. It was natural for him to flee back to the cave that had sheltered his children from the wrath of Ossë. If he had shared those walls with friends or foes seemed impossible to discern this morning.

Adar was still covered in his own dry black blood, a testament of his corruption; but not one as shameful as his wild behaviour earlier that night.

He had spent the last hours reliving Veanelen’s face calling him a monster. Her officer Volarno fighting for air. Veanelen’s sword cutting his brow as her Wingil voice paralysed him. Mairon praising his physical prowess as his poisonous nails dug in his flesh. The ocean feigning Veanelen’s voice to tempt him into the deep shadows. The sound of his own pulse drumming in his temple as he held Volarno down. Veanelen cutting his wrist with her knife; but that was to help me. Morgoth’s overpowering will making Adar lust for blood in the battlefield. This violence in me still burns and still mars me. Veanelen holding her silver knife to ward from him.

As soon as he saw the morning star, Adar stepped out of the cave where the alliance was first proposed by the Elven Admiral. Maybe they have not yet fled from the monster. He climbed down the cliff he had once climbed up carrying a barely conscious Veanelen. He walked through the forest where she once hummed a jovial Falmari song on their way to petition Ulmo. By the time the first sun rays touched the ground, he could see the Amanyar crew delivering sealed barrels to sharkskin-cladded Shagram and Nuzû. But the new colourful pavilion was gone. “Stall them.” Sealord Father signed to Nuzû as he made his strides longer and faster. He saw the Elf healer turn their head, following the Uruk’s gaze, and their eyes darted against him full of poison.

Adar tried to say something when he got closer to the group of mariners, but he was not yet sure what. It was Veanelen’s voice the first sound to rise above that of the waves and the waking birds.

“As I mentioned during our last parley, Sealord Father.” His aþaro’s voice was steel. “We brought seeds and materials for your settlement. It makes no sense for us to keep this cargo, as it would only weigh on the Ciria Lanca and slow it down.”

“I do not wish for you nor your company to leave, Ciriarāta Veanelen.” His words came out with the same warm tone he used when she first told him her name.

“I was looking forward to celebrating your people’s first harvest on their island…” Her pupils fixed on his, but without acknowledging his words. “May you reap what you sow.”

Adar felt a punch in the throat. Shagram signed to him that they had already unloaded everything. They are ready to leave, there is no time. The Morion wanted to stop the wind to keep them ashore, it seemed more likely than changing their resolve.

“I can see that I lost my allies, but I do not wish to turn into each other as foes.” Adar spoke in Quenya and signed simultaneously, not knowing what else to do with his hands. “First officer Volarno, I should have never acted against you. You got unfortunately close to the curse planted on me before the first dawn.” He searched for Volarno’s face. “It has been yéns since the last time I lost control in this manner, and I am deeply sorry for the harm I caused you.”

“Adar…” Veanelen looked at him, bearing the same nervous expression she had before translating her insult. “You know an apology is not enough.”

Adar saw her jaw trembling and her eyes sinking as those words transported her ache. All he could do was keep stalling, filling up the wait with more words.

“I know that my transgression not only affected first officer Volarno, but the entire crew, and their Admiral.” Adar tried to sound humble, he needed them to see his repentance. “Before last night I could have claimed that most of what you heard of me were ancient slanders, told by those who fought against my captors.” He felt a shiver run through his entire body. “But last night I behaved like they always wanted me to act: as a mindless beast.” Sealord Father had not stopped looking at Veanelen’s face, he saw a spasm pulling her lips down and her fighting to keep them straight. He addressed the entire crew now. “I promise I would never take up arms against you or any Falmari vessel.”

Volarno grabbed the artificer’s hand, and he waited for an approving look from Nárëwen, the alchemist, before finding the spine to say:

“You better not, Sealord Father. Or we would burn your ship to the deepest trench, and everyone on this island.”

Nampat-sha ghâsh to you, sea snail. Adar knew that Volarno had been waiting since their introduction for the opportunity to tell him on his scarred face what he really thought of him, but Adar was certain that the Admiral cared for her comrades as much as he cared for his children. Had it been Ciriarāta who attacked Draddau, she would be tied under the sun with my captains dripping saltwater on her sailing leathers before dawn until the shrunken hides constricted her lungs. So he let the self righteous boatswain finish his little speech.

“But as long as you stay out of our way, I will never spare a thought for you ever again.” Volarno savoured those words, like he was getting rid of a thorn in his foot.

Veanelen pressed her eyes shut as she heard Volarno’s words and resentful tone. The decision is made, she is leaving forever. Adar had to talk to her one more time. Even if for one minute.

“I see, sailor. In time, you will see there are worse creatures than me making their way through Ulmo’s waters.” Adar said in his usual hoarse tone. “I, at least, am capable of admitting my wrongdoings: This is one of many. My apologies to all of you.” He turned to face their leader. “Could I have a last word in private with you,  Ciriarāta Veanelen?” Please.

Veanelen stiffed her upper lip and turned to look at Volarno, then back at Adar. She gulped as she started to shake her head, and Adar felt a pull to what was left of his heart.

“You should say your farewells, Ciriarāta.” A green-eyed elleth, the first archer, broke the tense silence.

“I think you are right, Vilverin.” Veanelen’s voice was barely louder than a whisper. She took a deep breath looking at the archer, then she spoke with her authoritative poise. “You and Trumbe wait for me here, everyone else should board and take your position. I will be back soon.”

“Aye, Ciriarāta.” A unison answer.

Veanelen walked parallel to the shore. She was wearing her hauberk, cuirass and the twin sword she used during their duel. Adar thought that none of those would impede her from swiftly swimming to her ship if she needed to, that must be why she stayed next to the water. Her armour and silver braids reflected the blue light of dawn. Her almond eyes were so wide open that all her questions were flooding out of them.

“I would never hurt you on purpose, Veanelen. Please, believe me.”

The Falmari exhaled with exasperation and closed her eyes, when she opened them again, they were red from holding back her tears.

“But you did, Adar.” She said with a low and trembling voice. “You used Volarno to show me what you wanted to do to me.” She was right. Adar could not deny that she was the one who unleashed an age of pain.

“I am deeply sorry for that. I have been holding down that rage for longer than the sun has been burning. I could have never imagined that it would be you to bring it up.”

“I told you: you did not want to know. I begged you not to make me say it.”

“I knew you were hurt when you first said it, you were so hurt that you used your mother tongue without thinking. That made it real: that is how you really saw me.”

“The pain was real… Is still real. Panēle’s loss will always be a part of me. Her death would always be a burden for our friendship, yet I never tried to answer in kind for what you did to her.” Veanelen’s voice was fluctuating up and down, as she took her hand to the hilt of her sword and forced herself to let it go. “I know what you did to the person who spent the lives of your Children like they were nothing, but I did not think of you as a killing beast.”

“Not until last night?”

She lowered her head. Then she looked up to the sky taking a deep breath, and exhaled loudly.

“Why? I know that you have overcome horrors that the darkest corners of my mind could never imagine. How come you stayed in control while we fought and cut each other, but a word put you in such… such-”

“Frenzy?”

“Is that what you call it?”

“What Mairon called it, when he fanned the flames of that fury.”

“Are you comparing me to Sauron?”

“No, never.” Adar was usually in control of any conversation, but this was like trying to hold fistfuls of water. Veanelen was slipping away from him. “Quite the opposite. You were the first Elf who has ever seen me as more than just Mairon's puppet. I am ready. Let me pay this blood debt.”

Once more, the Admiral took her sword hand to the hilt. She was grimacing when she met Adar’s eyes. Veanelen tensely stretched her fingers forcing herself to let the sword go, her breath and pulse were so fast Adar could hear her heart trying to escape her chest.

“Do it, Ciriarāta. I committed each and every ancient charge against me. Do it for my role in the First Battle, the Lammoth, the Dagor Aglareb, Dagor Bragollach, the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and Dor-Cúarthol.” Veanelen was trying to look away. “For the Falas and Círdan’s kin.” The Lindari faced him again with renewed indignation. Adar hesitated before the next confession and he felt his own voice trembling. “For every elleth I held down as they begged for the release of death. For every Uruk I gave to Mairon. Deliver justice for Panēle… Not for vengeance, Veanelen, for love.”

Adar could see that the mariner had stopped breathing, but she had not stopped weighing his words. She slowly removed the small knife lodged in her silky braids and showed Adar how she freed the luminous silver from the precious pearl sheath. Thank you for the opportunity to back down. By your honourable hand, It is a noble death. Adar nodded.

In one swift movement Veanelen was holding the back of his neck with one hand and, with the other, pressing the sharp edge of her blade where his jaw met the base of his spiked ear. Adar locked eyes with the avenging warrior offering his throat, he took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the smell of sea salt and black honey. The sound of the waves would be his send off, as they welcomed him in his Awakening.

“Even if I wasted your life here, Panēle is never coming back to me.” Veanelen let go of Adar’s neck and stepped aside. She exhaled loudly through her mouth as she knelt on the wet sand with her braids falling on her face, looking more Wingil than Elf surrounded by sea mist, and she touched the foam left by an ebbing wave. Adar struggled to find his footing. The Admiral rose again, facing him as both of them worked to recover their breath. “I came back because I tried to put myself in your place. I am not innocent. My hands are far from clean. I am sure I ended the last of your brethren. Although I could see the dungeons they were forced to defend… That you were forced to fight for.” Veanelen widened her tear-laden eyes and confronted him with them. “But I cannot comprehend last night.”

“Only you could hurt me deeply enough for me to lash out in that way. Because I have never seen an Elf the way I see you.”

“I feel the same.” Those words made Adar's heart skip a beat. “I have never had a friend either.” Veanelen explained herself: “You went from being a thrall of Morgoth to the chieftain of the Uruk, to their Sealord Father. My grandsire taught me that lieges have no friends, we have subjects. You have never had a friend because you have no peers: you rule over generations of your own mortal descendants.”

“When I see you, I wish I was your peer. I admire your strength, your valour and your wit.” Adar started listing his reasons for being her ally. “You are dedicated to your people, and you care about my Children.” He knew he had to be more honest than he had ever been. “I have never valued anything the way I value our budding friendship and how you see me.”

Veanelen stood silent. Her almond eyes met his and their golden flecks danced as the rising sun shone on her bronze visage. Her black brows arched with more questions than before. Her lower lip quivered, but she stilled it. Her alto voice came out with a deep resonance.

“Does that mean that getting close to you is putting myself inside your fire’s range?”

“No. No. No, I have not done that to anyone since the dawn of this Age. I will make sure that it never happens again.”

“Adar.” The Elf said his name with a tense vibration on her voice. “You and I do not lie to each other. We should not make promises we cannot keep.”

“I am being truthful, I will not act violently again.”

“That is not the impossible promise I mean.”

Adar was hit by the unspoken words: she could not promise to see him ever again.

“I believe you, because I have seen some of the cruelty you survived.” She grabbed his left forearm just above his gauntlet, he held her lower arm. “But I cannot ask my comrades to fight side by side with you, to maybe die with someone who threatened them. They would desert the fleet.”

The wind blew and made her black and blueish silver braids fly, like the first time he saw her in the haunted cove. This time, instead of seizing each other, they were engraving their faces into their memories.

“I am sorry, Veanelen.” Each word carried a pain dragged for an Age.

“Me too.”

The Admiral moved closer to him without letting go of his arm. She slowly placed a soft kiss on his right cheek, warmer than the sunbeam shining on his pale grey skin. And, before walking back to the vessel that will carry her away forever, Veanelen said her last word to him:

“Namárië.”

Chapter Text

310 Nautical leagues west of Mithlond
12:00 54 Tuilë SA 3235

Veanelen stepped away from the wheel of the Ciria Lanca, smiling at Pentro as the navigator took over for his shift steering. As soon as the jovial ello started singing, other voices on deck joined him for a harmonious remembrance of hearth and home. It was noon on their second day travelling west, and Veanelen estimated they were half way between Adar’s settlement and Númenor, but this time the last wind of spring was behind their ship, their sails were full. Ulmo wants us to move fast! He approves the course. Finally towards Tol Eressea, Veanelen owed that much to her comrades.

Veanelen remained on deck for a quick inspection, making sure everyone at their post was doing well. When she approached Vilverin and Trumbe, she heard the ella humming, instead of joining with the lyrics. It gave her some relief not being the only one who was not thrilled at the notion of spending some time on the Lonely Island. Then she went below deck, where the voice following her was that of Uinen calling for mercy into her ears as Veanelen held her Valinorian silver knife against Adar’s throat. The admiral needed solitude more than she needed drinking water, she hungered for alone time in her cabin without everybody studying her every word or expression.

“… But if their fëar were reaching, there’s nothing she could have done about it.”

Veanelen heard Nárëwen’s voice and made her steps heavier to announce her presence. No ship is big enough for secrets, all the murmurs and every conversation on deck and below for the past two days had been on the same topic.

“Ciriarāta! You are done at the wheel! I will get you a washing basin.”

That was not part of Nestamā’s responsibilities as an artificer, but they were clearly shying away from being caught gossiping with Nárëwen, Belda and Teleplū.

“I am glad to find the four of you together.” Veanelen said for their benefit. “We are in an area of the Gaiar where plunderer attacks are common, we must be ready to retaliate to any possible attack.” Then she directed her instructions to Nárëwen: “That includes having some naphta oil ready with the resin and safely stored next to the longbows.” The Admiral turned to Teleplū. “And enough arrows to fend from attackers.”

“Aye, Ciriarāta!” The officers answered together.

“I will organise additional watch and defence.” Belda was being respectful, but the blond ello had been looking at her with the same unbearable pity since Volarno and her came back to their pavilion after her failed parley with the Sealord Father.

“Thank you, Belda. Everyone should be ready to fight at any time. Until we are west of Elenna.”

Veanelen did not wait for a reply, she went inside her cabin. She logged the coordinates that she had triangulated in her charts on the deck, and the admiral picked up one of the scrolls she had forgotten returning to Adar: it was an accounting of Atani and Peredhil bodies as inventory. The tone was as sickening as the topic. They are talking about the living Children of Ilúvatar like cargo. At least she could use that evidence to persuade her council into a larger scale mission against slavers. 

Nestamā walked in with the water basin, they were visibly blushed after being overheard speculating about some sentimentality hidden by their liege. Venelen asked about Volarno’s neck. The injury was completely healed. The door opened suddenly.

“Ciriarāta, you want to see this!”

Teleplū had his long bow ready on his onyx arm, and his olive eyes were screaming an alarm. The ello led the way, followed by Veanelen and Nestamā. Vilverin, Trumbe and Nárëwen were already on the upper deck, and Teleplū pointed southwestward.

Veanelen focused in that direction, and got distracted by Vilverin humming near Nestamā. The Admiral adjusted her keen Elven sight, and perceived a tall ship some hours away in their route. It looked Númenórean but that could also mean pirates on a stolen ship or worse.

“Get ready for boarding!” Veanelen spoke in a voice that everyone would hear. “It is still too soon to tell if we will be dealing with friends or foes!”

An hour later they were close enough to see the Númenórean vessel. It was missing its main sail and they displayed a distress flag. Veanelen had noticed that the wooden structure looked solid and in good shape, she closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the breeze and clearing her mind. Can I still trust my gut and judgment? The whispering in the Ciria Lanca has been of a mostly forgiving nature towards her, but she did not like the implications.

“It could easily be an ambush, especially after our last time in Elenna.” She addressed the armoured Elves surrounding her. “We will approach and board offering aid, as it is our Ulmo-given mission, but be ready to respond to sudden aggression. Archers, alert.”

The Ciria Lanca paralleled the tall ship and closed its boarding hook on it. Veanelen stood on the high deck and said in Quenya:

“I am the Admiral of the Eressëan Fleet, we are answering your call of distress.” She repeated the introduction in Adûnaic. “Permission to come aboard!”

“Granted, Admiral.” Answered in Adûnaic a man with brown hair, bright green eyes and a patrician face. “I am captain Dôlguzagar and I am grateful to our fair Eldar friends for coming to help us.”

Vanelen nodded to her mariners, a gesture they all knew meant to keep the former instructions. The vanguard stepped on Dôlguzagar's deck, led by Veanelen. The archers and Nárëwen remained in the Ciria Lanca.

“What happened to your sails, Captain?”

“They were damaged by a recent storm.” The words brought nearly 50 crew members to the main deck.

Veanelen raised two fingers of the left hand behind her back and crossed her sword hand near her belt. The vanguard and the entire company were alert.

“Odd to have your sails entirely destroyed and no damage to the structure.” Veanelen was standing next to the main mast. “Are there any leftover canvases we can help you repair?”

“I do not think so, Admiral. There only seems to be one way you can help us…” He smirked. “Keeping your pointy ears out of our business.”

Dôlguzagar unsheathed his sword and telegraphed a long swing for Veanelen’s neck. She bent over backwards and took her sword out in one swift movement. She blocked his second strike, aiming for her under arm. She kicked him in the chest to put some distance between them. Her archers were already raining the deck with arrows as deadly as flying aspids. The vanguard was holding back the Númenórean attack.

Dôlguzagar ran forward with his sword above his head, pointing to the space above her cuirass. She blocked him easily and threw him back one step. She swung back at him and landed a strong blow under his jaw. She continued the movement as a slice. His face was close enough for her to see him drowning in his own blood. He fell.

“Your Captain went down! Surrender and we will not retaliate against the rest of you!”

“The captain’s worth nothing, sweetheart.” A large man with a broad frame said in a mocking tone. “Your head is worth a man’s weight in silver.”

He launched against her with a spear. Veanelen pivoted on her feet and jumped to the side, like dancing with a bull. His spear lodged in the mast. He took out a long curved knife, trying to tackle her. She dodged the new attack and slashed his chest, an incapacitating wound. She twirled and pierced the abdomen of the man trying to attack her from the back.

At least 20 men were dead on deck. Arrows and steel blades on skilled Elven hands had proven lethal to the ambushing crew. A small man ran below deck. Veanelen threw a short knife, it landed in the femoral of a man sprinting towards Belda. The ello pulled out the knife, and kicked the man down the board.

Veanelen saw a tall man gliding from the watch basket atop the mast, carrying a butcher’s knife. She threw at him some rope that was carelessly lying around to help him speed up his descent, then buried her sword on his chest. She heard a stampede below the wooden boards under her feet.

“Block the gate to the below decks!”

Belda and Volarno ran towards the gate. The longbows used by Vilverin and Trumbe eliminated three men giving them chase on deck. A multitude erupted on the main deck. The Elven company was now fighting just the new wave of opponents, some of them as tall and as fast as them. Some still wore the shackles to which they were chained mere minutes ago. Veanelen saw some leaf-shaped ears. Peredhil!

“We do not mean to hurt you!” She conciliated in Sindarin.

None of them answered. It was like she had never spoken. Veanelen tried again with Quenya. No result. This double-natured must have been begotten and held outside of Elven realms. Her company saw the shackles and stopped killing, they were giving them temporarily incapacitating injuries. Once more, she tried to convey her message in Adûnaic, to no avail.

The large horde was overwhelming in number, and each of them were better fighters than the treacherous merchant crew. They must have been enslaved for fighting pits or for mercenary groups. The losses had been devastating for the Númenórean vessel, yet the imprisoned Peredhil were still resisting. It was clear that they had been lied to about the Elven mariners.

The Falmari were in a half moon formation, stopping wave after wave of Peredhil fighters. Volarno shouted: “They will heal!” And the warning served almost like an incantation. The first two Peredhil that Belda wounded, jumped at Veanelen. She broke the collarbone of one of them, then kicked the other one to the ground, and cut the tendon behind her ankle.

The archers launched a new cloud of arrows, leaving unguarded fighters on the ground. Pentro acted without orders, piercing the lungs of every fallen Númenórean and some badly injured Peredhil. A merciful gesture and a protection against untiring warriors. After every step Pentro took, a silver arrow landed behind him; Teleplū was guarding his husband’s back from the deck of their Ciria.

No longer were there any Númenórean sailors on deck. They were either hiding below or painting the deck with crimson.

The fight slowed down, but Veanelen felt a guilty suspense after every incapacitated Peredhel fell. Vilverin was already working her whispers with some of the more seriously injured. The admiral had ordered the archers to come and help keep the injured from rising, so Trumbe and Teleplū were tying some of them to the mast.

The sun was setting now, lending a gold and orange tint to Ulmo’s waters. The Númenórean ambush was swiftly suffocated, but their enslaved hostages had been fighting for six hours. The fast healing Peredhil were feral, and Veanelen's company was now fighting defence.

Taller waves were now rocking both ships and the crew remaining on the Ciria Lanca had unhooked the Swan from the tall ship. Ossë was helping: his indignation had sent many Double Natured fighters overboard.

A rogue wave rocked the Númenórean tall ship, then steadied it. A new vessel was now hooked to the wooden structure: the deck was shielded with indigo canvas, covering its crew, but at the handrail the admiral saw hooded figures under scaly membranes brandishing black iron knives waiting for a signal to board. Another dirty captain vying for my head, we will not make it easy for you. Then Veanelen heard the commander's voice:

“Noav avouch avhe elveuk!”

The order was in Black Speech: ‘Do not touch the Elves!’ and Veanelen turned to see Adar commanding in the Silent Tongue: “Kill every Atani.” How! Their eyes found each other, she signed “double-natured”, then she thought she saw a tremor in his jaw.

The fighters closer to the board screamed “Gorgûn!” A teenage fighter jumped on Veanelen’s back, she projected him to the deck and broke both forearms. Then both ankles of a young woman.

Veanelen looked for Volarno, she saw him next to the starboard, swarmed by six tall Peredhil. She made her way towards him, but was interrupted by twins fighting together. She jumped to avoid their short swords, bent, cut their swings, kicked one of them, breaking a collarbone, and cut the wrist tendon of the other.

Veanelen looked up and saw Adar slicing the throat of one Peredhel who was trying to stab Volarno. She ran towards them. She saw Adar kick a double-natured fighter on the mouth. He took another one by the throat and lifted him over his head, making sure that his opponent had a full look of his frightening stare, then he threw him to the deck. Adar pulled a third opponent from Volarno, who had just slashed the abdomen and torso of two warriors. Veanelen saw the two black-haired ellos nod at each other and continue fighting.

The Uruk were using nets to stop the Peredhil from fighting. Some of the enslaved opponents were jumping overboard at the sight of the infamous Ghost Elf and his lethal warriors. For a second, the battle was quieter and Veanelen finally understood ‘Gorgûn’, the only word they had spoken, the only clue to their origin.

“Stop!” Veanelen cried in Drúadan, the language they used to warn each other about the Uruk. “We friends! You free!”

Most of the fighting had stopped and the Part-Drúedain were looking at her. Veanelen’s eyes circled around her, taking note of every movement, and she saw Adar smirking as he dragged four Peredhil inside a net. He was staring at her, so she signed: “Your Drúadan better? You speak.” Adar pressed his lips like was about to burst laughing, the admiral saw a sparkle in his eye and he threw a knife in her direction. Veanelen crouched and nimbly stood back up to see the last Númenórean on deck, still holding up his curved knife as he fell, with the shard of Adar’s sword lodged in his throat. Veanelen retrieved the blade and mouthed: “Thank you”. She tackled down a young woman about to jump on Pentro and used the handle of Adar’s dagger to knock her out.

“We are not here to hurt you!” Adar spoke in Drúadan “We are here to offer you a choice: we take you back to the coast so you can make your way to what may be left of your home, or you can join a crew of Half-Elves like you. And stop the suffering of all enslaved peoples.”

Almost all Peredhil were injured and those still healthy were looking at the tall black-clad figure who spoke to them in the language of their dark forest. Veanelen was impressed with Adar’s language skills. Mostly, she was impressed that he was there. Was he tailing us? She felt blood rushing to her ears at the possible explanations her company must have for that entrance. Swords were lowered, no able-bodied Peredhil were fighting anymore. Everyone on deck was staring at Adar. Adar was staring at her.

The Ciria Lanca had re-aligned itself with the tall ship and used the boarding hook. Veanelen ordered her company to retreat. Then turned to face Adar, even though he was on the other side of the deck.

“All the ambushing Atani are dead, Sealord Father.” She said in Quenya. “Thank you for your help. These freed slaves are under your protection now. Do you want an artificer to see them?”

Veanelen searched for Nestamā and saw them next to Volarno, he was helping them board the mannish vessel. Vilverin was next to the first officer, her humming was louder now, and she had her left hand on Volarno’s back.

“Those seem to be the kind of considerations that allies have with each other, Ciriarāta.”

Veanelen turned to Nárëwen, the alchemist was nodding her approval. Volarno was studying the situation, and gestured for her to go. Veanelen cleaned her sword and put it away. She walked towards Adar, slowly at first; then he grinned, and she felt a gust of wind pushing her to walk faster. When the Admiral could see the Morion’s granite face close to her, she grabbed him by the back of his head, intertwining her fingers with his raven hair. Veanelen pulled Adar closer and placed his forehead on hers. They both closed their eyes for a moment. When she looked directly into the shallow pools of his irises, her heart skipped a beat. He was holding the back of her neck with his ungloved hand, and the two of them were smiling.

Veanelen felt the words leaving her mouth like a river surrendering its waters to the sea: “Estel mi ambar. Aþaro oryande i earello!”

Chapter Text

315 Nautical leagues west of Mithlond

19:00 54 Tuilë SA 3235

When Adar opened his eyes again, Veanelen was still pressing her forehead against his. The sun was setting behind her fair bronze face, she smiled and spoke of fate on ally rising from the sea. Is she reestablishing the alliance, or just thanking me for helping her stop this fight? Adar released his hold on the back of Veanelen’s neck, and felt how she ran her fingers through his tangled hair before letting go of him.

“You are covered in blood.” Adar said after a conscious breath searching for her salty scent to make sure she was unharmed, he saw shame in her almond eyes and he regretted holding her for so long.

“We tried not to spend any Double-Natured prisoners, but it was a long fight.”

That is what she is ashamed of! Adar nodded, suddenly feeling her burden. How am I going to explain to Thanghat that we took up arms together against her kind? He remembered this was not Veanelen’s first time having to unwillingly fight off whom she was trying to liberate. At least this fight did not cost her as dearly as in the dungeons of Angband. Sealord Father now shared the weight of her conscience for that irreparable loss.

Adar knew that regardless of how glad she was to see him when the battle stopped, he would be asked for an explanation for his presence there: I was not tailing the Ciria Lanca, I was hunting for loot; I was searching for provisions and we sailed West to avoid the mainland, the wind threw us here! This is all very reasonable... Yet he felt that he had not been exclusively driven by the immediate needs of the settlement.

The Elves were already repositioning joints, mending bones, stitching and binding all forms of injuries. The Falmari sang as they worked and the recently freed passengers seemed to enjoy it. They needed to act swiftly: These Peredhil are under my protection now. And they needed to be thorough: What does this mean from now on? The Admiral was the first one to address both needs.

“Take control of this ship, we will help with healing and we will be on our way.” Veanelen’s words emptied Adar’s lungs like a blow with a war hammer. She looked him in the eye, as serious as during their first parley. “We will talk once everyone has been cared for and in their new position.” Adar realised then he had been holding her forearm since she first got close to him to thank him.

He let her go and moved towards the Half-Elves still tied to the main mast.

The most pressing matter was organising the new recruits and those who choose to be ferried to port. Adar was the only person who could speak more than some broken words of Drúadan, so he gave instructions that everyone could understand. Sealord Father repeated the offer he made earlier to every formerly enslaved Peredhel on board: join a crew of their own kind in his fleet, or be taken to the nearest coast of the mainland to find their way to whatever home they had. At the end, all surviving Half-Elves joined the fleet. Apt swords to defend the new settlement… And more mouths to feed.

Sealord Father had his quartermaster inspecting the vessel and see if they would be able to pilot, then went to the captain’s cabin for the records. As Adar walked in, he was surprised to find the Elven admiral going through letters and other communications under a lantern. Veanelen was so focused on the log that she had not noticed how she was chewing her own lip, and she ignored him until he spoke.

“I gather you are ready to exchange information, since you are going through the property of a vessel under my protection." Adar used an intimidating tone. "My loot.”

“If you think I am leaving this tall ship without evidence of who is paying, you are more naive than the captain lying on what used to be his deck.”

Adar suppressed a charmed smile. She still had not looked up from the pile of scrolls, her multiple thin braids were lifted at the back of her head, instead of silver strands, they were red; she had barely wiped the blood off her face and hands after the prolonged battle. Her mind was exclusively dedicated to the task.

“You are not wondering who paid for transporting the Peredhil to the fighting pits you discovered, are you?”

“I am looking for who offered a prize for my head.” She answered while shifting scrolls on the desk.

“First time, Princess?”

This taunt made her finally look up, straight into the smirk she heard in his voice. Her black brows were knit together, and the lantern lit the golden flecks of her mahogany eyes. The mariner rolled her shoulders and straightened her back on the other side of the desk before speaking with an aristocratic poise.

“Shall I explain to you the implications of ordering the death of the admiral of the Falmari fleet? Or, as you use the title in jest, King Olwë’s closest kin?” Veanelen said unamused.

“Ciriarāta” Adar feigned incredulity. “Are you waging war in anger? Like a deckhand recruit who does not know their Rúmil?”

“On the contrary, Sealord Father.” Veanelen was meeting his stare to get her point across. “I am searching for evidence that this is the conspicuous act of that corrupt cheesemonger seeking to save his shedding skin, and not the Númenórean crown.”

It was news to Adar that the Merchants’ Guild had offered a bounty for Veanelen’s life, yet unsurprising. Only they would be as simple minded as to think that wealth was enough to defeat her at sea. Adar cocked his head and observed the elleth as she returned to her labour, she was elbow deep in the ship's records.

“We will make them rue the day.” Adar placed both hands on the desk and extended his chest along it. His hoarse voice was a call to arms, full of defiance and bloodlust. “King, soldier, or tradesman.”

Veanelen stopped. Raised her fay face to meet his, with a grin similar to his, as ready as he was to spill the blood of those who trade with lives. She suddenly looked like she remembered something and changed to a more serious demeanour. She sat on the captain's chair, and summoned all the patience an immortal can garner.

“Adar, what are you doing here?”

“You know I always take the logs and records of every vessel.” Adar dodged her accusation.

“Let me rephrase that.” She covered her irritation with a cold tone and colder words. “How come are you in this exact spot of the Alatairë?”

“My fastest ship departed westward three hours after yours.”

“Why?” Her brows arched and her lips were pressed together and her neck was tense.

For provisions. For loot. For battle action. For you. Adar felt again the warm peck she gave on his cheek as she said farewell. For you! Why do you keep this farcical pretense of ignorance? He finally answered: “Because I felt an imperative need to return to the sea. It had been weeks without being in high waters.”

“I can relate to that...” The admiral sympathised, studying his face. “But Sea Yearning is not enough to explain why you were tailing us.” She widened her eyes and the golden flecks shone over the dark almonds. “No lies among allies.”

“I can only tell you what I believe to be true.” Adar felt the rasp on his voice eating its volume away.

“Have you spent your time en route working on a way to, as Rúmil would say, attempting to find a rational explanation to justify your ‘belief’?”

Adar stepped back, hoping that she would be more uncomfortable with his stare than he was with her invasive question. He wanted to retreat to the shadows and appear grim. Her interrogation made him feel translucent. Her gaze was as revealing as Mairon’s mind games. But this time the Morion did not want any falsehoods between him and the sea-nymph sitting in front of him.

“Since we are true to each other.” Veanelen broke the silence without taking her eyes off of him. “I should admit that the answer you concocted will not make a difference now. I need a strong ally at sea who shares how much I despise the slave trade with me. I could reach Tol Eressëa sinking from a distance any vessel that I mistrust. But my fleet does not do that, it is a matter of principle. Yet, given the circumstances, no ciria should sail alone.”

“My presence here should be recognised as good tidings, not interrogated.” Adar said in an offended tone. “I will sail as a consort of the Ciria Lanca, if that is indeed what you are asking.” Let her ask for whatever favour she needs from me.

Veanelen frowned as she took a deep breath and her eyes flickered as she inspected Adar’s expression again. She was obviously evaluating her choices and their consequences. Without looking down, her left hand opened a scroll: in it was a picture of her swan ship, next to a belittling portrait exaggerating her voluptuousness. The admiral pretended not to notice the offensive drawing and instead read the Adûnaic inscription.

“It has the bottom feeder’s signature and stamp!” Veanelen shook the paper with disgust.

“We will burn him in his docks!” Adar said with hunger, leaning again on the desk.

The admiral met his eyes and her face softened. Adar knew she would never condone acts of wanton violence, not even to set an example, but Veanelen seemed warmed up by the solidarity in his immediate reaction. She did not object when I said ‘we’. Adar heard her pulse rise at the prospect, then Veanelen recovered control of her breath and of her obligations as a leader.

“It might take the rest of this age for my company to forgive your hostile behaviour against my First Officer, Sealord Father, but my comrades are ready to be practical about you.”

“I do not wish us to be ‘practical’, Veanelen.” Adar reached across the desk and grabbed her blood-stained forearm with his right hand, no gauntlet, he wanted to feel her pulse. “Back in the cave, after I mistakenly accused you of conjuring the storm, you offered me friendship.”

“And I remain true to my word.” She regaled him with a wide and honest smile. “Nevertheless, I must be cautious. And I must look after my siblings.”

“I can help you defend them from mercenaries.” Adar saw doubt in her face. “And I am not a danger to you nor your officers. I swear it." Adar tried to softly pull her forward. “Do not go to Tol Eressëa, please, you know I cannot follow you there.” Adar did his best not to sound like he was begging. “You will know exactly who your allies are. Sail your ciria next to my ship. I will take you immediately to meet my most trusted captain.”

The Falmari leader gripped the Morion’s lower arm with more strength, and he felt her pressing through his chain maille. Her bright dimpled smile widened even more, with the unspoken promise that no sea could ever sunder them.

“Mark the route, aþaro. I will start preparations so we can set out before Elenna sends reinforcements.” The Admiral then squeezed his forearm and dropped her voice to a lower register: “We sail as consorts.”

When the Elf finally took back her hand, the Uruk growled softly; and when a still smiling Veanelen left the cabin, Adar exhaled deeply.

Chapter Text

315 Nautical leagues west of Mithlond

10:00 1 lairë SA 3235

Adar was alone opening and closing his gauntleted hand under the promising erlairë sunlight and letting the salty breeze dampen his hair. He had been alone for the last hour, inspecting the deck of the Númenórean vessel that held the newly sworn in Peredhil fighters. None of them had ever served on a boat, they were not of much use to navigate. It had been Veanelen who took control over arranging the sails that its original crew had removed to bait her. The Elven Admiral famously assists vessels struggling at sea. They tried using her kind heart against her and, instead of capturing a distressed maiden, they unleashed the fierce warrior who swore to rid the Alatairë of wicked actors. Adar knew that if he had first met her at sea and not surrounded by mothers and infant Uruk, the taste of their steel would be the only memory the survivor carried of the other. Sealord Father was as grateful with Ulmo for that introduction as he was with the Falmari crew for their support in the exposed ropes at a time when his Uruk sailors could easily burn. 

“We have an Eastbound course, Sealord Father!” Adar turned and saw Veanelen wearing a big smile, and walking his way with her first officer and the healer. His aþaro was putting her navy blue linen tunic back on. During the manoeuvres she had removed it, and laboured with her sky-blue silk chemise tucked in her leather trousers. “Nestamā just tended to the injured recruits, almost all of them are fully recovered.”

“Thank you, Artificer, were they more cooperative this time?” Adar asked with genuine curiosity. There is so much to learn about this group of Drúedain Half-Elves.

“They recognised me immediately.” The Elven healer kept their distance around Adar, they kept sizing him and weighing his actions every time Adar talked to them.

“You have been of great help to all of them, and I owe you a debt of honour for that.” Adar spoke humbly and made an effort to sound friendly.

“Nonsense, Sealord Father. I am merely following the vows of my order and my liege’s orders.” Nestamā kept the cold distance most Elves keep even with people they trust, but they sounded receptive to Adar’s words.

“I hope your Drúadan is better than Ciriarāta’s.” Adar controlled his smirk when he heard Veanelen’s hushed scoff. “I can interpret for you at any moment.” But his friendly jest did not earn him any sympathy with the protective Falmari officers.

“So far, Vilverin has helped us bridge part of the language. If I ever need your assistance, I will ask my Admiral to make a formal request.” They politely declined Adar’s offer. How can so much resentment fit into such a tiny Elf? Nestamā nodded, then looked at Veanelen looking for their dismissal.

“You may join our siblings in the ciria, Nestamā. I will keep Volarno for a little bit and then send him your way.”

“Ciriarāta. Sealord Father.” They walked away to their position, as Volarno kept his hazel eyes fixed on them with a silly enamoured smile.

“You certainly noticed that we have three vessels and only two crews.” Veanelen said looking at Adar trying not to sound too serious when stating the obvious. The Uruk leader had helped earlier with setting the sails, but he had gone elsewhere after Veanelen had accidentally bumped into him when tensing a rope. “And this cargo ship is quite large and demands numerous hands to pilot.” Of course the Merchant Guild can afford to operate these ships, they are not paying for labour. “And you are irritatingly right, aþaro.” Her words opened the door for Adar’s infuriating smirk. “My Drúadan is deplorable. That means you are needed here.”

“I will arrange for Draddau to take control over the Kartart-Burguul.” Adar immediately accepting her suggestion felt unusually easy. “In full honesty, I have more experience sinking a ship like this cog than safely tugging one across the Alatairë.”

“Even if you were an expert, this one will not operate with only half your crew and it will never shift smoothly. I can stay in here with one of my navigators and some of my strongest and more dexterous mariners, we could teach your recruits to operate their new home.” Veanelen thought that Adar’s eyes glimmered when she offered her knowledge. “First officer Volarno will be acting captain of the Ciria Lanca.” She turned to face her trusted right hand. “Who would you suggest come with me?, Pentro or Teleplū?”

“I suggest you keep Pentro near you, Ciriarāta, not only is he a precise navigator, he is deadly in close combat.” Volarno was still concerned about her safety near the Uruk; the Admiral could not blame him, but Adar had just publicly displayed his strong  commitment to the alliance. “Teleplū will work better in the Ciria Lanca and, if necessary, he can take up his archer post.”

Adar made an effort to ignore the black-haired ello’s barely veiled threat. Instead he focused on Veanelen’s face as she gave her first officer a disapproving look, and sent him to his post. The overprotective boatswain shifted to Lindárin to say something about the navigator and other things for his commander, and finally took his leave.

The sea-nymph turned to Adar smiling, and the sunrays made her beguiling visage glow like rose gold. “This merchant ship is ready to move at your signal, Sealord Father.”

“My signal?” Adar tilted his head incredulously.

“Aye. Falmari do not take over vessels made by other peoples, in memory of those who defended Alqualondë. It is considered a cursed act.” Her smile crooked down with the historic grief and personal loss evoked by her explanation, and Adar understood Veanelen was not judging the Uruk nation for inducting this ship to their fleet. “I would say that you assisted in ending the fight, but who really took this cog were the emancipated double-natured fighters.”

“That is a very strong argument, aþaro. But for practical purposes, they all pledged to join my fleet…”

“Therefore, we sail at your signal.” She clearly found it amusing to lead him to her same conclusion, for her dimpled smile widened again, and a sudden wind blew her black and bluish silver braids.

“Until we reach the captain who will take them in, I will need a temporary captain who understands how to work a massive cog like this one. Someone who knows the Alatairë better than anyone, and commands respect.” Adar looked her in the eye. She normally does not allow flattery, but she is accepting my praise. “Would you captain a ship in my fleet until we reach our destination?”

“Join your fleet, Adar?” Her tone was more playful than ever. The sea truly makes her more joyful. “I suppose I am in debt with you for your help breaking the fight, and for escorting my ciria. Do you want me to swear allegiance? Shall I bow?” She performed a curtsey with the effortless grace that only comes from practice, and a sardonic smirk that Adar could not tell if it was mocking him or satirising court protocol. “Shall I kneel?, place my head at your feet?”

“Not even in jest.” Adar was so serious that his voice came out harsher than he planned, for the mental picture created with her words was unspeakably distasteful. He saw Veanelen open her eyes widely, waiting for an explanation. “We cast off our shackles, we built a nation where leadership is built through trust. My children have no master, and no Uruk will ever bow.” He lowered his head and did his best to sound welcoming. “Not even a guest Uruk.”

The Falmari extended her left arm with an open palm. “I am honoured to accept your invitation, Sealord Father.” She said warmly. “I will pilot this vessel, deliver it safely to its destination and, with your help, I can start teaching its occupants some basic skills.”

Adar took his ally’s forearm, and she immediately reciprocated the gesture. The naval shake prolonged more than usual, and when the Morion got closer to slowly place his forehead on the Admiral’s, she leaned in still smiling. As they were sharing this symbol of peace between their peoples, Adar felt a warm spot on his cheek, where Veanelen had placed a sad kiss before sailing away from him. That was out of pity, for she could not accept my apology. Adar took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the saltpen smell of her hair. He lifted his head. Her eyes were still closed and she had not let go of his arm.

“Welcome to the Uruk fleet, Ciriarāta Veanelen.” Adar kept holding her. “I am looking forward to serving as your interpreter.”

“That is really kind of you, aþaro.” The mariner Elf said without losing her grip on him. “But this is not a leisurely trip where we can only pass orders. This heavy hull will not sail easily. We must organise the shifts, of course Uruk sailors will take the lómë. We need all hands, I may even need you in the ropes. Lose the heavy armour, and be ready in case we need to shift sails.”

“We sail at your signal, Ciriarāta.” Adar placed his gauntlet on her shoulder. “I must talk to Draddau, and arrange who is coming with me for this operation.”

Adar stepped away and moved towards the Kartart-Burguul, when he nearly reached the handrail, he turned around to see the acting captain of this new ship. The Elves are being practical. She was standing where he left her, looking in his direction. When she noticed him looking at her, she saluted with her palm near her brow.

Veanelen had just finished reviewing the orientation of the sails, when she saw Pentro, Belda and Trumbe approaching. Volarno did send the strongest fighters. Then sighed with relief at the sight of Vilverin. This is as much of a diplomatic mission as it is a hauling operation, I need her here. Her company boarded together, singing a playful ode to high tide, she hoped that their good disposition would not ebb.

“Ciriarāta, we just heard talk about you swearing allegiance to the Sealord Father. Is this true?” Vilverin asked, sounding cheerier than what Veanelen would expect.

“You know that this cog is part of his fleet now. Our aþaro asked me to accept a temporary captainship to secure the chain of command. This way his sailors will uphold my orders.”

“Are we supposed to listen to the Sealord Father’s orders?” Belda did not hide his unwillingness to accept any commander other than his admiral.

“I am in charge of this vessel. If he relays any instructions, he would be doing it at my behest.” Veanelen lowered her tone an octave but kept her usual volume.

The Falmari mariners walked below deck, and set their personal effects in one of the crew cabins, the space was also occupied by the double-natured fighters turned sailing apprentices. Veanelen announced that they would be sharing the quarters. The room had been washed after the fight and made inhabitable for the Elven mariners and the freed Drúedain; there were enough hammocks for all of them.

“Are you sleeping here instead of in the captain’s cabin, Ciriarāta?” Pentro sounded offended. “If someone is going to take it, it should be you. It is the appropriate chain of command.”

Veanelen smiled warmly, moved by the way her siblings defended her against perceived injustice. “I prefer sharing this space with you, hannacë.” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “We had the captain’s bed moved to the infirmary, because I would rather keep the main cabin as a workspace.” How could I even lay on a bed paid for with bloody silver? “There we can consult the logs, ledgers and charts. We are looking for the travels of the man growing his wealth by trading with the forgotten Children of Ilúvatar.” She used a more serious tone to make her point. “The same man who sponsored the ambush against our ciria.”

“Does that mean that the Sealord Father will stay with us in this chamber?” Vilverin’s voice had a vibration new to Veanelen. The Admiral felt compelled to explain what she had meant to keep for herself.

“No, our aþaro and his Uruk will stay in the second crew cabin.” Veanelen felt heat rising to her ears, like an adolescent girl getting berated for behaving inappropriately at court. “We are both making sure that our companies know we are with you when we are resting.” She hoped that her comrades would appreciate her honesty.

“You do not need to change your behaviour to please us, Ciriarāta. We all know you are always looking after us.” Belda said with a cavernous voice, then he added with a thunderous laughter. “It is our duty and honour to protect our liege.”

Veanelen hugged the blonde ello and he pressed her so strongly that she struggled to breathe.

“We have a cog to move across the Gaiar, and a group of apprentices who do not speak any language of the Ellálië or the Hildor other than Drúadan. Vilverin, can you help us attune?”

“I am already working on it. Sharing the sleeping space will make it more fluid.” The friendliest archer in Arda kept that vibrato.

“Thank you, officers. All hands on deck, save for Pentro.” Veanelen clarified. “You will be the helmsman, but this vessel is too big for the tiller to be by the sternpost.” She handed him a compass. “I will be in the castle, I will send you steering directions from the opening.”

Pentro and Belda had worked with such mechanisms on a few occasions, but they were clearly unsettled by doing that with an unseasoned company and Uruk pirates. “I would be away from you…and easily cornered.”

Veanelen turned to Vilverin. The green-eyed ella was gouging the risk for her people. 

“I do not perceive any ill intent on board.” She placed a rosy hand on Veanelen’s coppery one. “You should move like you own this ship, because you are the one who knows how to operate it. You are needed, so are we.”

Pentro nodded. Golden Belda briefly placed his head on the pale blond Pentro’s and softly squeezed Vilverin’s shoulder. Belda showed the hilt of his short sword to Veanelen and his bright sky-blue eyes searched hers for a purpose.

“You shall guard Pentro and keep him sane inside the steering room.”

315 Nautical leagues west of Mithlond

12:00 1 lairë SA 3235

The Elves had taken their positions and Veanelen climbed to the cog’s castle. Arien in zenith shone brightly and lent her light to Ulmo’s indigo waters. Ciriarāta locked eyes with acting captain Volarno, his olive face expressed how vigilant he was of any movement in the Drúedain ship from the Ciria Lanca. She tried to find someone on the Kartart-Burguul but the canvas protection was covering the main deck and the castle.

Instead she found Adar’s attentive stare. Ready to replicate her signal from a spot in her new deck from which Draddau could see him. The admiral lifted her left fist. Adar signed for Draddau. Volarno repeated her gesture. The three vessels lifted anchors and let their squared canvases fill with Manwë’s breath.

“Full sail!” She spoke in Lindárin to let Pentro know that he should start steering. The cog started moving slowly and Veanelen used two flags: the left one she held by her hip, the right one lifted straight, aligned with her shoulder. Volarno understood that they would not reach four knots. The mariner called for a change of sails in the Lanca. Adar informed Draddau, but the Uruk ship needed not to slow down.

Volarno moved forward for a spear formation, the Ciria Lanca broke the waves for the two slower vessels. Veanelen signalled that they had reached a stable speed. Draddau signed off and closed the canvas to protect his sailors. From the distance, she could see Volarno lifted a white and blue flag, with a denture on the blue half. They are testing their speed to stay together.

Veanelen heard voices coming from the steering room. First Belda sounding protective, then Pentro speaking in Quenya. The third voice she immediately recognised as Adar’s raspy baritone. Her ally went through the chart again with her pilot. She heard him leave. Immediately Pentro and Belda started singing in Lindárin about a giant turtle posing as an island:

«Come, leave the sea! Let us run,
or dance, or lie down in the sun!
See, gulls are sitting there!
Beware!
Gulls do not sink…»

Veanelen lost interest in the warnings against Fastitocalon, as soon as she saw Adar pacing in the main deck. The Sealord Father seemed aimless at the beginning, then he turned to the prow and moved with intention, taking long slow strides. He stood facing the mid-morning sun and lifted his pale face, eyes peacefully closed, soaking the light.

The Elf observed the Morion with his hands placed on the board, he had heeded her instructions and lost the battle skirt, maille and breastplate that seemed to be as much a part of Adar as his midnight-black hair or his deep voice. The only piece of armour was the spiked gauntlet. It must be protecting a damage more severe than any visible scars. Veanelen shivered subtly.

«There are many monsters in the Sea,
but none so perilous as HE,
old horny Fastoticalon,
whose mighty kindred all have gone…»

The Admiral checked with Pentro that they were on the right route. The light breeze was blowing west to east.

“Too easy, Ciriarāta. I will fix the tiller until we have a change of wind.”

“Aþaro?” A gentle alto voice joined the sunlight blissfully caressing Adar’s face. He turned around and, just as warm, there were the golden flecks in Veanelen's mahogany eyes. “The wind is pushing us on our intended course.” 

“I am relieved to hear that.” Adar was confused as to why she was giving him a report.

“The conditions are very favourable for a lesson.” Adar noticed that she had not stopped smiling since she took her place overlooking the main deck. “Please, get two volunteers and join me with them by the main mast.” As she spoke she was plaiting her multiple braids into one. “We are setting the sail for better speed.”

“Aye-aye, Captain!” He saw the elleth tilting her head and her smile crooked with surprise. “Aye, Ciriarāta?” She remained immobile, but surely seemed more comfortable with her usual title. Adar had yet to try another term. “Immediately... Meldë?”

The Morion studied Veanelen as her endearing smile widened, bringing out her dimples, then she looked over her shoulders to both sides. Finally, barely above a whisper, she answered: “That sounds good, mālo.”

Adar nodded to suppress a smile, and followed the order given by his friend. He walked to the lower levels and reached the Peredhil in the crew cabin. Sealord Father asked the group who was interested in learning to move sails. A pair of twins with thick black hair and bright red eyes raised their hands. This group of feral Half-Elves were shorter than Thanghat’s crew, Adar remembered the Elves of Beleriand had mocked the appearance of the Drúedain. They dared calling them “unlovely”. It seems that a ‘lovely appearance’ is no longer a concern for some Elves. Adar looked up to where Veanelen was waiting for them by the mast, surrounded by a mist of light, and her smile shone brighter when she looked at them, he led the twins to their tutor.

“These are Ghân and Ghûin.” He observed as Veanelen looked at them and repeated their names with a friendly smile and the soft eyes of an experienced teacher. Both twins nodded. She placed a palm on her chest over her blue leather surcoat, and said her name. Adar translated her intent. And the two Peredhil repeated her name. She seemed pleased.

“Are you comfortable interpreting?” The Elf asked him, then turned to the new apprentices, and slightly mispronounced the Drúadan word for “teach” pointing at herself.

“Please allow me to assist you.” Adar bowed ironically at Ciriarāta. “Before you unwittingly start a mutiny.” Then he spoke to Ghân and Ghûin: “I will say in your language what she says in hers.” They nodded.

“Please forgive me for not speaking your tongue, I have never been to the White Mountains. My kind cannot go far from the sea.” Adar translated her apology and wondered if she meant the Falmari Elves. The Sindar of Doriath had no problem living inland. “Apologies if this is difficult to answer…” She hesitated, the same way she did before asking him about his Children. “Is this the first ship you are on?”

“It is, they had never seen ‘the poisonous water’ before being forced onto this ship.” Veanelen gave Adar a pained look biting the inside of her cheeks. She regretted asking that. She turned again to speak looking at the twins.

“Then you are the bravest among your folk. I am grateful to you two for learning to sail.”

“They do not want to return to where they came from.”

“Then we will make sure that you find a safe home in the sea.” Veanelen smiled warmly at them, excited for sharing her love for the ocean with someone new.

The expert mariner explained the use of the main square rigged sail, to move downwind. She showed them the location of the Sun, and they immediately understood that they were travelling Eastward. With enough hand signals and Adar’s translation, they understood that they were going to lower the sail to gain speed. Upon Ciriarāta’s command, the reefing lines were released and the two bracings were pulled. Slowly the canvas above their heads unfolded, fell down, and was filled with wind.

The cog immediately felt different, a soft but long swell made the ship go gently. The twins locked their red incredulous eyes.

“You made it go faster, sailors.” Adar was very careful to convey that she was recognising them as members of the crew. Their short stature and their capacity to wonder was unlike any Peredhel in Thanghat’s crew; among the Uruk, only their youngest and some exceptions, like Pohop and Oldash, had that openness for awe.

“Can we see from up there, Captain?” Ghûin was pointing at the crow's nest. Veanelen nodded and led the way. She taught them how to secure a rope to their waist. The Admiral repeated the knot and slowed down to make sure they passed the free end around the standing end and then back through the small loop.

Veanelen first tried Ghûin’s knot and complimented her when it did not run, then she tested Ghân’s and encouraged him to try again. She jokingly pulled the rope around the dark Elf’s waist, and let out the most condescending tone in her Elven repertoire: “Well done, Sealord Father.” Adar focused on suppressing an unchivalrous comeback about testing the strength of his knots. 

The Morion turned when he heard a slap landing on Ghân’s face. He had not listened to what got the twins fighting, but they were now punching each other.

“Stop, now!”

They were not listening to him anymore. Veanelen caught Ghûin. And Adar took Ghân away from her. Ghûin took her palms together and placed them on her forehead looking directly at the Admiral and bowing. She was clearly apologising, the Elf placed her hands on both shoulders and let her go. The girl turned to see her brother, calmer. Adar could not see his face. But he saw her seconds before she leapt and pushed the young man.

The sound of water breaking was immediately followed by Veanelen’s voice screaming “Belda!” As she ran and jumped overboard, throwing towards Adar the end of the rope she had previously tied around her. The Morion caught the lifeline and was immediately met by the tall golden-haired ello who was previously guarding the helmsman.

“Man down! She dove!” Adar had no time to explain.

The Falmari officer ran to the board. “She has him but he is fighting her!”

Adar saw Veanelen kicking with her legs together as she used both arms to keep the Peredhel afloat. The Wingil was fighting against the row waves, keeping the speed to reach the ship. Belda and Adar pulled the rope together. They tugged with all their strength as they fought the force of the current. The Peredhel girl came out of her shock and helped. The rope was putting more resistance than before, they were now raising both bodies parallel to the hull. First he saw the black hair of the Half-Elf, whose torso was halfway up the handrail. Then he heard Veanelen pushing him up.

Adar sank to gain control of the weight he was pulling up, as Belda ran to catch the boy and laid him on the deck. Then he extended his arm, and pulled the Admiral all the way up.

Veanelen jumped on deck. One more leap and she swiftly knelt next to the young boy, placing her ear over his nose and trying to observe any movement in his chest. The elleth swiftly made the pearl knife appear from her hair, and cut open the clothes of the periled youngster. Adar observed her covering his nostrils with her fingertips, and covering his mouth with hers to share her breath with the inert youth.

Adar knelt close to them, by his head. After five insufflations, the three Elves perceived a subtle change, and they helped him roll to his side. The first-time sailor expelled the sea from his lungs and coughed. Veanelen turned to look at the Sealord Father with obvious concern.

Ghûin apologised to her twin, crying. She begged Veanelen and Adar for forgiveness.

“How old are you, child?” Veanelen asked, cupping Ghûin’s cheek unexpectedly tender.

Adar heard the girl speak but he could not relay the answer. He understood. He knew what to say, but he could not.

“Sealord Father?” Veanelen’s brows were so arched they almost met her hairline, her voice was colder than the wind in Thangorodrim.

“Eleven.”

“Officer Belda, please help our VERY young guests get to their cabin.”

“Ghûin, show the blond elf where he can lay your brother down.” Adar said to dismiss the girl.

Belda removed his tunic, revealing a chiseled torso and left the garment as an offering next to his commander, then he effortlessly lifted Ghân, who looked miniscule next to his Elven carrier. Veanelen turned her back towards Adar and, facing the sea, she changed her sark for the dry tunic. It was so long that she removed her leather braies and kept her modesty. When she faced him again. She looked him in the eye.

“I encountered these Peredhil and, when I did not know what to do with them, you offered them a home. For that I am grateful. I know I asked your permission to train them. But when I asked you to select two volunteers, I was naive enough to think that you would grant them the same grace you offer Uruk children and make sure they were old enough.”

Adar knew Vanelen was right. And she had every reason to be mad, she was the one who jumped to save the boy. “Apologies, Ciriarāta. I should have known. I should have asked. I misinterpreted their age, because I saw them as adult Drúedain.”

Veanelen was glaring at him, he tried meeting her gaze, then she looked up and sighed. “You utter hammerhead!” 

“I beg your pardon, aþaro?” Adar was more confused by the innocuous expression than the fact that she was trying to insult him.

“For all the patronising comments you make at my expense for my limited knowledge of the peoples of inland Endórë, you just let your own prejudice endanger a member of your fleet. One under my protection.”

“I assure you, it will not happen again.” Adar said the phrase as someone forced to eat the contents of a chamber pot and pretend to like it.

“No, it will not.” Her alto voice struck him where he stood. “Because when you are on a vessel under my command, you will be a dutiful minister. You will not bring anyone under five and ten to work the sails. You will not undermine my authority in front of any sailor nor passenger. And you will keep that petulant tone to yourself. Understood?”

She kept her arms crossed and Adar felt struck by a rogue wave. She did not have to put on an angry frown. Everything about her commanded respect.

“Understood.” Adar lowered his head and stared at his own feet. “How can I make myself useful, Ciriarāta?” He heard her scoff; no, sigh. He looked up to meet her resolved expression.

“We must understand these new recruits. Nestamā healed them. Vilverin tells me they are glad of their change of circumstance. But we did not know they were children. We must go now and learn more about them.”

“I will follow your lead, aþaro. I am sorry about the confusion.”

She closed her eyes, and she said with a low voice full of as much exasperation as relief: “Apology accepted, aþaro.”

Adar released the breath he had no knowledge he had been holding. “Thank you, meldë.”

“Do not press your luck.” She sounded like a wave breaking against a cliff. But a twisted smirk reduced the severity of her furrowed brow. “Follow me… Mālo.”

Veanelen started walking towards the shared cabin. She was still fuming with Adar for not letting her know there were children aboard. She also had to know if Vilverin had picked-up on that, or if this was news to her as well.

“How did you learn the language of the Drúedain?” She asked her ally, who was still looking ashamed at his omission.

“By spying on them and by capturing the few Elves who traded with them. When the first Atani crossed the Eastern mountains, we were sent on patrols to observe them before Morgoth decided what to do about them. This group was smaller and they stayed in the mountains because the Eldar and the Edain hunted them.”

“That is horrible!” Veanelen knew that some Síndar did not treat other races kindly in the Elder days, but that seemed too cruel even for the worst of them.

“I thought to bring them in to our side, seeing that they had that in common with my Children.” Veanelen did not need him to elaborate, she knew Adar saw the Elves’ treatment of Uruk as unprovoked. “They feared us on sight, and sided with the Edain against Morgoth.”

“Were you ordered to capture them as you had to capture Elves and other Atani?” Veanelen saw Adar's jaw tremble very subtly.

“No, Mairon did not want their offspring.” Adar paused. “We did not pursue their camps. We had more pressing foes at our doorstep.”

Veanelen hummed in understanding. Yet you learned. She was impressed by Adar's hunger for knowledge about every race in Hendor, his ability for languages, and that made her angrier at his latest disregard for the people under their command.

“You kept encountering them on the battlefield often?”

“In smaller numbers every time. I thought they were extinct.” Veanelen smirked and Adar scoffed. She knew that he was seeing in himself the shortcomings for which he judged her relentlessly.

“I am glad you learned their language. It will help them become more involved members of the Uruk nation. And you avoided a carnage”. The reveal of the eleven year old twins made Veanelen wonder how young were the prisoners they had to fight before Adar broke the fight. The mere suggestion broke her heart and made her disgust for the slavers even stronger.

The Admiral saw the Sealord Father nodding at her compliment but studying her expression. She forced herself to unclench her jaw and relax her face, she did not want to make the double-natured apprentices more scared of her. They already were cautious around her after the ambush.

Adar asked all the Peredhil to gather in the common cabin where Ghân was resting. Vilverin stood next to Veanelen and held her hand. Veanelen could sense that most of their audience was fearful.

“We must be kind to them, Adar, they are threatened by us.” Her ally nodded and asked everyone to sit where they felt more comfortable.

As they obeyed, Veanelen ordered Belda to take her place in the forecastle and inform Pentro of the situation. The golden warrior glanced at Adar, then looked at Veanelen and Vilverin, he left immediately without even looking for a new tunic. Veanelen took a deep breath, she was getting tired of her company second guessing her orders if the Sealord Father was any closer than a maritime league from them. It is not my siblings who angered me. She reminded herself.

Ciriarāta realised that she was still holding Vilverin’s rosy hand, probably tighter than what her archer wanted. She pulled her fellow ella with her when she stepped forward to stand next to Adar. 

“We have not introduced ourselves properly.” The Falmari commander spoke to the room but she was not trying to smile, she knew she could never conceal when she was concerned for others. “Call me ‘Veanelen’.” She repeated her name, placing her palm on her chest.

Adar translated and said his name, then pointed at Vilverin for her to do the same. Veanelen thanked them both.

“I am in charge of sailing this ship and delivering you safely to your new captain.” She waited to see the reaction to Adar’s translation. “I know we did not start as friends. But that was a lie from your captors. I hope that everyone who we hurt is healing well.” She looked directly at a man wearing a sling because she broke his collarbone. “I am terribly sorry for that damage and we will take care of you.”

Veanelen observed the crowd as Adar conveyed her words. Some were nodding, one grinned and displayed a bandaged forearm. Another one of my dealing. They showed their scabs and stitches to each other, even a sewn cut in the back of an ankle, all looked full of pride. The tension started to relax. She felt Adar’s stare after she sighed with relief from their reaction.

“Ghân will be well. His sweet sister offered him too much water.” Adar chuckled before repeating her words. Their listeners laughed and her smile returned with no effort. “We did not know these two were only eleven. Is anyone here that age or younger?”

Five of them raised their hands. Veanelen nodded. “Is anyone five and ten or younger?” Three more showed their hands. “Please, come sit here next to Vilverin.” The children seemed comfortable joining the brown-haired ella with a peaceful smile. “Are any of you the carers for any of these children?” Only a woman moved forward. Veanelen noticed she bore the first subtle marks that mortals get around their eyes.

Vilverin nodded in a reassuring manner, allowing Veanelen to say: “We will take care of you.” 

“I am not sure how to start, but we want to get to know you. To better understand your needs.” Veanelen perceived from the corner of her eye how Adar was not only interpreting in Drúadan, he was also signing. She wondered if it was second nature to him or if he was making an effort to introduce them to the Silent Tongue of their new nation.

“Perhaps they can say their names.” Vilverin suggested. And they spent several minutes getting their pronunciation corrected by the people introducing themselves. We should have done this before lifting sails, we were too impatient. Veanelen had asked to move from their location as fast as possible after the ambush. I was too impatient. She pressured Nestamā to tend their wounds fast enough and Adar to ready both crews; she needed to be on their way before anyone came looking for the Númenórean crew. Ciriarāta knew she could fight them off, even without the Uruk, but she did not want to, especially if the Sea Guard remained unaware of the overseas activities of their countrymen.

“Should I inquire about their homes?” The admiral searched for Vilverin’s perspective and got an affirmative answer.

“They come from the White Mountains.” Adar translated their words although he knew the Falmari had a notion of where the Drúedain live. “They travel between different campsites, they choose natural shelters on the sides of the mountains and stay there for a season. When they see their carved rocks, they know they reached a safe space.”

“Their winter site is in the northern end of the mountain chain, their summer camps are in different places further north.” Adar’s voice was also more relaxed. “They spread seeds in their campsites, but they do not have the tiller farmland of the Edain. They know of it because they traded with the Edain.”

“Did they see them often? Who went to whom for the exchanges?” Veanelen was intrigued, Adar looked like he also wanted to know.

“Their people would camp near the Hildor villages for a few days while some of their leaders swapped goods and crafts.”

Adar hesitated before continuing. “Sometimes their youth would also go into the villages. One or two of them become pregnant during those visits, and the Drúedain consider it lucky especially if they met an Elf. Children begotten that way are called ‘the rock from the stars’ and they are encouraged to marry among themselves. Their latest chieftain was one of them.”

Adar stopped. He turned to see Veanelen with vitriol in his eyes. “Last summer, the Eldar staying with the Edain went to their camp, rounded up everyone with leaf-shaped ears, Elves killed their chieftain and chased them away, too far south for them to see the mountains.”

Veanelen’s face immediately fell off with shame. It was disgusting enough that they were hunted down an Age ago, that they kept doing that was sickening. 

“I am painfully sorry that my kind did that to you. I wish you never learned how vicious the Elves can be. We are here to give you a new home. The sea welcomes the suffering.”

Adar’s glare had relaxed; he still seemed furious about the story, but not with her. That would be ridiculous. “When they were astray near the coast, they were ambushed by the tallest men they had ever seen.” Númenóreans. “They fell into traps in the forest. Most of them were immobilised by nets. The survivors of the attack ended up chained, and dragged to this stinking ship.” Veanelen was sure Adar added some flourishing.

Adar stopped translating her and addressed them with a voice full of righteous rage. His speech was as incendiary as his hatred for the Elves. Veanelen saw him pointing at her, she saw him making the sign for ‘current’, then he pointed at Ghân who was now sitting up with a toothy grin. Vilverin took Veanelen’s hand again, and the Admiral  felt how her nervousness changed to excitement for battles to come. At that moment, an unknown voice announced to her that the Peredhil would cross fire if Adar jumped through it with them.

She turned to see Vilverin. “They are his people now.” Veanelen commented with her friend. The whisperer concurred: “They would die for him… And for you, Ciriarāta.”

Different voices started saying the same word, first in discord. Then in unison.

“Atanatar.”

“Atanatar!”

“Atanatar!”

Adar turned to look at Veanelen with the disarming smile she had not seen him wield since they first celebrated their alliance inside that distant cave. “Apparently, you are now ‘their guardian from the water’ and I am a ‘father of men’ now, aþaro. What do you think?”

“They found a fierce protector.” Veanelen heard herself answering her friend. Ciriarāta felt extremely exposed in front of Vilverin. “I must find our path through Ulmo’s waters, Father of Men.” The admiral left the common cabin at chase speed. Behind her, the chanting followed inescapable.

“Atanatar!”

“Atanatar!”

“Atanatar!” 

Chapter Text

50 Nautical leagues west of Edhellond

17:00 8 lairë SA 3235

It took Veanelen much longer to adapt to the covered ship that Adar and the Uruk sailed than she wanted to admit. She was used to an open deck with sweeping views in every direction and the warm sun on her skin. But the Uruk had to work under shade, avoiding the sun that burned them when they stepped too far out from under the stretched canvas and wooden canopies that had been built to protect them.

There was, of course, a system in place to constantly keep watch of approaching belligerents from each corner of the ship, as well as operating the ship’s sails and rudder despite the cover. She understood now why Adar had seemed sun starved. The time they shared on the Drúedain vessel was mostly above deck and sometimes she would catch him leaning his head back, eyes closed, facing the sun as Arien raced across the sky. But on this ship, one had to seek out the few places where there was light and warmth. When Adar translated the ship’s name, 'Kartart-Burguul', the Blue Shadow, Veanelen said it was the most appropriately named vessel in all her thousands of years at sea.

The admiral found such a rare, light filled space behind the foremast where Sealord Father was in conference with quartermaster Draddau, who was being shielded by both his cloak and the shadow of the mast. The Uruk’s cloak, crudely tailored from a captured Númenórean sail, was a banner of defiance. A single, mutilated segment of the yellow sun emblem was visible upon his shoulder, a sight that struck Veanelen with a wave of sharp and conflicting loyalty.

“Ciriarāta, the cargo ship that captains Thaghat and Sauggath have taken is just ahead. We will be upon them in the next half hour or so. I doubt they need our assistance, but this is a very large ship and unfortunately, the cargo is also rather large. We will board them soon, however this is captain Thanghat’s capture and she will be in command.”

“Fucking She-Elf.” Draddau spat. Veanelen and Adar both turned to look at the quartermaster. The Uruk glanced at the Falmari admiral and shrugged an apology.

“Forgive me, I mean that fucking She-Elf captain Thanghat.”

“How about you stop using that slur all together and you will not have to worry about who you offend by saying it, quartermaster.” Suggested Adar.

“Aye, Sealord Father.” Draddau grumbled.

“Sealord Father, what island is that? I do not recognise it. Did your captains run the cargo ship aground?” Veanelen nodded towards the shape of an island in the distance, and her eyes were able to pick up two ships off the coast but she could see no cargo vessel. Adar and the Uruk laughed, then Draddau handed her his spyglass.

“That is no island, Ciriarāta. Look closer. “ Veanelen put the glass to her eye, having rarely used one, she found them dirty and the surface often scratched leaving anything she hoped to see blurry. But this spyglass was wrapped with rolled leather and clearly a great deal of care had been given to it. Of course, only Adar and her could see great distances while the Uruk crew depended on tools like the spyglass. She stared for a moment, not sure if she was seeing what she thought she was looking at.

“Is that…is that the cargo ship?” Veanelen asked incredulously.

“It is the Tirondor, one of the largest built in all of Arda, admiral Veanelen. If what we learned about it is true, then it is apart of a former fleet of cargo ships the same size. All financed by one of the wealthiest Númenóreans on their golden Star island.”

“Impossible! The Númenóreans do not have the ability to build such a vessel. That ship would not even make it out of the shipworks in Rómenna.” Veanelen argued.

“It was not built in Númenor, but it was built by Númenóreans. I will show you when we get on board. Quartermaster, catch this wind and see if you can get us there quicker. I would rather we have this business done before the sun sets.” The quartermaster saluted and turned to take his leave. The patched, broken sun on his cloak a final, glaring punctuation to Veanelen’s discomfort. He left, and a sudden quiet fell over the space, leaving Adar and her alone to wordlessly watch the approaching ships together.

The silence should have been tense. They were an Elf from a royal line and the father of the Uruk, two commanders on opposite sides of a war that had shaped the world. It was a silence heavy with unspoken history, and the potential for a future hope for not just their people. Yet, as the sounds of the ship faded into a gentle creaking and the whisper of the sea, Veanelen was struck by a contrary and unsettling truth and that was she felt no fear or unease. The pervasive tension was there, a thrum in the space between them, but it was not the kind that made her wish to flee. Instead, she found a strange, profound comfort in his presence. It was a quiet understanding, a shared solitude that asked for no explanation. In this dim, stolen light, the labels of ‘Sealord’ and ‘Ciriarāta’ felt distant and unimportant.

“So now I will get to meet your mysterious accomplice. She is rather clever but Draddau does not seem to like her very much.”

Adar smiled slightly and turned to face Veanelen. “He likes Thanghat just fine. He respects her and most of their conflict is just good natured Uruk rivalry. He does not care for her…mannerism and nature though.”

“Her double nature?”

“Yes, that and she…captain Thanghat has a way of doing things that most Uruk find unsettling.”

“But you consider her Uruk too?”

“I do, and she is. Over the centuries we have had several who were not privileged enough to be born Uruk join us. I consider captain Thanghat the embodiment of the Uruk spirit. She is determined, loyal, dedicated to her people and she is one of the deadliest warriors in all Arda.”

“That is a rather impressive biography for one so young. You mentioned she was barely a quarter of a century in years.”

“Half-Elves, the ‘Double Natured’ as you call them, do not have as long a lifespan as we do. They think and act as the Atani, but with the strength and stamina of Elves. This is why they are so prized amongst the slavers as fighters and…for other uses.” Adar shook his head and Veanelen did not press him for an explanation.

“I am still getting used to the idea of there being so many Double Natured. I had heard the rumors, but it was so taboo to even suggest it.”

“Their taboo nature is why they are so easily exploited. They cannot live among the humans, who distrust anything elvish and the entire Elven race denies they exist. But in the gladiator pits and brothels of Umbar, women like captain Thanghat are prized above all. That is one of the reasons why she takes the subject of enslavement personally.”

Veanelen nodded and thought about her friend Elrond the herald of King Gil-Galad. So wise and good natured, but the few times she had seen him sparring against other Elves he was easily able to best even seasoned soldiers. Veanelen had heard others commenting about how he seemed to fight more passionately than his Elven opponents; and if this Thaghat was nearly as skilled as Adar suggested, then the admiral could see how effective the Peredhel pirate captain was in Sealord Father’s war against his enemies.

“Then there will be no end to the Double Natured living in constant danger, as long as they are never acknowledged by either race who begot them.”

“The Valar even refuse to acknowledge the Peredhil, I am not sure what you expect from the Elves or Atani. If the Uruk are cursed, they at least know their place in this world. It would seem only Ulmo has shown a small measure of mercy towards those cast upon his waters. A very small measure.” Veanelen could see the muscle in Adar’s jaw clenching and she knew he was working himself towards anger.

“Then the Double Natured were very fortunate the day Ulmo saw them placed in your path. You have patriated them among the Uruk and they belong to a nation. Because of you, they thrive.”

Adar’s jaw unclenched and she could see his shoulders slightly relaxed. “I would not call the Half-Elves ‘fortunate’ if I were you, Ciriarāta. Certainly not to their faces. But I get your meaning.”

“I did not mean that as dismissive of their circumstances. Certainly not of their status in this world.” Veanelen felt Adar’s hand brush against hers and then his fingers, for a moment, paused and rested on her own.

“I am being too sensitive. You said nothing wrong. I just feel defensive when it comes to her- to them. Which is ridiculous of me considering how more than capable they all are when it comes to killing and fighting. As you well know, they have their Peredhil gifts, like herald Elrond’s.

“Gifts?”

“You are aware that Elrond inherited much from his foremother, Melian.” Adar began.

“Yes, ‘talents’ is what we call them. It is like being born able to jump higher than most, but if you do not train or develop what you were born with, then it does not have its full potential. Elrond has foresight and can always tell when one is being dishonest or hiding something.”

“That is why I call them ‘gifts’ instead. They did not get to study or discipline their natural born abilities so the gifts can appear random or even chaotic at times.”

“What kind of gifts are you speaking of? Are the other Peredhil able to tell when one is lying to them? Or do they have foresight?”

“A few can, yes. Some can heal with their songs, others can figure out how to make something just by observing it, like Usquiel and her needle craft. One of the young girls is by far the most skilled warrior with a blade and the Uruk call her Sceli the Shark’s Teeth. Then there is Thaghat…” Adar paused, as if trying to find the right words to describe the captain’s gift.

“She can sense emotions and see the memories of others, especially if they are afraid, tormented, or otherwise distraught. I do not know how to explain it better, but she was once able to see me in Angband. Thaghat uses her gift to get past language barriers, and there are many different tongues out in this part of the Sundering Sea, as you well know. She has used this gift to flush out enemies or manipulate merchants when she is trading our loot. It does come at a high cost though.” Adar said the last sentence dourly and mostly to himself.  

Veanelen looked at him with shock. Of course, Elves had such talents, gifts, and entire disciplines of study were devoted to teaching those that were born with the magic of the Valar to hone their abilities. But out here? 

“They all have these gifts you say?” 

“Yes, it would appear that way. The gifts vary in strength from one individual to the next. One young man, Rómion, can speak to frogs. He can tell them to be quiet or to leave, but that is all he can do. It is enjoyable to see him do it sometimes, but besides an amusing trick it is not very helpful.”

“But if he had been raised among the Elves, I imagine he would be able to communicate with all sorts of creatures and with nature.”

“Yes, but he was not. He was stolen as a small child from a village that was already hidden from the world and grew up on a pirate ship,” Adar said waspishly. Veanelen sighed, it would seem that speaking frankly about the Thanghat’s crew was not an option with Sealord Father.

“Again, I am not seeking to offend you or them. I am only seeking to understand. The Peredhil are under your protection, and I am afraid that is the best outcome for them. Not because you lack what they need, but there is only so much you can give them. Their gifts are uncut jewels in a velvet bag handed to an infant. However, Elvish snobbery and bigotry have cast that infant out to survive on its own in the wilderness. It is wrong and shameful.” 

Adar’s back was turned to her so Veanelen could not see his expression, but she sensed he was attempting to reign in his quickness to anger.

“I suppose you will have to see the Peredhil for yourself, for I am doing them no justice. Here, we have almost arrived. Can you hear them?”

Veanelen thought the sound she had been hearing was her own heartbeat from listening to Adar speaking of the Double Natured pirates. But it was drumming. Loud, continuous drumming accompanied by singing. They were still too far to hear the lyrics, but there was no doubt the drums she had heard before. War drums of the Uruk. This was much different from the cheerful, lively beats from the celebration in the cave. The last time she had heard their terrible rhythm was at Angband. There they shook the ground under her feet. Here the sound raced across the water and danced under her skin. Then a single, clear word chased the drums that were being sung…Nampat.

The rope ladder swayed precariously as admiral Veanelen climbed, holding on the blood-slick rungs, with Adar watching over her ascent. When she reached the rail, the full nightmare of the ship’s deck unfolded before her.

Chaos reigned.

Veanelen was hit with the metallic stench of blood and the acrid bite of smoke from small fires that had broken out during the battle. Screams, some enraged, others clashed broken against the rhythmic chanting of Uruk and Peredhel voices, their song in Black Speech was a guttural hymn of vengeance. Around them, the sellsword crew writhed like a nest of scorpions, some fighting, others fleeing, but all trapped.

A Half-Elven girl darted past, a whirlwind of red braids and lethal grace, her twin blades carving arcs of crimson through the fray. Adar’s hand shot out, snagging one of her braids with a sharp tug. She spun, wild-eyed, then recognition flashed across her freckled face.

“Sealord Father!”

“Sceli!” Adar said back with just as much cheer, causing Veanelen to give him a double take in surprise at the joy in his usually dour voice.

The girl, who, if not for the battle vest, raider outfit, and two Elven short swords with blood dripping from their blades, had the benign appearance of farm a ella or shepherd maiden. Veanelen noticed Adar and the girl spoke Quenya and signed in the Uruk manner. She lifted her arms to embrace Adar but then the Dark Elf put his hand out and caught her shoulder to prevent her from touching him.

“None of that is yours, I hope.” His voice was low, edged with warning. Veanelen had thought the girl was wearing red dyed leather armour, but no. She was splashed from boots to neck in blood and bits of gore, some of it even reaching her dimpled cheek. What was it Adar said the Uruk warriors called her? The Shark’s Teeth?

She grinned, white teeth flashing. “It never is!” Behind her, two hulking Uruk herded shackled slavers toward the deck, their prisoners stumbling over the bodies of their own. Adar pressed a quick kiss to the one clean spot on Sceli’s cheek before she vanished back into the fray.

Veanelen’s hand hovered over her sword. “Should I be ready?”

Adar’s grip on his broadsword tightened, though he kept it lowered. “No one will touch you. But until the captain grants you leave, keep your steel sheathed. Though I have no doubt you could gut them barehanded, admiral. I would just hate to see those artfully arranged braids ruined by mercenary filth.” His smirk was faint, infuriating. She glared, but before she could retort, they rounded the bulkhead and the true scale of the ship yawned before them.

The deck was a monstrous expanse and built for hauling misery. Four gaping hold hatches yawned like open graves, their iron grates wrenched aside to reveal the abyss below. A skeletal crane loomed overhead, its chains still swaying from the violence of the raid. But it was the newly freed ‘cargo’ who stole Veanelen’s breath.

Hundreds, no thousands, huddled in trembling clusters, their skeletal frames draped in rags, their eyes hollow with the kind of terror that never faded. Some wept openly. Others stared, vacant, as if their minds still lingered in the dark. Veanelen could see them wincing at the sunlight and flinching when an Uruk crewmate approached, but each time the unfamiliar looking creatures seemed to have some kind of help in their hands.

Uruk moved among them, their shark skin cloaks stark against the pallor of the freed. Blankets were pressed into shaking hands. Waterskins tilted to cracked lips. A line formed near the forecastle, where Pohop, the healer, and his apprentices worked with quiet efficiency, their massive hands gentle as they peeled away filthy bandages to assess wounds festering from neglect. Now and then one of the Atani would recoil in horror, or rage, at the sight of one of their Uruk caregivers. The admiral noticed that there were some leaders among the enslaved who would step in and speak in their shared language, then the individual would grudgingly let their wounds be tended by those they considered demonic. And the stench…

Rot. Sweat. The cloying reek of untreated infections. The slaves bore the marks of their torment in whip scars crisscrossing backs, brands still weeping on shoulders, ankles rubbed raw by manacles. A child, no older than five, clutched a wooden doll with half its face charred away. He stood alone, looking at the passing adults for someone familiar, cheeks streaked with tears. A Peredhel pirate walking by crouched down, scooped the boy up and carried him over to where Pohop was. The admiral could not take her eyes from the child until she saw him being wrapped in a blanket and sat down with care. She could hear Pohop’s gentle voice “Yes, I am sorry I know I look very scary to you, but I promise I am nice,” speaking to the child, trying to soothe despite him clearly not understanding the healer’s language. Veanelen’s stomach turned. So many…how could there be this many?

“Nienna weeps, while Mandos abides.” Veanelen muttered the old lamentation in her Lindárin language under her breath, the words a fragile shield against the scene before her.

The shift in her tone immediately drew Adar’s attention. “Ciriarāta?” He asked, turning fully toward her. The usual sternness in his expression softened into a look of probing concern. He followed her gaze across the teeming deck, and she watched as his understanding deepened. It was not the singular horror that gave him pause. They were both all too familiar with that, but it was the colossal, crushing scope of it.

“It is a lot.” She admitted, the confession feeling both weak and necessary. “Even for those of us seasoned with the cruelties Men seem to bring with them upon these waters.”

She caught the movement from the corner of her eye. Adar’s hand twitched, then lifted slightly, a hesitant reach that seemed to carry the weight of all their unspoken words. For a heartbeat, she felt a flicker of warmth at the gesture, a sense that she was not alone in her despair. But then, as if chastising his own impulse, he let his hand drop abruptly to his side, the fleeting connection severed and forgotten.

Adar then cleared his throat and his voice cut through the din, somber. “This is what they trade in. The Fixed Lot, they call it.” His fingers flexed around his sword. “Every ship we burn, every mercenary and slaver we feed to the sea, is one less Arda needs to worry about.”

Around them, the Uruk worked under the punishing sun, their own burn and battle scars hidden beneath layers of toughened hide and the shark skin cloaks. They moved carefully, their skin already stinging at the occasional exposure, yet they did not falter.

Unrelenting, Veanelen thought. Even cursed, they endure. Now they are here saving lives of the forgotten and vulnerable. Is this the source of Sealord Father’s anger? If so then it is their suffering that fuels his rage and not putting an end to it. Would he ever see that he hinders his own cause? 

Blood pooled between the planks, thick enough to slick the boots of passing Uruk. Enslaver corpses lay where they had fallen, some sprawled in desperate last stands, others cut down mid-flight, their faces frozen in snarls of terror. Cracked shields, snapped arrows, and the occasional glint of a discarded dagger littered the wood, remnants of a defense that had shattered beneath the pirate’s assault.

Veanelen followed him past the huddled masses of the newly freed enslaved. Adar led her near the navigator’s station where leaning against the stairs a youth stood with the lazy arrogance of a predator who had already won. His hair, a sun-bright blonde, was woven into a dozen intricate braids, all gathered into a single thick plait that spilled over his shoulder like a rope of gold. A dark red kerchief, sweat-stained and frayed at the edges, kept the strands from his face, revealing sharp cheekbones and the elegant points of his ears.

His leather armour was deeply scratched and gouged, and his posture was all insolent ease with arms folded, falchion dangling from his belt, its blade still wet. Veanelen noticed the tattoos snaking up his bare forearms; on one, a sword entwined by a sea serpent, its scales etched in venomous detail and on the other, Black Speech script coiled around his bicep as if an ancient scroll.

At first glance, he looked like a malingering lout and then she saw the way the crew moved around him. Every few steps, an Uruk or Double Natured pirate would pause, duck their head, and murmur something urgent. He did not so much as uncross his arms, just tilted his chin, gave a quick nod or a sharp word, and sent them sprinting back into the chaos. No hesitation. No doubt. Not a lout, Veanelen realised. Someone giving them direction.

“Quartermaster Kalen, this is admiral Veanelen. Is the Blessed One in a good mood or is she hungover?”

Kalen gave Veanelen a curt acknowledgement before leading them toward the heart of the deck, where the aftermath of the raid had taken on an almost theatrical grimness.

At the center stood a high-backed captain’s chair, its wood carved with Númenórean motifs of sea dragons and crashing waves, now splattered with blood and propped before rows of kneeling captured sellswords. The prisoners were chained together at the wrists, their faces bruised, their eyes flickering between defiance and dread.

And there, lounging sideways in the chair like a queen amused by her own court, was the pirate captain. Her sword balanced carelessly across her knees. Her gloved hands dangled over the chair’s arms, fingers twitching as if they itched for a fight. The quartermaster Kalen strode forward and kicked the chair’s leg. The girl jerked upright, blinking like a cat startled from a sunbeam.

She was sleeping. Sleeping. In front of a dozen shackled mercenaries, her blade bare, and exposed. Veanelen heard Adar exhale a sound like a man praying for patience, but Kalen just smirked and spoke as he walked away.

“Naw, she’s good. Had a nap.”

Thaghat stretched, rolling her shoulders, and when she turned, Veanelen was struck by how bright her sapphire eyes were. Her face was all sharp angles and sun-kissed mischief. Her blonde braids, much like Kalen's, were pulled back with a turquoise scarf. At first glance, the trinkets woven into her hair seemed like carved wood. Then Veanelen stepped closer. Finger bones. Small, bleached, knucklebones strung between the plaits like macabre beads. If seeing Usquiel made Veanelen feel like visiting Lindon, captain Thanghat evoked Elwe's long-lost court in Doriath, that is if blood-soaked pirate with human bones in their hair had been as fashionable as the Nauglamír.

“Admiral Veanelen,” Adar grumbled, “I am loath to introduce you to captain Thanghat. Though if she rubs the sleep from her eyes, she might remember her manners.”

Thanghat sprang up, seizing Veanelen’s wrist in a grip that was more camaraderie than formality. Veanelen noticed she was similarly tattooed as her quartermaster with a large silver oak tree winding from its roots at her wrist while the trunk crossed towards her bicep, its branches stretched to her shoulder and up the side of her neck. Across the roots at the base were the Quenya words Blessed Little Pain.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, admiral!” Her grin was dazzling, reckless. “Admiral, you say? That outranks a Sealord, doesn’t it?” She spun toward Adar, who was now pacing the line of prisoners like a wolf counting sheep. “Does she outrank you, Sealord Father? Does she?” Adar ignored her.

“Don’t mind him.” Thanghat spoke as if Adar was not there, looping an arm through Veanelen’s. “The Sealord Father’s manners always abandon him on the wrong side of the bed. Which, tragically, is the only side he wakes up on.”

Adar’s head turned and he glowered at Thaghat. In three strides, he was behind the Half-Elf, smacking the back of her head with the flat of his hand. “Speaking of waking up, try doing it before a battle next time.”

Thanghat clutched her skull, gasping in mock offense. “Forgive me, Sealord Father! I must’ve dozed off that day at the Fancy Naval Academy for Pirates during ‘How to Be a Dull Old Salt’ lectures.”

Veanelen bit back a laugh. The two were night and day. Adar a study in powerful restraint, Thanghat a spark tossed into dry kindling. And yet the familiarity between them spoke of years, of trust, even something like family. But the admiral could not hide her smile and when she turned towards Thaghat, the pirate captain’s grin faltered and her eyes narrowed.

“Have we met, admiral?” The grin was back, but there was something sharp about it this time. Clever and calculating. 

“I do not believe we have, captain. I am sure I would have remembered you.” Veanelen smiled again, this time trying to bring back the lightness of their introduction.

“I am sure I’ve seen your face before.” Out of the corner of her eye, Veanelen could see Adar’s head whip around, as if he sensed something uneasy between the two women. Thanghat then shook her head slightly, as if chastising herself and turned back towards the Sealord Father. 

“Forty-seven surviving crew and officers, did you get any information from the captain?” Adar asked. 

“The pig fucker held out for a wee bit. Almost brave even. But then Sluggau tore one of his arms off and he sang like an Elven princess.” Veanelen saw Adar glance her way and then made quick gestures with his fingers. Thangat glanced towards the admiral and laughed, but nodded.

Adar and Thanghat then fell into a discussion with their hands and voices of what the ship yielded them. Veanelen wandered around looking at the structure of the monstrous cargo hauler, unmistakably Númenórean but being sailed by a mercenary crew and importing Atani.

They were all three interrupted when one of the enslaved broke away from the healers and ran past Adar and Thaghat. A teenage girl, her wrists still raw from shackles, collapsed to her knees before one of the chained hired Haradrim enslavers, her arms locking around his neck like a drowning woman clinging to driftwood. When she turned, her face was wet with tears, her voice cracking in a language Veanelen did not recognise but understood instantly. Please.

Around them, other freed captives erupted in shouts, gesturing toward the young Haradrim man. Kalen suddenly jumped up from his place by the navigator’s station and sped past Veanelen, pulling his falchion from his side as he sprinted. When he reached the kneeling girl, he held it up near his shoulder, the threat not for the girl, but towards any of the chained hired enslavers that may have used this distraction as a chance to escape or fight back. His sea serpent tattoo flexed as he gripped the hilt, twisting tight as if real.

Thanghat sauntered forward, then dropped onto one knee, her face inches from the sobbing girl’s. She studied her with the intensity of a scribe deciphering a coded scroll, her indigo eyes flicking over every twitch, every tremor. Then slowly she turned her gaze to the Haradrim hired hand. The deck fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Adar raised a hand before Veanelen could speak, pleading patience.

Finally, Thanghat straightened. “This one’s new,” she said, plucking a pipe from her vest and packing it with a pungent green leaf. “First voyage. Thought he was hired to fight pirates not guard cargo.” She smirked as the Haradrim boy looked away. “Snuck them food. ‘Forgot’ his whip. And her…-” She nodded at the girl, now trembling. “He claimed her. Not for himself. To keep the others off.”

The whimpering girl’s fingers dug into the tunic of the captured youth, her knuckles white. This was the gift Adar had spoken of earlier, Veanelen thought to herself.

Adar snatched the flint from Thanghat’s fingers before she could light her pipe. “And the others?”

“Guessing? They’re vouching for him.” She made a grab for the flint, but Adar tucked it into his breastplate.

“Your capture. Your choice.” His voice was ice. “But we did discuss the danger of witnesses.” Veanelen stiffened. Was this the same man who had carried his Elders on his own back to safety during the typhoon, or just a few moments ago affectionately kissed the cheek of an adolescent pirate?

Thanghat flicked a glance at Kalen. In an instant, he wrenched the girl away. Her cries turned frantic, her hands clawing air as the Haradrim’s face drained of color. Thanghat unsheathed her sword. Adar turned on his heel and walked away.

The blade’s tip hovered at the boy’s throat. Thanghat leaned in, her Adûnaic sharp as the sword in her hand. “Look at me.”

He did. Whatever passed between them, Veanelen could not hear but the man did not flinch. Did not beg. Just answered, his voice low and steady, even as the girl sobbed behind him. Then a nod from Thanghat and Kalen tossed her the keys.

The manacles hit the deck with a clang. The Haradrim boy stumbled forward, and the girl crashed into him, her wails muffled against his chest. The other enslaved surged around them, hands patting his shoulders and his back as he was brought amongst him.

Near the rail, Thanghat and Kalen signed in the silent tongue of the Uruk. Veanelen caught only fragments: He. Him. Angry. Again. They stopped when they noticed her watching.

“How rude of me, Admiral. Kalen’ll keep a watch on this lot while you and me go see what the Sealord Father is up to. Probably sucking some poor slaver’s soul out through his eye sockets. He does that you know, did he mention that to you? Eyeball and soul sucking. Don’t say anything about it to him, he gets mad embarrassed and thinks I gossip about all his secrets to everyone.”

Veanelen followed Thanghat below decks, the din of rescuers and the rescued above cut off as the pirate captain swung the heavy door shut behind them. The stairwell smelled of smoke, tar, and something far fouler as blood thickened in the stagnant air. Their boots rang on the steps as they descended into the common hall, where ruin spread in every direction.

The admiral took in the carnage with a hardened eye. Planks slick with blood, handprints smeared along the bulkheads, bodies sprawled where they had fallen. Most wore the black of hired mercenaries turned enslavers, but here and there gleamed the sea blue and white of Númenórean officers. Men and women she recognised by their rank and bearing even in death. Splintered chairs and broken doors leaned drunkenly against the walls, crockery shattered to pale shards beneath her steps, the debris of a ship ripped apart from within.

Every cabin door stood wide or broken inward. Looters had already passed this way, stripping the beds bare and linens bound into hasty bundles, possessions cast aside for sorting. Yet amid the plundered mess, darker sights lingered. An officer crouched against a wall, throat cut, her hands still curled around her neck as if to stop her life from pouring out. Another door revealed a sellsword whose skull had been caved in against the deck beam, his killer leaving him where he slumped. These were the shadows of the boarding, the echoes of the Uruk and Double Natured assault still a fresh memory.

Then, in one narrow berth, a brighter shaft of sunlight cut through a shattered porthole, laying bare a tableau more terrible than the rest. Two Númenórean officers sat slumped against one another, each holding a dagger buried in the other’s chest. Their uniforms were still neat, their faces slack in death, but their choice was clear. It was better to end one another swiftly than face what waited on the blades of Adar’s Children.

Veanelen took a moment there, her chest tight. Who were they, she wondered. Had she once raised a cup with them at Sea Guard feasts, traded polite words across the tables of noble houses, or blessed their graduation as cadets? Had their families looked to her for protection and advice, never dreaming their children would find themselves broken below the decks of a slaver’s vessel? The thought festered as she moved on. How many more? How many of the scions of Númenor willingly bore the blood stained sails of the enslaving mercenaries and merchants, trafficking in flesh and misery despite the laws of their star-shaped isle?

And if so many sons and daughters had already turned, what then did it say of Elenna itself?

A faint noise pulled Veanelen’s attention. It was a dry, insistent scratching from the toppled wardrobe in the corner. Instinct carried her hand to the hilt of her sword, but Adar’s command burned in her mind and she could not draw without Thanghat’s leave. Her jaw tightened and instead of defending herself, she took a step back toward the door, ready to call back the pirate captain.

The wardrobe creaked open and a man tumbled out in a clatter of the dead officers’ personal effects. He collapsed on the boards, hands scrabbling, eyes wide and bloodshot.

“Please!” He hissed, his voice ragged from thirst or terror. “Please, help me! You are Falmari, of the royal navy are you not? Lady Elf, you must save me!”

Veanelen’s gaze swept over him. His uniform marked him as a navigation officer, though it was soaked with another’s blood and no wound marred him. His face was flushed from panic, his shoulder length hair wild and unbound, giving him the look of a madman set loose from the wilds.

“Save you?” Veanelen asked cautiously, her back inching toward the corridor. Her palm remained on the hilt she dared not draw. “Who are you?”

“I am Mardeth, a navigator. From the House of Ciryatanor.” He stammered. “I had no part in this!” His eyes darted towards the two officers dead by each other’s daggers. I only sought shelter when the killing began. Please, lady Elf, shield me from these fiends. Some even look like—…”

“Like Elves?” Thanghat’s voice cut across his plea from next to Veanelen.

The words hung in midair as the room chilled around her. The creak of a step behind her, the weight of a look that pressed like iron. Thanghat had returned. She slipped past Veanelen with the unhurried certainty of a predator who knew the prey had nowhere to flee. The pirate captain’s presence filled the narrow space, her silence more dangerous than any threat spoken aloud.

Veanelen’s breath caught. She knew what was coming. The man was begging for her quarter, but this being one of Adar’s captains bound her tongue and hand. To defy Thanghat was to defy him. But the admiral’s body betrayed her and her eyes fell to the captain’s blade, still sheathed for now. Veanelen’s every nerve strained in the heartbeat before metal sang free.

Thanghat planted herself between the admiral and the quivering navigator, her gloved hands hanging loose at her side but not touching her sheathed blade. For now. 

“And yet, you still have your hand on yours, admiral.” Thanghat made no move for her own sword and she did not turn to address Veanelen, but she was talking to her. The Gift, yes. She can hear or feel what the admiral was contemplating.

“Tell you what, admiral,” Thanghat said lightly, though the dark coldness in her voice belied the softness. “Keep your hand on that pretty Elven sword if it comforts you.”

Veanelen froze, uncertain if the captain’s words were threat or jest. Did Thanghat truly think I might draw steel for this sobbing man? The pirate closed the distance by a step. The navigator flinched, his dark eyes darting to Veanelen, desperate, pleading.

“Mardeth, was it?” Thanghat’s smile was a weapon of its own. “Lovely name. Let me tell you a few more. Qirtar. Menlam. Stander. Do they sound familiar?”

Veanelen’s pulse quickened. The names struck like stones dropped into a well.

“You didn’t ask those boys their names before you forced yourself on them, did you?” Thanghat went on, each word precise, merciless. “All but two died from the beatings you gave them. Qirtar, well you tossed him overboard once you’d had your fill of his suffering. Menlam, remember him? You strangled Menlam when his crying grated your ears. Stander was the one you used and killed after the first cargo was loaded. You felt like you finally found your place on this ship, didn’t you?”

Mardeth whimpered, the blood draining from his face. Veanelen’s hand slipped from her hilt, her gaze locked to Thanghat’s slow, measured approach.

“Oman and Ollor, the brothers,” Thanghat continued softly, “they lived. They are above decks now, searching every face for yours. They told me where you ran, so I let you stew in your own piss here in the dark while I conducted the business of slaughtering your crew. I promised them they would only need to see you… one. More. Time.”

The navigator shrieked and lunged, his fist clumsy with panic. Thanghat moved like water, slipping past the blow, driving her knee into his ribs. The crack was audible.

Mardeth collapsed, gasping, clutching at his side. Thanghat nudged him over with her boot, and he rolled onto his back, blood stringing from his lips. He lifted trembling hands toward Veanelen.

“I beg you… do not let her—…”

“I beg you! I beg you!” Thanghat mocked in a singsong voice, then drove her heel into his gut. He curled tight, choking, but the kicks kept coming, brutal and precise.

Veanelen swallowed back bile. The litany of crimes made her skin crawl. All unspeakable acts upon children. But still, the merciless tormenting of the navigator unsettled her. Justice was one thing, but cruelty another. Her mouth opened, ready to suggest the man be chained with the other prisoners, when Thanghat’s own lips parted.

And as her boot rose and fell, she began to sing.

Of ancient stone and oath bound deep.
Where Wingildi silent vigil keep.
We guard the light that never sleeps.
A promise buried in the deeps.
Where cold abyssal currents creep.

Veanelen’s mouth fell open in shock. The song was old, sung with a more primitive tongue though mangled by mispronunciation, as if Thanghat had only mimicked the sounds without grasping their meaning. She was singing in the tempo of the waters and to an uninitiated ear the pirate captain sounded like she was almost whistling. For a fleeting instant, the admiral feared the Double Natured woman had plucked the melody straight from her thoughts of a memory of the Wingildi cousins singing as they raced through the spray of the sea, or a more precious one from a time when she did not have to dive alone when she searched for pearls.

Thanghat stilled her boot and turned, grinning. “No, I don’t do that. Doubt I could sift through your memories even if I tried. Didn’t hear the song from you, but I reckon you know who I did hear it from. Seems to me, you and I are sailing in the same direction, we just cut our jib a little differently, is all.”

She winked, flashing a beguiling smile as she stepped lightly over the broken body at her feet. “Come on then, admiral. Sealord Father’s waiting. Don’t fret over old Mardeth there, moanin’ and groanin’. He won’t be crawling far.”

With a bounce, Thanghat skipped from the cabin, weaving down the ruined hall, leaping over corpses and splintered wreckage as though she were a young ella dancing in a field of daffodils.

The air in the Tirondor’s common hall was thick with the cloying scent of blood and smoke, a stark contrast to the opulence that surrounded them. Veanelen’s steps were measured, her boots sinking into the thick pile of a crimson rug, its intricate patterns now obscured by the dark, ugly stains of the ship’s final struggle. She trailed behind Thanghat, her gaze tracing the grotesque narrative carved into the wall of a magnificent dragon, its serpentine form half hidden behind stylised clouds, pursuing a terrified fleet of ships. It was a testament to Númenórean artistry, a celebration of maritime dominion, yet here it presided over a chamber of slaughter.

Every detail spoke of a civilisation favored by the Valar. The toppled furniture was of dark, polished wood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A shattered decanter had spilled its contents, the smell of fine wine mingling unpleasantly with the metallic tang of death. Near a cold hearth of carved marble, a severed hand lay curled like a pale spider, a macabre ornament on the elegant stone. It was a gallery of pride, this room, each sculpture and carving boasting of a wealth and power built, she knew, on the groaning backs of the thousands imprisoned in the filth ridden hold just a few feet below her. The sheer, deafening silence from below was more haunting than any scream.

“Thanghat? Admiral? Why do you delay?” Adar’s voice, cool and measured, cut through her thoughts. It came from a set of double doors at the hall’s end, slightly ajar.

Thanghat flashed a grin back at Veanelen before pushing the doors open. “It’s my fault, Sealord Father. I made a bet with the admiral here that I could find a severed head before she could. Can you believe I lost? This woman can smell a lopped off noggin at ten paces, I swear it.”

Veanelen followed her into the captain’s quarters. Adar was seated at a large study desk, the surface littered with a spilled inkwell, a thick ledger lying open, and a stack of scrolls he had evidently pulled from the shelves above. 

“Oh? I thought you were beating that man who was hiding in the wardrobe to death.” Adar did not look up from the ledger as he wrote notes in its margins. 

“He’s still alive!” Thanghat picked up a stool and sat cross legged on it, shifting herself to make it rock back and forth precariously. Adar tapped the quill on the ledger, glaring at the smiling girl. 

“For now.” Thanghat’s grin was wildly infectious. Sealord Father’s response was a subdued smile, a mere crack in the fortress wall of his composure, but the admiral could see the warmth towards the girl in his eyes. 

The room was a sanctuary of stolen luxury, large and airy despite the carnage outside. A great stained glass window dominated the far wall, though its story was fractured. It depicted a Númenórean ship, its sails full of wind, but the enemy ship it was meant to be engaging with was missing, its vesseled form shattered into a gaping hole as a casualty of the battle. Shards of blue and green glass littered the floor like fallen jewels.

The massive bed was upended, its velvet linens stripped away by looters. But in the corner, standing serene amidst the chaos, was a sight that made Veanelen’s breath catch. A small altar held a statue of Nienna, the Weeping Lady. Fresh sea pearls and wilting blossoms lay at her feet, and the stubs of devotion candles stood in neat rows. It was untouched, a pristine island of piety in a sea of plunder.

“We don’t touch them,” Thanghat said, her usual bravado softened by a note of genuine superstition as she followed her gaze. “Their devotions to Nienna. They blasphemed her enough. We want no part of that wrath.”

From the desk, Adar did not look up from the ledger, his voice a low murmur. “Nienna is not known for her wrath.” It was a statement, quiet and introspective, as if recalling a lesson from an age long past.

“Women run out of tears,” Veanelen replied, her tone flat. She met Thanghat’s glance, a look of understanding passing between them, before turning her attention to Adar.

“Ciriārata, if you can find a seat, please take it.” Adar’s voice was calm, a stark contrast to the surrounding desecration. He gestured to an overturned chair. “I would like to offer honors to Captain Thanghat for the successful capture of a vessel we have hunted for almost a year.”

He handed Veanelen a small, exquisitely carved crystal glass filled to the brim with a clear liquor. He then passed a similar glass to Thanghat, though the admiral noted the pirate captain’s was only half full. Adar picked up his own and raised it. The two women mirrored the gesture.

The glasses and their contents were plundered from the Tirondor’s captain’s private reserve. The very stock he had laid down for his quiet evenings was now saluting his ruin. Veanelen’s eyes drifted to the stacks of books and scrolls Adar had gathered. This man had been a voracious reader, a devotee of the Lady of Compassion, a connoisseur of fine gin. He had sipped this very liquor at the end of days filled with commanding this beautiful, monstrous ship. A floating masterpiece built for the sole purpose of kidnapping, rape, and torture. The elegance of the carved crystal felt obscene in her hand.

“Captain Thanghat and I have been strategic in attacking the slave fortresses the Númenóreans built along the coast near the Grey Mountains,” Adar began, his tone that of a seasoned commander debriefing his officers. “They always build them south of the Girdle of Arda to avoid Númenórean and Elvish patrols such as yours, Ciriārata.” He nodded to her and raised the crystal carafe in a silent offer to top up her glass. Veanelen gave a sharp, minute shake of her head, her disgust a cold stone in her stomach.

“When we realised they were building their entire Fixed Lot industry away from the prying eyes of both Númenor and Elven kingdoms, we knew we had to destroy the new fleet,” he continued.

“Are there more ships like this?” Veanelen asked, her voice tight.

“Not anymore.” Thanghat smiled but then frowned when she realised her glass was still empty. She turned away, suddenly fascinated by a cracked mirror on a damaged wardrobe.

“A few months before we met, Ciriārata, we located the shipyard they had built near Umbar.” Adar explained. “We expected all five ships to be there, but one was missing.”

“The Tirondor,” Veanelen gestured around them with her untouched glass.

“Yeah, put the Sealord Father here in a real mood that day,” Thanghat interjected, turning back with a wry grin. Their familiarity was striking. “I was suggesting we let a few of the builders go, but bad luck for them that the Tirondor had already sailed.” She dropped her voice into a theatrical, guttural impersonation of Adar. “‘Execute every single one of them! No quarter!’”

Adar glanced at Veanelen, a slight, almost embarrassed smile touching his lips, as if acknowledging a child’s cheeky but accurate retelling of a family story. “Besides witnesses,” he clarified, his tone hardening, “those people knew what they were building. One artisan, in particular… She designed slave holds adorned with carvings of Elros and Elrond. It was… distasteful. She earned her death for that.”

Veanelen spun around, sputtering with anger. “How did you execute that artisan?”

A silent conversation passed between Adar and Thanghat. Their eyes met, and Veanelen saw the pirate captain’s fingers twitch in a subtle, quick gesture that clearly meant, “Tell her.”

“They were beheaded,” Adar stated, his gaze unwavering. “I had the prisoners dragged to the beach at dawn, as we were loading the freed onto our ships. I gave the order. I dispatched the artist myself, after I saw her work in the holds.” He was neither proud nor ashamed; it was a simple, brutal fact.

“I would have had her burned in a bonfire lit with her own designs,” Veanelen spat, the words tearing from her. She hurled the crystal glass against a carved likeness of a long dead Númenórean king above the stove, where it exploded into a thousand glittering shards. How dare they? How dare that miserable artist use her friends Elrond and his beloved brother Elros, as if they approved of such horrors as enslavement. 

“What did I tell you!” Thanghat crowed, throwing her hands up in vindication and looking pointedly at Adar. “I told you we should have burned them! But no! ‘No, Thanghat, who never once asked me for anything, you can’t just burn a bunch of people, it takes too long and the smell is—’”

Adar’s fingers moved again, a swift, silencing gesture. Thanghat ceased her complaints immediately, though a smirk still played on her lips.

His focus shifted entirely to Veanelen, intense and probing. “Are you saying, Ciriārata, that you understand why we must end slavery in the Sundering Seas in this manner? By ridding Arda of their presence? Using the ways of the Uruk and not the ways of Elves or Men?”

His full attention was a physical force. Veanelen felt her body react involuntarily, a flush of heat and a quickening pulse. Next to him, Thanghat’s eyes widened slightly, then she smiled and turned away, as if sensing the potent effect the Sealord Father’s gaze had on the admiral.

“Nampat,” Veanelen said, her voice low and steady, locking eyes with Adar. “It is the only way to end it all. Nampat.”

“Nampat.” Both Adar and Thanghat replied together, but Sealord Father’s eyes raked over Veanelen, as if he was seeing a side of her that he particularly enjoyed.

“Then by all means, let us show you who you are about to join forces with, admiral.”

The three of them emerged from the captain’s quarters. Veanelen’s gaze was drawn back to the small, shadowed alcove, where the carving of Nienna stood. The candles before the Weeping Vala were cold, their wax as solidified as the Lady of Compassion’s sculpted tears. A shiver, unrelated to the darkened room, traced Veanelen’s spine. To seek solace from Nienna while presiding over a cargo of stolen lives was a hypocrisy so profound it felt like a physical stain on the air.

They moved down the narrow, pitching corridor, the scent of smoke and old blood thick in the gloom. It was then that Veanelen saw Mardeth, the navigator. The man was a broken thing, dragging himself through his own gore, a desperate, wet gasp rattling in his chest. He had managed to haul his body halfway from the room where Thanghat had delivered her judgment.

Before Veanelen could form a question about the wretch’s fate, Adar moved.

He flowed around Thanghat like a shadow, his presence seeming to swallow the dim light. Mardeth must have sensed he was not alone and now the sudden, terrifying focus upon him. He twisted his head, his eyes wide with a primal fear that eclipsed the pain Thanghat had inflicted. A choked scream, thick with blood, died in his throat as he looked up.

Veanelen watched, mesmerized and horrified. Adar loomed over the crawling man, his scars glowed with a faint, sickly luminescence in the dark, like a palimpsest of wounds written over and over again. Behind him, Thanghat stood like a pleased specter, a faint, cold smile touching her lips.

“Please…” Mardeth whimpered, bubbles of red forming on his lips. “What she said… it was not true… Please!”

Adar did not slow down. He did not pause to speak, to condemn, or to gloat. His movement was pure, efficient purpose. His gauntleted hand, a thing of cruel spiked metal, shot forward and sank into the back of Mardeth’s neck. The sound was not loud but a wet, puncturing crunch that was somehow worse than a shout. The navigator’s body went rigid, a silent, agonized shriek etched into every line of him.

With a terrible, effortless strength, Adar wrenched him upward, lifting the man clear off the floorboards as if he weighed no more than a doll. Mardeth dangled, a grotesque puppet, his legs kicking feebly in the air.

Without a backward glance, Adar turned and dragged his captive up the companionway stairs. Thanghat’s soft, giggling footsteps followed in a macabre procession. At the top, Adar did not bother with the latch. He kicked the door open, and for a breathtaking moment, his silhouette filled the frame as a dark god against the grey sky, holding a squirming man aloft by the neck. Then, with a contemptuous flick of his wrist, he cast Mardeth out onto the deck, a piece of refuse thrown to the sea winds.

“Quartermaster Kalen,” Adar’s voice cut across the deck, a low growl that carried over the wind. “I believe your captain informed you about this one.”

Before Kalen could respond, Thanghat moved. She seized the broken navigator by his wrist, twisting his arm behind his back with a crack that made Veanelen flinch. She frog marched him toward where the healer Pohop was tending to a woman’s whip lacerated back. A silent exchange passed between captain and healer. A pointed finger, a solemn nod. Thanghat altered her course, dragging her prisoner toward a different corner of the deck, a fresh trail of blood smearing the planks in their wake.

Veanelen’s path to Adar was forgotten. She was drawn instead to the dreadful spectacle of Thanghat’s righteousness. The pirate captain stopped before two young boys, Oman and Ollor, huddled under a shared blanket, clutching pieces of bread like talismans. They flinched as one when Thanghat loomed over them, hauling Mardeth upright like a fisherman displaying a rotten catch.

Veanelen moved closer, the admiral’s instinct to observe overriding her revulsion. She saw the boys’ eyes, wide with a suffering that was older than this moment. Thanghat’s voice, when it came, was deceptively soft, a poisonous whisper in the children’s native Adûnaic.

“If this is not he, then I will not be mad,” she crooned, her gaze fixed on the children. “He is a bad man, too. Tell me. Is this the man who hurt you? Tell me true, and I swear to you, he will never, ever hurt anyone again.”

The older brother, his face pale, gave a frantic, jerky nod, a single finger extending to point at the weeping navigator.

“Well, that’s it, Mardeth,” Thanghat said, her voice losing all pretense of softness, hardening into something cold and sharp. “You’re going to make for a tasty meal where I’m sending you.” Veanelen’s head snapped up at the last sentence Thanghat spoke.

“They lie! It was not me!” Mardeth wailed, his voice a ragged sob.

“Then who was it?” Thanghat’s question was a slap to the mouth. She jerked him closer, her face inches from his. Veanelen saw it then and it was not just anger, but an uncontrollable, consuming rage that seemed to warp the air around the young woman. It was the absolute stillness of a drawn bowstring, the second before the arrow flies on its path of utter destruction. She glanced at the children. They saw it, too. This was not justice; this was a volcano about to erupt upon them all.

Veanelen stepped forward, placing herself between the boys and the violent tableau. “Captain Thanghat, perhaps we should move this man away from the children?” Her voice was calm, reasoned, an admiral’s attempt to restore order.

Thanghat gave no sign of hearing her. Her grip on Mardeth tightened, her knuckles white, and a fresh wave of blood welled from the wounds on his neck. He let out a high pitched, animal bleat of pain. Desperate, Veanelen covered the children’s faces and caught Pohop’s eye. “Healer! Please, take them. They should not see this.” Pohop, understanding instantly, hurried to the admiral’s side, his cloak drawn over his head shielding him from the sun. He shepherded the frightened boys away.

When Veanelen turned back, the scene had intensified. A dark pool was spreading around Thanghat’s boots, fed by the navigator’s life. For a fleeting, disorienting second, Veanelen thought she saw a vague reflection in the crimson. A phantom shape of someone who was not there with them and a flash of two sparkling rubies before it all vanished back into drying blood again.

It was then that Kalen arrived. He did not rush, he poured into the space with an unnerving quiet.

“Hello there, captain! Hey now, captain Thanghat.” His voice was a steady, conversational anchor in the tempest. Kalen did not touch her, his hands held up placatingly, but his presence was a wall between her and the abyss she was staring into. “Why don’t you let him go? We’ll get him ready for you, huh? Thanghat? Look at me.”

Thanghat’s eyes were wide, unblinking, shining with an ominous inner light as she stared into Mardeth’s soul, pouring every ounce of her own remembered violation into him. She was not just punishing him; she was feeding him her own demons through his flesh.

Kalen’s voice, patient and firm, broke the spell. “Thanghat.”

She blinked. A shudder ran through her. The awful focus shattered, and the mad light in her eyes receded like a tide. “Oh?” she said, her voice suddenly light, almost cheerful. “Yeah. Take him.” She released her grip and drove her knee hard into Mardeth’s back, shoving him toward Kalen. “Make sure you use the smaller ones, yes?”

A bright, unsettling smile returned to Thanghat’s face, and she skipped away, leaving Kalen and a stunned Veanelen with the gasping wreck of a man.

Veanelen stared after the departing captain, then at Kalen, who was already hoisting Mardeth to his feet with practiced efficiency. “Is she…?”

“Couldn’t be better.” Kalen finished smoothly, his tone implying this was either a routine occurrence or he was not about to divulge any further information about his captain with her. Without another word, he dragged the sobbing navigator toward his doom. 

“If you have not yet guessed, Thanghat and the other Peredhil suffered greatly at the hands of slavers.” Adar’s voice was low, meant for Veanelen’s ears alone as he came up behind her. He nodded his head to get her to follow him. They walked and then stood apart from the macabre spectacle unfolding on the deck. “Their village was one of the hidden Half-Elven settlements beyond Umbar. Simple folk, mostly farmers, woodsmen and driven from the Southlands by the intolerance of both Atani and Elves.”

Before them, the pirate crews began their work, kicking and shoving the chained sellswords to their feet. The air, once thick with the stench of the hold, was now sharp with a chilling breeze and anticipation.

“She and Kalen, and the older ones, are all that remains of their people.” Adar continued, his gaze fixed on Thanghat as she moved through the crowd. “The adults were wiped out. The children were taken, sold to slave hunters like these. It was not an isolated tragedy. Many such villages were raided, their children stolen, for the simple crime of their mixed blood.”

Together, Veanelen and Adar moved closer. A section of the railing had been removed, leaving a gaping maw between the solidity of the deck and the churning, hungry sea below. It was a loading bay for cargo, now repurposed for a different kind of unloading.

“They endured months of abuse.” Adar said, the words stark and unadorned. “Until Ulmo, in whatever mercy he possessed, sent a Númenórean renegade, a nobleman’s bastard son turned pirate, to attack their slave ship. Thanghat and the others joined the crew. And now…”

The captured mercenaries, shackled together, stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes wide with a terror they had so often inflicted. They were surrounded by a silent, tightening circle of Uruks and Peredhil, their faces etched with a hatred born of lived experience. Thanghat emerged from the crowd and walked to the precipice. She stood there for a long moment, hands on her hips, staring down into the abyssal blue as if communing with it. Then she turned, and a sharp, clear whistle cut through the air with the first three, haunting notes of the Wingil song she had whistled in the darkness below decks.

She made a swift, slashing gesture with her hand and the pirates surged forward, driving the chained mass toward the edge. Some of the slavers fought, lashing out with desperate strength, but they were beaten down, their struggles only forcing their shackled companions to drag them closer to the drop. The front line of chained slavers, facing the void, tried to lock arms, to claw at the empty space where the railing should have been. It was a futile gesture.

The pirates responded not with shouts, but with a cold, focused violence. They kicked at shins, stabbed at grasping hands with daggers. The screams that erupted were not of battle, but of pure, animal panic. The human chain broke as those in the back, pressed forward by the relentless shoving, and pushed the front runners over the edge. The first sellswords fell, their cries swallowed by the wind, their bodies vanishing into the cobalt depths, the weight of their chains pulling them under instantly.

Then it became a grim procession. One by one, or in struggling clusters, the slavers were forced over the side. They screamed, clawing for their lives at the splintered wood of the deck, at the legs of their captors, anything to avoid the fall. The crews watched, their laughter a harsh, mocking sound that held no joy, only a long nursed vengeance. One man, with a final, superhuman effort, managed to hook his elbow around a metal stanchion, his body suspended over the drop, the dead weight of three drowning comrades pulling at his chains.

Thanghat stepped forward. She watched, her head tilted with a detached, almost clinical fascination, as the man grunted and strained, his face purple with effort. She did not hurry. She simply reared back and delivered a precise, brutal kick to the side of his head. There was a sickening crack. A bellow of agony became a choked gurgle as his grip failed. He was gone, dragged into the silence of the deep.

The pirate captain then stared down at the slowly disappearing bubbles as the men were drowned, consumed by the roiling sea. 

“Thanghat’s executions can be on the more…bloody side. She must have seen the newly freed were traumatised enough and were not looking for revenge.” Adar said as he came to stand next to Veanelen.

“I saw nothing different today than what you witnessed when you first encountered me.” She smiled at him, enjoying that Adar’s brow was wrinkled in confusion.

“I believe I was witnessing a sacrifice that day.”

“And you think you did not see one just now?” Veanelen shot back at him with a wide smile.

Through the milling crowd, Veanelen saw Thanghat, a specter of gleeful malice, directing her crew near the base of the gigantic mainmast.

Adar’s attention, however, was tethered to the Falmari admiral beside him. Veanelen stood as if she were an icon carved from cassiterite, her gaze fixed on the dire work ahead.

“What you said down below, in the captain’s cabin…” Adar began, his voice low for her ears alone. “Did you mean it, Veanelen? I can see the fire of righteousness in you. I would understand if your call for ‘nampat’ was born of the heat of the moment, not the cool certainty of execution.”

Veanelen turned, and Adar expected to find his own cynicism reflected in her eyes. Instead, he saw only a profound and weary resolve. His usual smugness evaporated, replaced by a raw, searching concern etched upon his brow. In that moment, he was not a Sealord judging the fragility of a royal Elf, but a fellow survivor trying to map the contours of her conviction.

“Do you believe that any of the victims you rescued today will ever have a happy and full life?” She countered, her voice as cold and sharp as the peaks of the Ered Gorgoroth. “That they will be safe if Thanghat lets go any of these men that would cherish the gold from this trade over the spilt blood of their kindred? You have a way with words, aþaro, can your lessons in morality make them forsake their chains and whips?

“No!” The word was a sharp exhale, almost a laugh at the absurdity that he should be the voice of mercy. “I only mean to say that the Uruk way is not one of edicts and tribunals. It is brutal. It is savage.” He let the last word hang in the air, and it carried the same intimate charge as his lingering gaze in the captain’s cabin, a promise of a different, darker kind of law.

“I aspire for Uinen’s mercy to guide my heart.” Her eyes hardened as they returned to the mast. “But Ossë’s fury stirs my blood. The Uruk way… ‘Nampat’… It is not Námo’s hallowed judgment, but it is the justice we can offer for the suffering. Let the Númenórean nobles and Elven kings debate their laws. Today we speak with a sharp tongue that everyone in Arda can understand.”

“I am so happy to hear you say that, admiral!” Thanghat materialised before them, her grin a gash of feral delight. In her hands she held a single, taut coil of rope. Veanelen’s gaze followed its line upward, and her eyes widened slightly.

The mast was no longer just wood and rigging. It was a gibbet. A dozen Númenórean officers hung from the yardarms, a strange orchard of the condemned. Some were already still, swaying in a ghastly dance with the sea breeze, strung up by their ankles or wrists. Others twitched in their final agonies, their surrender a foolish gamble that had bought them only a slower end.

Then Veanelen’s eyes found Mardeth, the navigator. He was barely standing, his legs unable to support him, held upright by two young Uruk whose faces were still soft with youth. The irony was not lost on her, that Adar and Thanghat had a taste for poetic justice. Around Mardeth’s thick neck was cinched not a noose, but a pair of small, cruel manacles, the kind meant for the slender wrists of children. The metal had already bitten into his flesh, drawing thin, welling lines of red along his pale skin.

Thanghat, with a ceremonial slowness, offered the end of the rope to Veanelen. The coil felt heavy, alive with potential energy. All sound seemed to fade, the world narrowing to this rope, this mast, this man. Adar watched, his face an impassive mask, giving her no cue, no pressure. This was her choice. And among the Uruk, she understood in that moment, oaths were not sworn with words but sealed in the blood of common enemies and only the shedding of that blood could bind.

Mardeth’s eyes, wide with animal terror, met hers. His lips, bruised and bloody, formed the silent, desperate plea: Please.

Veanelen’s face showed no pity, only a cold, clean fury. With a single, powerful motion just using one arm, she yanked the rope.

The pulley screamed. Mardeth shot upward, his body jerking and convulsing as the manacles became an iron collar. A terrible, wet gagging sound escaped him, his legs kicking wildly in the air as he fought for a breath that would never come. The small manacles, instruments of his perversion, were now the instruments of his death.

“You think I have not hanged a man for his crimes before?” Veanelen’s voice rang out, clear and sharp in Quenya, her free hand slicing through the air in the abrupt, vicious gestures of the Silent Speech; Justice. Defiler. Ended.

She watched, unblinking, as the last of his life was strangled from him, his struggles fading into a final, twitching stillness. When silence reclaimed the deck, she drew her sword, a flash of silver in the gloom. With a cry of raw fury, she drove the tip through the rope, pinning it to the deck, a permanent stake holding her judgment aloft.

“This to all who would enslave!” Veanelen roared in Sindarin, turning to the assembled masses. “This to those who would stand against the Uruk and the Falmari!” The Elf switched to Black Speech: “Nampat! Nampat!”

Thanghat’s eyes shone with an almost religious ecstasy, as if beholding a long awaited miracle. A roar erupted from the pirates, Uruk and Peredhel alike, a wave of unrestrained approval. They took up the chant, their voices thrumming through the very timbers of the ship. "NAMPAT! NAMPAT!" The freed enslaved, emboldened by this final, terrible righteousness, joined the chorus imitating the sound, their clapping and chanting a cathartic release from their torment.

Veanelen stood panting, her knuckles white on her sword’s hilt, her gaze locked on the navigator’s corpse, the chains digging deep into his swollen flesh like the accusing hands of his victims.

When she finally turned back to Adar, the force of his expression struck her like a physical blow. The careful mask was gone. His pale eyes burned with an untamed force, his lips were parted not in surprise, but in a silent, rapturous gasp. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the tendons in his neck standing rigid. He stared at her with a look of pure, unadulterated avarice. A hunger that was both carnal and spiritual, as if she had not merely executed a slaver, but had crowned herself his dark queen, and he was already on his knees.

A tense silence settled over the captains and quartermasters as they gathered around Sealord Father to give him the tally of their capture. Adar’s gaze, thoughtful and heavy, found Veanelen’s once more, holding it for a lingering moment as if the outsider were a mirror in which he sought to understand his own thoughts.

“Our casualties?” He asked them. 

“Twelve, no fatalities. Two from my ship and the rest from Captain Sauggath’s.” Thangat stated. 

“The enslaved?” He inquired, turning to Sauggath.

“One thousand and seventy-two, Sealord Father.” The young captain confirmed.

“Quartermaster Kalen double checked the count.” It struck Veanelen how, unlike Elven or Númenórean mariners, in an Uruk crew only a quartermaster would possess notions of both letters and numbers.

Adar’s focus shifted to Pohop, who had quietly joined the circle. “And of that number, how many will survive their injuries?”

“All of them, Sealord Father.” The healer affirmed. “Though some will require care from their own healers. The greater challenge is sustenance. They must be fed, and steadily. They are all malnourished.”

“A heconna tactic.” Draddau spat, the phlegm landing perilously close to Thanghat’s boot. “Starve ‘em. A hollow belly has no strength for fighting back.”

On the other side of the deck, Kalen stood over the spread out maps, his arms crossed as if physically wrestling with the problem. “They hail from five different regions. We can try  to drop them at a single point and let them travel on foot, but we’re still sorting those too weak to walk, and the children… Most are orphans. We’re still looking  to find adults willing to shepherd them home.”

Adar’s eyes narrowed as he pieced it together. “It would take us well past the Moot.” He concluded, voicing Kalen’s unspoken deduction. “That is, if we use this ship to ferry them.”

“Any crew could transport them and sail this kraken back to the island,” Kalen countered, his pragmatism cutting through the moral calculus. “But you know when she doesn’t report, they’ll send hunters. And this bitch is slow as maple in a blizzard.” He glanced at Adar, then at Veanelen, whose quizzical look seemed to remind her of the outsider’s presence. “Everyone you need at that Moot cannot be spared. Not a single one of us…”

The admiral’s eyebrows rose slightly. She had been embedded so thoroughly they now spoke of family secrets in her presence.

Thanghat swiftly changed tack. “We have a few new Uruk, Sealord Father.”

“And I trust you vetted them this time?” Adar’s tone was dry. “The last ‘recruit’ was a jilted lover who had robbed a pleasure house madam and fainted at the sight of Draddau.”

They approached a small group of the newly freed. Two young men, their handsomeness gaunt and haunted by recent ordeal, stood stiffly. Beside them, an older man clutched the hand of a small girl. The two brothers, Oman and Ollor, rose quickly from where they sat cross legged. And behind them all stood the spared Haradrim deckhand and the teenaged girl who had begged for his life.

Adar’s composure shattered. He rounded on Thanghat, a low snarl in his voice. “I gave an order. No witnesses.”

“No. You said by my leave. My capture, my ship, my rules.” Thanghat spoke quietly in fragments of Old Quendi and kept her hands at her side so no one could see her words to Sealord Father. Both hesitate for a moment, considering the fallout of Adar overstepping one of his captains, much less his more favoured captain. Thanghat gave them both an escape and flashed her typical smile. “I didn’t leave a witness, Sealord Father!” Thanghat retorted, unfazed. “Look! We gained two more fighting hands.” She gestured to the pair.

“A sellsword and one of his victims? This is your idea of who an Uruk should be?”

Before Thanghat could reply, Sauggath spoke, his voice soft yet clear. “A bird and a fish fell in love. They could only build their nest on a place of land and sea… An island.”

A stunned silence followed. Draddau looked as if he might cuff his son upside the head. Adar fixed a withering glare on Thanghat, who responded by widening her eyes and forcing a theatrical tremble to her lower lip. Veanelen disguised a sudden cough into her hand, wiping away a nonexistent speck to hide her amusement.

“Of course, a romance rivaling that of Lúthien and Beren. What good are they, Thanghat?”

“If having no home because you fell in love isn’t a reason to become an Uruk, then what have you been lecturing me about this whole time, Sealord Father?”

Adar scoffed, and then turned his attention to the two young men. “You two. Why do you wish to be Uruk?”

They spoke rapidly to Thanghat, who translated. “Their world is ash. They returned from a day’s fishing to find their settlement burned, their kin gone. The slavers took them. They have nothing to return to. They wish to join a crew, to ensure no one else suffers as they have. They do not seek just to live among us, but to fight with us.”

“We can always use fishermen.” Adar mused. “They can teach us while they recover and learn our tongues.” He then stepped before the man and the child, his eyes tracing the festering sores on their ankles. “And you?”

“He is a mason and sculptor,” Thanghat relayed. “The girl is not his blood, but she is from his village. He offers his skills with stone. He wishes to fight on our ships so the child may know safety among our people.”

“A mason… A creator.”  Adar said, his voice softening marginally. “Such hands are more valuable shaping stone than spilling blood, would you not agree? The child will be safe. We care for our own.”

Finally, he faced the brothers, Oman and Ollor. They did not flinch under his scarred, grey visage. They had been stolen, broken, and rescued by monsters, yet they stood firm, arms slung across each other’s shoulders in a united front. They were waiting. Not pleading but presenting themselves.

Adar gave a slow, deliberate nod towards the brothers. He moved to stand before the entire group, looking at each face in kind as if he were committing their visage to memory. When he spoke, his voice was clear and carried the weight of ages.

"You come to us from chains, from a world that uses beings as tools and discards them as refuse. You wish to become Uruk. Know first what that means.

To be Uruk is to be free. Not the freedom of an unshackled limb, but the freedom of a will that bows to no master and no king. We are a tribe, forged not by bloodline…But by choice. We are the shield for our own, the doom of our enemies.

I am called Sealord Father. This title was not seized by birthright but given to me by the will of the Uruk. And by that same will, it can be taken. We do not bow. We do not surrender.

You will have seven seasons and a day to learn our ways, to prove your mettle, and to show us the strength of your spirit. This is your trial. Should you endure it, should you bind your fate to ours, you will become Uruk. And once you are Uruk, you are Uruk for all your days. There is no returning.

This bond is sealed with blood. Not always the blood of an enemy spilled in battle, but the blood of your labour, the sweat of your toil, the unwavering loyalty in your heart. Your past is a wound. Let it heal. Your future begins now. Do you understand?"

Thanghat’s translation was swift, her fingers dancing in time with her words. As Adar’s speech settled over the group, Veanelen watched its effect play across their faces. She saw the flicker of awe, the shadow of old fears, and the slow burning kindling of hope. The mason’s expression was a war of doubt, his eyes clouded with the memory of chains. Then, his gaze fell upon the child beside him. He rested his work worn hands on her small shoulders, a gesture of profound responsibility, and the doubt cleared, replaced by a steady resolve. This, his nod seemed to say, this is our harbor. This is our home.

A poignant thought struck Veanelen: How many more are out there, lost and broken, who would find not just shelter, but a purpose, a people among the Uruk?

When the last word faded, the group did not disperse. They stood firmer, their postures straightening as if Adar’s words had physically fortified them. The silence that followed was not of hesitation, but of commitment.

“Very well,” Adar said, his voice softer now, the intensity of his speech giving way to the calm of decision. “They are now in Pohop’s care until we return to the settlement. Learn their names. Learn their stories. The mason will be recognised as the girl’s father in the eyes of our people. The boys will be welcomed as sons, their place within a family chosen by the Elders.”

His attention then shifted to the Admiral. The formal authority returned to his tone, but it was now layered with a newfound respect. “Ciriarāta Veanelen. Captain Thanghat and I would like to invite you and your senior crew to her ship tonight. We will share a meal and discuss the potential for an alliance. At sunset?”

“Of course, Sealord Father.” Veanelen replied, ceremoniously dipping her head. “I look forward to it.

The silent tension that had flowed between them was severed, replaced by the formal dictates of their stations: Sealord and Admiral. 

“Sealord Father, I overheard you trying to consider the logistics of transporting all of these people back to the mainland. Please let me know if either my crew or myself can be of assistance. With captain Thanghat’s permission, I would like to send them over as an extra set of hands to assist with the rescue and I am sure Pohop could use more help.

“She will be sure to appreciate that, Ciriārata, and I will pass it on.” Adar bowed slightly in her direction as he reached down to pick up the rope ladder to drop over the side where a boat waited to ferry Adar, Veanelen, and Draddau back to the 'Kartart-Burguul'. 

As the party prepared to disembark, Adar reached out, his hand gently stopping Kalen. He leaned close, his voice a low whisper that, in the sudden quiet, carried perfectly to Veanelen’s ears. “Make sure she is sober tonight, quartermaster.”

Kalen met his gaze, gave a curt nod, and continued walking without breaking stride. Once he was a few paces ahead, he muttered loud enough for the departing leaders to hear: “Aye, Sealord Father, and shall I put a hurricane in a fucking jar for you while I’m at it?”

Chapter Text

55 Nautical leagues west of Edhellond

21:00 8 lairë SA 3235

The first thing Veanelen noticed about captain Thanghat’s ship was the music and singing, audible from a distance even before they could make up the details of the cog in the dark. The Falmari admiral was sitting on a sail dinghy next to a dutiful Volarno, a curious Nárëwen, and the always friendly Vilverin. Veanelen was nervous about how Thanghat would interpret having Vilverin around, but she would never negotiate collaboration without her whisperer. The Ciria Lanca and the Drúedain ship were hooked together and the Elves were making sure both crews were safe without their leaders. Belda won everyone’s hearts and Nestamā speaks with the authority of the one keeping everyone alive. The worrisome and volatile part of both fleets was not on the vessels left behind, but on the one ahead of her. 

As they got closer, the voices continued their harmonies, despite singing in at least five different tongues. The voices were beautiful, the singing was joyful, and the lyrics were sordid. Odes to all the excesses of the flesh and to blood spilled in battle. Music and singing will put Elves in their best dispositio, did Adar plan the music for softening my senior officers? The only discordant note was the memory of gleeful carnage only hours before. Nevertheless, Veanelen was more eager to make a good impression on this young pirate than she had ever been with any Elven princes and kings.

The small white wood sailboat carved as well as a swan, her ‘cygnet’ as Panēle had joked centuries ago, reached the oaken cog by starboard. Veanelen could not stop hearing her own voice chanting ’Nampat’ in what now felt like a vengeful trance. It had been an overwhelming day even as she did not fight. Especially because that was not my fight and those were not my orders. Despite the scale of the prize, the entire effort now felt inconsequential. If they could build that monstruosity, they will build one hundred more until no one in Hendor is free, for greed is an insatiable beast. Vilverin’s rosy palm landed over the back of her own iron ore hand and, when Veanelen lowered her eyes, she noticed she had been digging on her own thigh over her linen long braies and her cerulean silk tunic. No maille, no armour, and no swords. This is a friendly visit to a fleet that wishes to ally themselves with us.

“You arrive just in time, Ciriarāta.” The too familiar voice of the ‘Ghost Elf’ responsible for this meeting made her look up at the dark hull, and stare at the pale light of Tilion highlighting every angle of his stone carved face, as the wind blew his midnight-black hair. “How long were you planning to stay there before requesting permission to come aboard?”

“Can you grant it, Sealord Father, or should I kindly request you summon the captain of this vessel for me to pay the proper respects?”

Adar’s growl was muffled by the roaring laughter of the blonde Double Natured woman walking towards the rail. When she looked down, her eyes shone next to the lantern, like violet pools of mischief and wonder. Veanelen giggled at the annoyance of the smug leader of the Uruk, and let out a wide smile that, for a second, made Thanghat imitate her as a joke intended for her eyes only. But Veanelen felt Vilverin’s stomach turn. The captain swiftly recovered her own grin, she granted them full access to her ship and rolled down the rope ladder. 

Veanelen was the first one to climb up and, before she swung her legs up the rail, she noticed a granite-grey hand offering her support to keep her balance. She stared at Adar's large hand with threateningly long fingernails before accepting it, she grabbed it with strength, and boarded with the Sealord Father as her escort. This is unusually traditional, are they being serious or mocking Elven manners? Behind her came Nárëwen and Vilverin, Volarno joined them after securing the cygnet. Ciriarāta faced captain Thanghat and took on a solemn tone. 

“It is a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, captain Thanghat.” The two women were smiling earnestly at each other. “On behalf of the officers of the Ciria Lanca, I thank you for your hospitality.” She handed her hostess a bag with enough indigo powder to dye her main sail or feed her crew for a season, if she traded it.

“Well met and welcome to the Flagit Ora-Nen, admiral.” Thanghat emulated Veanelen's enunciation as she weighed the sack. “Let’s talk and drink until we can only babble and crawl.” She pointed at Kalen and Adar. “These two barnacle-brains hid my wine, like I was five!”

Veanelen giggled at that description. Thanghat fixed her pupils on her and whispered in her ear: “It’s too soon to have that sound so close to me.” Causing Adar to sign her an instruction behind Veanelen's eye range. Veanelen felt that she had been inappropriately informal with her guest, if that was possible, and she courteously introduced the other members of her party by rank, and thanked Thanghat again for receiving them.

“The reason we asked to join you in your latest mission and why I called for this soirée is that Ciriarāta Veanelen insisted on meeting other captains of my fleet, and observing them work, before signing on the terms of the alliance.” Adar explained in Quenya while using the Silent Speech to threaten his favourite: “You promised to be on your best behaviour.”

“Yes, yes, I remember. You want the pretty admiral to be impressed with..." The captain exaggerated a wink. "Your 'giant capabilities'.”

Veanelen contained a chuckle at the silent conversation in reckless display, but the memory of Adar’s savage stare as she dealt brutal justice made her hold her breath to stop a rush of blood to her ears. The rawness of the moment would have made Veanelen uncomfortable even without the demonstration her young hostess made of her gift. The flash of her friend's temporary appetite and the confusion she felt with the realisation, were worsened by the unwanted exposure. The admiral tried to change the subject by speaking again in Quenya.

“We made some interesting discoveries in Rómenna, and we are looking forward to sharing with you the result of our inquiry.”

“I heard that your inquiry resulted in the new litter of feral Half-Elves for my Sealord Father to adopt.” 

Thanghat signed to Adar: “You're too old for having more children with a pretty Elf you just met.” Kalen immediately got in between his captain and Adar’s ire. The quartermaster offered the Falmari visitors a tour of their ship.

“It'll give her time to change to a new tunic without any fresh blood, before we meet them at the Captain's table.” The blonde man wore a fresh green tunic with delicate vine patterns in gold thread, that had the sleeves ripped to create a matching hair dress holding his recently washed braids.

“That sounds more like the merry lot I met earlier.”

“No merriment 'til she's had her first flagon of wine. No merriment for us anyways.” His tone was as dry as it was when he reported the number of casualties to Sealord Father.

The four elves walked down to the lower levels following Kalen. Veanelen smiled thinking about how different captain Thanghat is from Adar: where the Morion is hermetic, the Double Natured is spontaneous; where the ancient warrior is strategic and controlled, the young pirate is chaotic and seems to enjoy creating a spectacle; where Sealord Father seems moderate in his ways, the pirate captain is proud about her excesses. Yet they seem like two sides of the same force: Thanghat is the fire that burns fast and bright, while Adar is the ash that lingers and nurtures new growth. Both care deeply about bringing justice to those who are mistreated. And they will fiercely protect each other. Veanelen smirked at the recent memory of  territorial outburst from Adar before she gave him back the limerick written by Thanghat in an accounting book.

“Here we normally store the wine.” Kalen interrupted her thoughts, showing a door barred and chained with five locks. “Each key is with a different person in two ships.”

Volarno, Nárëwen and Vilverin were studying the distribution and the organisation of the vessel, if it could be called that. There was loot in the food storage, weapons in the canvas and ropes area, and makeshift beds everywhere. There was a designated sleeping space with hammocks for most of the crew, where blankets, clothes, boots and bottles of wine were left everywhere. From the aft cabin, turned infirmary, came a smell of ongoing fermentation. The ship had recently been scrubbed with sand, salt and pine oil, but the attempt left a trail where grim accumulated for months in the floor and walls. This works for them, they can hunt and take any slaver’s ship. Her trusted mariners looked appalled, Veanelen moved her hand upward in front of her face reminding them to control their facial expressions.

As Veanelen walked, she ran her left hand through the bulkhead, feeling the carvings of waves and sea creatures, her eyes passed one of those adornments still bearing colour but mutilated to give a fish head to match the scaled armour worn by the original figure. The Sea Guard chimera seemed an apt symbol for those who forsook their vows, and turned into grotesque sellswords for those fattening their coffers with the lives of the Children of Ilúvatar.

A door opened in front of them, Adar came out frowning deeper than usual and cursing under his breath in Black Speech. He signed to Kalen: “Did you stop to sing and dance with the night shift? What took you so long?” Then he met her eyes and parted his lips…—

“Honoured guests! Come in so we can finally pour the refreshments!” Thanghat’s voice cut off whatever Adar was about to say to Veanelen.

The Morion opened the door wide and guided them inside the ‘mess hall’ as he called it. Veanelen was glad to find the captain still wearing the same clothes she greeted her in: a short peach-coloured flax linen tunic over her battled brown leather breeches. The tunic was fitted to her comely shape and its orange hue brought up the lapis lazuli of the Peredhel’s irises, the turquoise accents on the hem, sleeves and collar, with embroidered seashells and bones revealed Usquiel’s skilled hand in the customised garment. Her broad leather belt held at least three knives but the sheathed falchion was hanging from the decorated partition behind its owner.

Adar escorted Veanelen to her seat on the bench at the left of Thanghat’s, who was lying in an armchair with the posture of a jellyfish, her blood stained knee boots on the head of the long ebony table that looked like it was used as a kitchen chopping board. Sealord Father arched his brow and Kalen led in Vilverin, while Volarno helped Nárëwen before taking his place next to his admiral.

As soon as Adar took his seat in front of Veanelen and to the right of their gracious hostess, Thanghat slapped the table calling for drinks. The same goodly redhead teen that Veanelen met earlier, covered in semi-coagulated blood, walked in with clean clothes and brought in four flagons. Kalen stood up and helped her bring them in. He left two at Thanghat’s side and two in the middle of the once elegant table.

“Elven wine from South Lindon.” Adar smirked as he poured a cup and offered it to Veanelen. “The lord Círdan is your distant kin, if I am not mistaken.”

“You know you are correct.” Veanelen took the chalice offered by the dark Elf sitting in front of her, and she smiled as she noticed the flowery notes of the sweet golden wine. “It was very thoughtful of Captain Thanghat’s crew to procure this fine bottle for Elves who do not favour reds.”

Adar turned to look at her and he slightly lifted one brow accompanied with an even subtler curving up of his lips, before returning to his usual frown.

“How did you get your hands on Duillond gold! This is for ceremonies and royal visits.” Nárëwen was so surprised that her words came out as accusatory. Veanelen shot a disciplinary glance on the way of her incendiary alchemist. ‘How’ do you think? The Admiral felt relieved at the sight of Vilverin gently placing her hand over Nárëwen’s.

“I could spend the entire evening talking about what drinks I enjoy; the one that I don’t, hasn't yet been brewed nor distilled.” Said Thanghat after gulping the two flagons without acknowledging Nárëwen’s question, and asking Sceli for three more in the Silent Tongue. “But we are not here to fuc-… I mean fornicate with  Ungoliath’s spawn.”

Volarno chuckled softly. Adar kicked the base of Thanghat’s armchair, the rocking made the sylph-like woman sit up straight and rephrase her invitation to the topic at hand.

“I heard you recently went to Númenor. It must be nice to be allowed to anchor there.” The blonde Double Natured leader fixed her deep blue eyes on Veanelen as she said that. “Did you find anything interesting?”

“The crown and high nobility are mostly unaware of where and how their labour comes from. They are told the enslaved oarsmen are criminals from their settlements in the mainland, and they make no attempt on proving that version. It is simply assumed that if the petty lords managing the colonies do something, it is lawful because they do it.” Veanelen paused and remembered her conversation with Rerisse, the house worker in the villa inhabited by Lord Amandil. “Not that they would truly oppose it if they knew, they have the custom of forcing their own into servitude, claiming that their wage only covers room and board.”

“They were getting ready for the fighting pits.” Volarno added. “The tavern’s keepers invited us to see the disgraceful grounds.”

“They were training foreign oarsmen and promised Númenórean servants that their gains would pay for their debts directly.” Explained Nárëwen.

“The fighting Peredhil were supposed to be the main attraction.” Said Vilverin. “For decimating the servants who were hoping to clean up their debts.”

“Your new recruits, Captain.” Veanelen emphasised by meeting Thanghat’s indigo eyes. “They were ready to justify the slaughter by claiming that the Double Natured are the product of unions forbidden by the Valar.”

The room fell so silent that Veanelen thought that she could hear a swan feather dropping as far as Alqualondë.

“That is the way the Númenórean guilds seek to justify themselves and their atrocities. We are sitting here because no one deserves to be robbed of their dignity. Regardless of the deeds of their makers.” Veanelen felt Adar glaring at her as she was facing his protégée, whose eyes were fully fixed on her face. “The slavers were so spineless that they made the enslaved fighters face us in combat.”

“It did not fare well for their treasonous crew.” Volarno added and gestured towards Adar, acknowledging his help. Veanelen smiled at her First Officer who was trying his best to overcome the bad blood between them.

Captain Thanghat let her jaw hang, still looking directly at Veanelen like the admiral’s face disgusted her as much as her words. Then she cackled like a seagull.

“I’ve never seen a noble Eldar looking guilty! Kalen, you have to look at the face of High-Elf guilt! Hurry before the Valar strike me down for the crime of me parents fuck- I mean making love.” Thanghat nodded towards Adar to show she was trying to not use the most common word in her vocabulary for the sake of their company.

Veanelen smirked and drank from her cup. She had been laughing at Thanghat’s taunts against Adar, at some point she was going to become the target of the woman’s jests. Either she was being teased because the woman was including her, or because she was being tested.

“You may call it guilt, if that agrees with what you have seen of my company and me, captain.” Veanelen said with a genuine smile. “It should be noted that it was not guilt what held our hands, and prevented us from killing the Double Natured sent to fight us.”

“Oh I’d have cut them right in half. If anyone knows how insanely deadly a Half-Elf can be, it’s me. Now I have to teach them to hold a spoon and not pull down their pants to scratch their balls while they try to rip my throat out with their teeth.” The young leader said, still laughing at Veanelen's meditations.

“I have lived enough to witness how people in my position are praised as wise and kind for espousing the same ideas you have, while people born outside of a famous family are deemed as ‘dangerous’ and disturbers of peace.” Veanelen gestured to her comrades. “We are here because you could benefit from our reputation and connections, to be even more dangerous. Let us perturb together the appearance of peace that shrouds the unspoken atrocities."

The young captain’s face lit up like the first sunrise after a storm and she said: “Sealord Father spoke of your special weapon that allows you to burn full ships at a distance, will you teach me?” 

Veanelen looked at Nárëwen, the Ciria Lanca’s alchemist was one of the few in Aman who had the authority to decide with whom the knowledge is shared. She deferred the formal answer to the admiral.

“If the occasion arises, we will light Eressëan fire together.”

“Why are you offering this?”

“I have spent too long hunting pirates and finding the tracks of enslavers. I cannot act by myself without starting a war that will take many lives and extinguish entire houses.” She smiled defiantly. “Together we can force nobles and merchants to change their ways by suffocating the trade.”

“You suffocate a fly that got caught in your favorite drinking cup. Oh no, admiral, I do believe we are beyond any gentle smothering or quiet strangulations in the dark. Why not a full-blown war, admiral?” The captain asked through narrowed eyes. “You promised ‘nampat’ to the enslavers! Justice for the victims. We all want to see a pretty admiral causing suffering to terrible men! Don’t we, Sealord Father?”

Veanelen almost lost her line of thought, when she and Adar shared a fleeting involuntary side glance.

“Today the wrath of Ossë simmered the salt in my veins. His tempestuous nature joined my indignation at witnessing the scale of the cruelty of Men. Nonetheless my mission is an extension of the mercy of Uinen.” Veanelen saw Adar tightening his lips in anger with the corner of her eye, while she looked at his captain. “These men deserved their punishment, but they committed their heinous crimes because they were allowed: encouraged by the powerful and met no resistance from the powerless.”

“You're a warrior. A damn good one from what I’ve heard.” Thanghat said cynically. “Got to see this one’s squid ink up close I hear.” The captain pointed her knife at her Sealord Father and winked at the mention of the colour of his blood.

Veanelen searched for Vilverin, doubtful of how open she could be with this intelligent young woman. Her first archer nodded subtly. When she lifted her gaze, she met a smug smirk on Adar, testing her honesty among allies.

“Has your Sealord Father shared with you the memories of the wars he fought?” The hair on the back of her head raised and she felt a shiver down her spine. “He is still working to build a home after the latest one.” Veanelen deepened her voice and projected it: “War will create thousands of orphaned children, of displaced villages, war will raise to power men who excel in violence, regardless if they are unjust.” Veanelen finished her drink just to emphasise. “I want to end the slave trade, not to give it voids to thrive in.”

“How are you planning your ‘non violence’ to work with an opponent who has no conscience?” The Double Natured captain sounded like she was already bored with Veanelen lukewarm stances.

“I never said that we would not apply violence, captain.” The Elf smiled again. “I said ‘Nampat’ for those who would stand against the Uruk and the Falmari.”

Thanghat stared at Veanelen, new flagons of wine came in, and she gulped them to make her own dramatic pause. Sceli stayed near Kalen, curious about the discussion. The pirate captain sat again like a sentient octopus in an armchair, pointed her finger at Veanelen but faced Adar.

“I can see why you like her so much, Sealord Father.” Her mocking grin was wide. “What is in it for you, High-Elf?”

“Avoiding or delaying war is my mission.” She pointed at her Elven party and spoke of the same motivation that kept her in the Gaiar instead of at a splendid court. “It makes our lives easier while we keep at bay the corruption that Morgoth left in the world.”

“On that note, Ciriarāta.” Nárëwen interrupted her admiral and liege. “The Falmari fleet needs an assurance.”

“Of course we do.” Veanelen nodded at her siblings to let them know she would never forget a promise she made to them, she took her hand to her chest and extended it towards them. She turned to face Adar. “We need more details on how you killed Sauron. We must explain to my council and our Ciriaran why we are joining forces with a warrior who formerly served the Black Foe.”

The metallic claws in the ominous gauntlet created dark meanders in the ebony table, and the Morion controlled the glint of fury behind his pupils before speaking: “Ciriarāta, with all due respect to your noble person and your king Olwë, that truth is worth more than just your fine swan boat.” Adar said in a disregarding tone, he pressed his lips together while slightly snaring with disgust. 

“What about two hundred swan boats, each carrying skilled mariners and fighters?” She used her warmest tone and most alluring smile.

“You have two fucking hundred ships!” Thanghat slapped her own buttock. “Sealord Father, take out that three piked atrocity you keep with your knickers!”

“Sma-Hrizg.” Adar muttered under his breath.

“What ‘three piked atrocity’?..” Cold sweat ran through her back as Veanelen was hit by the realisation: “Do you mean the crown of Morgoth?” Veanelen faced the Morion, afraid that her jaw might just hit the table and the pitch of her voice may have attracted a pod of dolphins. “You keep the crown of Morgoth? In a chest with your undergarments!”

The four elves could not understand how one of the symbols of power and corruption was still in Middle-Earth, nor how could Adar be so cavalier about it. Why was he keeping it? Is he wearing it when we are not around? Her panicked mussing was interrupted by Adar sighing deeply. He walked to the door of the cabin and called an Uruk name Veanelen had not heard before. While Adar was using the Silent Tongue, Thanghat was louder than ever.

“Two hundred ships! For two hundred ships I’ll marry you!”

“Thank you, captain. I am flattered. And If you were just one thousand years older, I might consider that offer.”

“You oldsters! Take Kalen and put him to good use… Nah, he's useless.”

“Do you have someone on your crew who looks Númenórean?”

“Are you…into Númenóreans?” Adar had returned to his seat and his menacing stare failed to rein in the captain. “I can get you one: man, woman... Woman! Or both? Both! Washed up and oiled up in a few hours if you can wait here. Or unwashed, if you’re playing the slummed down princess!”

“I beg your kindest pardon?” Veanelen pretended to fan her own face and everyone laughed, including her. “I need to deliver a message to a loyal Númenórean lord, but we cannot go unnoticed in that port-”

The Uruk came in carrying a small chest, the wood was darkened by the passage of time, and it had no lock. Adar opened it ceremoniously and, under a pile of scrolls, there was a black metal crown. Adar took it out with the care he would carry a new born, the reverence Veanelen observed he had for a starry moonless night, and the dread of laying in a nest of vipers. He walked towards Veanelen displaying the ancient trapping of dark power.

“Is this the evidence you wanted?” Adar asked with a deeper voice, resonating from the centre of his armoured chest. “I was there when the one you call Sauron resized it after Morgoth's defeat. He ordered me to place it on his head, in front of Morgoth's remaining subjects, to crown him as the new ‘Dark Lord’. A century earlier, I might have done it.” Veanelen could see and hear the shame overpowering him when he said the last part. “But he had forced me to sacrifice too many of my children, searching for a power of the Unseen World that would allow him to enslave the entirety of Endórë. He called it ‘healing’.” Adar snarled again, filled with old resentment. “Instead of adoringly placing this crown over his alabaster temples,” Adar turned the profane relic facing down: “I stabbed him in the neck while he was kneeling in front of me.” He imitated the movement with the same strength he used on his former paramour.

Veanelen could perceive how Adar’s lip was slightly trembling, and his breath was even faster than when they dueled. He did not let anyone touch the cursed object, not that anyone reached for it. Veanelen tried to look for whatever substituted the Silmarils in this reforged form. But Adar put it away, and slammed the chest closed.

“One does not simply wound a Maia. This otherworldly object weakened Him enough for my Children to deliver multiple stabs and earn their own freedom.” Adar recovered his composure and the mention of his Children brought warmth back to his raspy voice.

“Nor one simply kills a Maia, how can you be certain he is forever banished?” Veanelen asked, both curious and adding a new anxiety to her ever more frequent sleepless nights.

“I will never be free of doubt, Ciriarāta. Thus my insistence on building a home for the Uruk outside of Endórë.” He looked straight into her eyes, with a thunderstorm in his. “I was made aware that, if He returns, I will be in dire need of good allies. And He would hate to see us with friends.” Veanelen thought that she perceived the shadow of a wink, when Adar used her own words to call for the mending of their alliance.

“If he ever comes back, we will make him wish he never did, aþaro.” She left it to her gaze to quietly say the missing part: Or die trying.

Captain Thanghat immediately found her own way to reassure her mentor: “We are stabbing him again with that atrocity in your knickers, Sealord Father!”

Adar kept his intense stare on Veanelen as he held the chest guarding the crown of the Black Foe of Arda. And Veanelen felt the same oppression on her chest as she felt when the vanguard under her command broke into the dungeons of Angband. It is like Morgoth was never completely sent to the Void. Veanelen felt a shiver down her spine, her chest empty of breath, and a roaring laughter brought her back to the Captain’s table in the cabin filled with Atani oil lamps where Thanghat was holding court.

“Did he really beg you for mercy, Ciriarāta?” Volarno was asking for confirmation of the pirate’s anecdote. Veanelen could not link the events of this day with anything that might cause the hilarity that brought her back.

“For my help.” Veanelen answered, unable to control a subtle stutter.

“Like YOU would ever aid a slaver just because he is from a noble house!” Volarno took a long drink of strong Duillond gold, and captain Thanghat personally refilled his cup with a wicked and charming smile. “Let me tell you: if anybody knows how despicable some nobles can be, it is my liege, the worst ones are the ones we cannot immediately hang down the hull.”

The admiral could not believe how talkative Volarno was, but she saw Vilverin was relaxed and that gave her reassurance. Veanelen lifted her face and she could not see Adar in the cabin. She tried to find water in the flagons, but there was only wine or air in them. The Admiral picked up two empty containers, she went out of the room and closed the door behind her. But to keen Elven ears, the conversation continued easily audible:

“How long have those two been fuc-… playing the Elf with two backs?”

“Captain. No.” Vilverin’s voice was the last thing the Ciriarāta heard before venturing to the halls of the Flagit Ora-Nen in search of its pantry.

Veanelen descended to the lowest level and walked back to the stern, she found the pantry but there were no barrels of freshwater there; the Admiral searched for the kitchen in a different below-level and it was not by the stern. The mariner Elf walked between rooms with Peredhil sleeping in hammocks or in makeshift beds on the floor, she went past rooms where the crew was drinking strong herbal liquor, smoking earthy hemp flowers and singing tritones in three tongues.

The Admiral finally found the kitchen and filled the water flagons, she drank half of one and refilled it. When she was looking for the ‘chaos room’, is that what Kalen called it? She realised she was also in dire need of salty air and, hopefully, some answers from her mother’s folk about the gifted captain. She crossed the deck to the prow of the ship, ready to see silver hair playing on the bow waves. Instead, a more lugubrious figurehead adorned the horizon: a Morion in silent lamentation.

Veanelen turned on her heels to give him some privacy, and perhaps escape the scandalous accusations raised against them from both sides of this alliance.

“Ciriarāta.” A beckoning in a baritone. Veanelen’s feet obeyed the raspy voice instead of her good judgment, and she suddenly found herself standing side by side with the ancestral father of a race cursed by their master.

“I was looking for water and fresh air.” She explained herself although Adar did not question her presence there.

“Hardly appropriate for a guest to be inspecting every room in search of water. Since when do royal Elf-Maids fetch their own refreshments?” Adar was looking at her as intensely as he did before leaving the meeting. He no longer had the black wooden chest with him.

“Since I took to the high seas, serving Ulmo instead of my own pride.” Veanelen spoke defensively, Adar’s stare still interrogating her intent. “And if you need proof that I can find the kitchen, one day you may taste my waybread.” He moved forward and took one of the flagons from her hand.

“Let me be the host you and your senior officers deserve, since the captain of the Flagit Ora-Nen never thinks about water.” His exposed hand grazed her fingers as he took the second pitcher from her.

Adar kneeled briefly and left the two containers on the floorboards. When he stood up again, he was closer to Veanelen and grabbed her forearm with his gauntlet.

“Did you mean what you said?” Adar’s voice was deep, coarse and he sounded like he was gasping for air. “I know that you would fight Him if he returns. You are the Admiral, that is what you do.”

“Then what are you asking?” Veanelen cocked her head and gave her friend an inquisitive look.

“I am asking if you will fight Him by my side?” Adar shut his eyes for a moment and took a long breath. “As my ally. Not as an Elven hero, but with me, because you care about me and my Children.”

“You know I will fight the Dark Lord because he is a threat to all the free peoples of Endórë.” Veanelen pressed Adar’s forearm. “Now I know that, if he rises again, Sauron will seek to enslave your Children and take vengeance against you for what he will see as a betrayal.” Veanelen ran her hand down her ally's lower arm, she intertwined her fingers with his armoured gauntlet, and brought the spiked back of his hand to the centre of her leather surcoat, over the embroidered pearl and silver swan soaring towards a white sapphire star above the sea. “I will never leave my mālo alone against such a foe. We make each other stronger.”

Adar took a long deep breath looking straight into her eyes, without allowing her to see anything other than the black opal of his irises under the moonlight, then he concurred: “We make each other stronger.”

“Why do you keep it?” Veanelen need not name the malignant artefact for Adar to understand her.

“It cannot be destroyed, in case he returns. Who else can I trust to guard it without donning it?” Adar’s voice came from the deep abyss of time. Weary of witnessing generations succumbing to the temptation of power since the beginning of life in Arda.

Veanelen could feel his loneliness. Who else around him could even remember what that crown meant? “I guess you are the only one willing to make that sacrifice, the way you were the one who, for the wellbeing of your Children… Sacrificed what at the time felt like love.”

Her mālo still held her fingers, Veanelen felt the weight of his gauntlet on her manubrium. Adar exhaled his old forbidden grief, as he used his good hand to place two loose braids behind her ear, and when his eyes found hers he whispered: “Meldë…”

“The meeting cannot continue without us.” Veanelen interrupted her ally and withdrew from his proximity. She was certain that the ocean spray lifted by the wind was laughing at her cowardice. She tried a smile to cover her shame for her juvenile reaction. “Did you send for Draddau to join us? As much as he would hate to spend long hours surrounded by ‘harp players’, he would hate it more if he was not part of the strategy.”

“I might need to find him myself and convince him to come with me.” Adar kept his intense stare but a subtle side grin now graced his granite face, Veanelen did not notice how she beamed at the sight of it.

“You do that, mālo. I will fulfill ‘my duties’ and fetch water for the dinner party.” Veanelen picked up the two flagons and laughed at her own unfunny joke. When she turned around and walked away, she could still feel Adar’s eyes on her.

The Admiral sped up her pace, swiftly she reached the cabin where she could hear Volarno’s nervous laughter and, above all, the strident voice of captain Thanghat:

“Agreed! Kalen will take note of everyone’s guess…”

Veanelen opened the door holding the prized liquid as a trophy from a long campaign.

“Admiral! I could have told you where the kitchen was! I hope you found everything you needed.”

The knowing grin of the blonde captain was not mocking her, but it blocked any possible attempt at denying the importance of the conversation between her and her friend. Thanghat sat again on her throne as if nothing was more painful than a straight spine, and everyone else was a voice melding in a choir she directed.

Adar walked into the cabin with a dour expression, books and scrolls from his cabin, and a pulsating feeling on the back of his left hand. His armoured hand. Sealord Father placed his precious collection of evidence in the centre of the long wooden table without taking his eyes from the Elven admiral who just pledged twice, once in public and once in private, to help him fight off his disembodied Maia lover, if he dared to return.

“Twas supposed to be food here." Behind him growled Draddau, who had to be both bribed with sweet sesame cakes and coerced before agreeing to spend his evening surrounded by ‘so many fucking Elves’.

Volarno jumped from the bench and found a wide stool, he silently offered it to the Uruk, so he would not have to fit his misshapen leg between the table and the already crowded bench. Adar saw Veanelen subtly giving an approving nod and a luminous wholehearted smile to her first officer.

“The cooks are drunk again.” Adar gave a fulminating look to his source of pride and humiliations.

“Don’t look at me like that! You and fuc-… bloody Kalen conspired with some fuc-… disloyal members of both crews to keep all the fuc-… damn keys away from me.” Thanghat then shrugged while filling Volarno’s goblet with a worrisome smirk that the ello did not acknowledge.

“No. I warned you.” He signed quickly to his Little Pain. Then he spoke to the room. “I hope none of our guests are averse to raw fish. I can vouch for its freshness because my crew just caught it.”

Adar sat on the bench and Thanghat continued infuriating him in the Silent Tongue under the table: “I was good, I deserve a treat. This treat has hazel eyes.” Adar snarled and signed back: “Fortunately they did not bring the one Elf who looks like Tulkas.” He stood up as fast as his remaining Quendi nature allowed him to ignore whatever insult she had below that arched brow and twisted smirk. Sealord Father strode behind the partition, he picked up more scrolls and ledgers from the dusty shelves, and charts from the messy private table. He wrinkled up his nose at the gunge on the furniture.

When Adar returned to the long table, Veanelen was rubbing the rim of her chalice with her fingertip as she spoke with Thanghat. Adar only started listening mid-sentence as he laid the records he wished to show them.

“... pickled turnips, cabbages and gherkins, maybe some hard cheeses, and preserved fruit.”

“Guests do not bring their own food.” Adar tried to sound courteous to the admiral while reprimanding the Half-Elf.

“Nonsense, aþaro, you and captain Thanghat just treated us to one of the best varieties of wine in Endórë.” She said without lifting her face up, looking towards Thanghat. She brought Volarno’s cup near her with one hand, while still playing with her own goblet with the other. “Sharing a meal is a sign of friendship and this is a momentous occasion, we would be honoured to contribute.”

“Elf food sounds better than no food.” Draddau spoke after lifting from his lips the mead skin he brought for himself.

“All those options pair well with raw fish. I will bring a sharp knife to slice it very thinly.” Veanelen turned to speak to Draddau and she even attempt to sign "fish" and "knife."

“Stay here.” Adar said with a snarl, looking at the suddenly evasive elleth. “We have work to do while quartermaster Kalen finds someone sober to bring in something to soak up the ceremonial Elven wine.”

“I’ll sooner find a cave troll.” The Half-Elf boy muttered already on his way out of the cabin.

“Work?” Thanghat spoke in Quenya and signed simultaneously. “We already worked. We won. We celebrate our win, their doom, and the promise of two hundred ships.” Then she signed: “Fuck work.”

“But Ciriarāta here is always on duty. Observing us, assessing us, and pondering how we fit in her strategy and planning. What is the point of a gathering if it is not for a grand strategy?” The rasp in Adar's voice tasted like bile.

Sealord Father finally succeeded in getting her attention. The admiral looked up slowly as she sank her fingernails in her own palm. She lifted her gaze and her dark amber eyes shone like a furnace melting ore. The Elf cocked her head with incredulity and her thin black and blueish silver braids fell behind her back clearing the view of her long bronze neck tense as a cordage, she pressed her lips tight as she took a long breath. When his ally straightened her spine and rolled back her shoulders, Adar regretted his words. The swan on her surcoat seemed ready to descend on him like a raptor.

“One might mistake your reactions as ‘cuntish’, but I’d never say such things about you.” Thanghat signed discreetly and Adar agreed.

Veanelen spoke with a regal composure that felt more chilling than the roar of a foulbeast: “You are the one who called for an evening of conviviality with our senior officers, Sealord Father.” She pointed her slender finger at him like a coppery dagger. “If you meant for this to be a war council, you should have said so when you extended your invitation. Instead of insulting me and your captain for failing to meet your unspoken expectations.”

Thanghat turned to look at Veanelen and widened her eyes, but moved her upper body away from her. Then she turned to look at Adar and signed below her waist: “Fucking sit your sore grey arse down and let me fix this.”

“Allies! Friends!” Thanghat spoke to the table, but looked straight at Vilverin like someone confirming a command with an agreed-upon code. Then she turned to Veanelen whose ire had been replaced by a deeply hurt demeanour. “Uruk get real mad when they're hungry, innit, Draddau?” She did not wait for him to show support. “That's why their blood is black! It's really bile that works up when they don't feast after a battle. Makes them bitter and they forget their fucking manners.”

“Apologies to everyone.” Adar said, looking Veanelen in the eye. “I promised I would control my temper.”

“At least this time you fired sour words at me instead of crushing the windpipe of my right hand.” She placed a protective hand on Volarno’s shoulder. As soon as Veanelen said the words, Thanghat’s jaw dropped and her hands fell to her lap. Ciriāta continued: “I will call that ‘progress’ on account of the reasonable explanation given by captain Thanghat.” The admiral’s voice was still cold, but she seemed willing to move past his transgression. Adar dipped his head and stared at his own clawed hand.

“Volarno and I will help quartermaster Kalen harry something to nibble on.” Nárëwen rose, pulling Volarno’s elbow and, by the time she finished her sentence, both Elves were by the door. The strawberry blonde turned back before exiting. “Sceli dear, would you be so kind as to show us the way?”

Sceli nodded and caught the ella’s extended hand before disappearing behind the door. Adar could not tell how long the teen ginger Peredhel had stood frozen at the end of the table. He only knew that his venom paralysed a young girl very dear to him. He felt his black heart shrinking. The alchemist will make sure she does not come back to this room tonight.

Vilverin had moved next to Ciriarāta and was holding her hand, the two ellas were talking with Thanghat about how she had turned the captain’s cabin into an infirmary.

“Nestamā has a well resourced healing cabin, and I usually give away the use of mine to anyone who gets injured and their spouse. But I have not adapted a space for me to go on those rare occasions. I just set a hammock between stanchions under the castle.”

Veanelen seemed more comfortable around Thanghat now. At least that went according to the plan. It was the first time he saw his captain interacting with one of the Eldar. That intelligent girl would have followed all the lore masters around, harassing them with questions. And she would have learned to write in different alphabets, she would have used her gift to bridge the rift between Elves and Dwarves. He felt a slight curve on his lip imagining her learning to sail out of curiosity and Sea Yearning instead of need. Elven pride made them lose the best of them.

Adar noticed a humming sound and wondered how long he had been ignoring it. He looked around and noticed it came from Vilverin. Adar felt suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of guilt, not from his recent actions, this was over the death of Panēle. Adar furrowed his brow without fighting his flashing guilt. His regret was not for killing the beautiful redheaded Falathrim, but for driving her to her death. For recruiting her from her insular refuge, for annoying her, for suffocating her, for driving her away with his need for love, and for not being by her side in the battlefield. The reason of his waking mind told him that those were not his memories, although there was no one else inside him, he could not shake off those painful emotions. The Morion looked at the Elves and he could not hear what they were saying. He could only feel that Panēle’s lips were the only ones he was allowed to ever kiss. The pang vanished as suddenly as it came.

Adar held his breath for a moment and looked at the green-eyed ella with what he wanted to be fury, but he could not muster that anger. Her humming had stopped but her palm was still over the hand of her liege lady. Adar could only hear his own pulse in his temples and, when he gasped for air, Veanelen gasped softly almost at the same time. Then his meldë turned to him with a subtle smile and her almond eyes had recovered their warmth.

“I am glad Sealord Father shared with you my offer.” The admiral returned her gaze to the charming Half-Elf. “We have been teaching the Drúedain recruits to sail their tall ship.” Veanelen was shaking Thanghat's hand. “We can divide the survivors of that horrid hauler between both vessels and divide our crew to take them to safety.”

“We rendezvous en route to the Uruk settlement.” Vilverin spoke cheerfully, and the Peredhel captain gave the brown-haired Falmari a wink and the toothiest grin Adar had ever seen her display..

“Ciriarāta, you should join us in the next mission.” Adar finally found his voice again.

“A new mission already? We are just presenting this loot.” Volarno’s slowed down tempo made his joke even worse. But he came carrying the jars of pickled vegetables his admiral mentioned earlier. And a chopping board with thinly sliced white fish.

“Can you believe those fuckers had an oven on board?” Kalen carried a basket and he left the clear liquor bottle next to his cousin. “They had fresh bread for the sellswords and boatswains! Bread and butter!”

Nárëwen walked immediately after them and offered one jar specifically to Draddau: “This root and leaves are preserved with the burning berries from the southernmost ports of Far Harad.” She then unfolded the waxed cotton wrapping the hard cheeses and cured meats, then placed them on a large clay platter set at the centre by Kalen. Volarno was already arranging the pickled gherkins and olives next to the meats, and preserved apples next to the cheeses.

“Your favourite, Ciriarāta.” The black haired ello presented with a flourish a jar of raspberry jam and Veanelen's dimpled smile filled the cabin.

“Now that we are all here, and we have a proper feast to go with the superb wine.” She smirked, pretending not to notice how Volarno snaked his arm on the table to reach his newly overflowing goblet. “Do you want to share with us an abridgement of this new mission, aþaro?”

“I do.” Adar curled his lips and stood looking at everyone at the table. “But first we should raise our glasses and toast to an alliance between Uruk and Falmari.” His arm was already up, and he looked at Veanelen before trying something: “The Just Maid of the Eldar gave an exemplary show of strength and compassion.” Adar saw Veanelen lowering her gaze, slightly embarrassed at the public compliment. “And now that our people have broken bread together, we can act like one force for liberation.” Adar intentionally growled the Black Speech: “Nampat.”

“Nampat!” the table answered as a well rehearsed chorus.

“Almíen.” The admiral added immediately before taking her chalice to her bow-shaped rose gold lips.

“My favourite word in Quenya!” Thangat gulped her Duillond Gold. “Almíen, everyone!” She drank straight from the delicate crystal bottle holding the juniper-scented liquor.

Adar sat and he silently grazed from the platter looking at the group. Veanelen was nibbling on an olive and hovering over the charts he laid earlier on the table. Sealord Father observed Ciriarāta focused on the trident marks in some of the naval maps. Adar was about to explain, but she spoke first asking for confirmation:

“These are the locations of captured vessels trafficking enslaved people.” She pointed at the apparently random points. Then to one on the shores south of the Bay of Belfalas, a few dozen leagues from the mouth of the river Anduin. “The infamous shipyard, I presume.”

Adar nodded and grinned at her. They were both trying to normalise their dialogue after his unfortunate display of saltiness. I was such a twat. But she was reaching out and Adar could not be more grateful.

“It was easy to find after stealing enough captain logs, and encouraging a similar number of pilots to unburden their chests from such inhumane knowledge.” Adar saw his friend chuckle at his joke and silence her own laughter. He frowned and tilted his head asking her to explain that uncharacteristic restraint.

“Your captain does not like it when I giggle.” Veanelen was obviously biting the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing and the controlled expression deepened her disarming dimples. She reached for a smaller bound booklet.

“May I show you what we do with that?” Adar lifted his gauntleted hand asking permission to get closer to her.

Veanelen nodded and took the notebook to open it. Near her, Nárëwen, Vilverin and Draddau were discussing fiery foods from different shores in Arda. Thanghat and Kalen were clownishly reenacting for Volarno the execution of the hired sailors and sellswords. Adar walked around the abandoned armchair and reached the Elven leader. She opened the journal in a random page and read the date.

“This is from three years ago… These coordinates are near the mouth of the Lefnui river.” Veanelen spoke with an absent look, visualising Arda not like a bird or a land dweller, thinking about shores and landmarks, but like a creature dependent on waterways.

“Some inhabitants give that area a Sindarin name: Anfalas.” Adar pointed at his notes in Tengwar.

“Anfalesse.” Veanelen translated ‘long beach’ to Quenya, then looked at him asking to elaborate.

“We found the name of the man paying for all this: for the shipyards, for the kidnappers, for the sellswords…” Adar started listing his crimes.

“For the hidden storage houses and live auctions in Elenna.” Veanelen’s expression was that of someone who just tasted something foul.

Adar arched his brow and growled a friendly recrimination: “You had not shared that detail with us, aþaro.”

“We are sharing now…” Veanelen smiled in an enchanting way. “Will you share the name with me?”

Adar nodded: “Elön-Mírener.” Adar saw Veanelen wrinkle her nose with opprobrium at the sound of the mention. “You have had the pleasure.”

“Of course that leech is paying for all this suffering! Ten years ago his lord father left him in charge of the family fortune, they own emerald mines in Elenna.” Veanelen had to take a long drink. “Own! Those are the gifts of Aulë and Yavanna, the Númenóreans now claim them for one family only.” She scoffed. “I gather he stopped paying for the labour surfacing the gems.”

Adar drank and he enjoyed observing her fair face gesticulating as she placed all the pieces of the Edain puzzle together.

“You know his sister married that anglerfish Zimrathon? She had the silk twine workshops!” Veanelen gagged. “Those workshops had a shortage five years ago, silk became even more costly. Zimrathon let go of all the spinners, but his shops always have high quality silk.”

“I was not invited to the wedding ceremony, if you could believe such an appalling omission, and I do not usually buy silk… We mostly resell it in other ports.” Adar chuckled. “But I see you have never trusted his lordship.”

“Never.” Veanelen shook her head. “I knew what kind of man he was the first time I met him, and he spoke of people like they were objects. He ignored the law long enough that Númenórean nobility quietly rewrote it so that it did not apply to him.”

“You know Atani would do anything to prove that they used their little time on Arda to leave ripples when they are gone. No matter how vile those ripples are.” Adar said with a judgmental tone.

“I agree with Rúmil when he said that people could not become truly righteous unless they also had the opportunity to be definitively wicked.” Veanelen looked not at his eyes but through them. “Some who stop wicked acts, do that savagely because they do not care for being seen as righteous.” She smirked divertingly, shrugged her round shoulders under the soft fabric of her tunic, and then she pointed at a different page of his journal: “Whose route is this one? Who are you tracking?”

Adar dedicated a moment to read over her shoulder and caught her salty scent: “That would be the ‘Flagit Ora-Nen’, I always track its locations in case it is sunk.”

“The Senior here loves worryin’, admiral. You’ve noticed?” Thanghat had joined them while he was too distracted to take notice. “I told Sealord Father he needn’t do that. I for sure can’t be captured! And Draddau taught us how to scuttle a struggling wooden lass, even if it’s big like this one!”

“Is this not the first vessel you command, captain?” Veanelen asked, fascinated by the Peredhel's confidence.

“We had a daggy little thing before we met Sealord Father.” Thanghat drained her wine with the enthusiasm of a woman who considered sobriety a personal insult. “He was spending some ‘time out’ in the belly of this beast when we came to meet him. We killed all the Númenórean sailors and kept their cog.”

Veanelen leaned forward, refilling Thanghat’s goblet with an amiable smile. “Your ship,” she began, voice light, “its name is Black Speech, yes? I only ask because your artful tattoos are written in Quenya, and Sealord Father said you had come from a region that spoke Haradrim.”

Adar’s head turned slightly, his interruption smooth. “And Sindarin. Their village was Peredhel. They spoke Sindarin more than Haradrim.”

Thanghat’s jaw twitched, but she masked her annoyance by slamming back the rest of her wine. Shielding them, Veanelen noted. Even now.

“It’s Black Speech.” Thanghat said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sealord Father’s rule we learned it and Silent Tongue or swim home.”

Veanelen remembered Adar giving seven seasons and one day to the new recruits from the freed hauler, and wondered if she would also have only seven seasons starting today to be fluent. “And the meaning?”

Thanghat’s grin was slow, wicked. “‘Foul Wind From Below.’”

Silence. All the attendants nibbling from the common platter and filling flagons of wine froze. A knife fell on the black wooden table. Even the lantern flames seemed to flicker in disbelief. Adar, who was marking locations where they had looted emeralds, had not noticed, but Volarno did.

The ello barked a laugh. “You named it that?” His voice carried, sharp with delight. “It sounds almost dignified in Black Speech!”

Uinen have mercy, my officer drank more than all your fishes. Like a spark to tinder, the crew erupted. Draddau groaned and muttered “Harp players and shit jokes.”

Adar’s gaze snapped to the laughter, his brow furrowing. “Explain the humour.”

Veanelen’s stomach dropped. He does not know. The admiral realised she just ignited a new falling out between captain Thanghat and Sealord Father. Thanghat, meanwhile, looked like a cat who had cornered a very slow bird. She stretched her arms behind her head, grin widening.

Volarno, drunk on fortified golden wine and now filled with the hubris of Adar being the butt of a joke, did not sense the danger despite his history with the infamous Ghost Elf. “You mean you do not know?”

Adar’s hands folded in front of him, his gauntlet squeezing his bare hand as if both were holding the other back from committing violence. “Enlighten me.”

Thanghat sat back in the armchair, kicked her boots and twisted herself to pull her legs up crossed under her. “It means ‘fart,’ Sealord Father. Crew voted. ‘Ulmo’s Balls’ was my choice, but I figured you’d keelhaul me for blasphemy.” She toasted him with her goblet and drank deeply.

I would keelhaul her to appease what such blasphemy would awaken. The room held its breath.

Veanelen shivered when she heard Adar's glacial tone. “You named a warship… after flatulence.”

“A fast warship.” Thanghat corrected. “And it’s accurate. You should hear the timbers creak in a storm.”

Volarno wheezed, slapping the table and turned towards Adar. “And you approved this?”

Adar grinded his teeth so loudly that the laughter died instantly. Thanghat, still lounging, had the audacity to wink at him. Veanelen closed her eyes. Oh, Ulmo, take me now.

“You certainly keep your warship smelling like its name, captain.” Adar finally spoke between grunts. He took a long drink from his goblet. After a long deep breath, he turned to face Veanelen and his pale grey finger brushed the page she had kept open when she was paralysed. “And you will see I keep the same record for all the ships in my fleet.”

“An impressive record." Veanelen tried to follow Adar's queue. "I keep something similar when other vessels leave the Shadowy Sea besides ours.” Veanelen doubted before returning to talk about duty, not wanting to sound too impersonal: “Adar, you said you wanted me to join you in the next mission.” Veanelen was looking at the last page of the journal and lowered her gaze to look at the chart on the table. “We are close to the route of Lord Elön’s leisure barge.”

Adar’s smug smirk replaced his furious frown and Veanelen was, for the first time, glad to see it appear on his suave face. “Well, of course my dirty clever aþaro was going to notice that. Would you want me to give his lordship your regards.”

“I would not mind giving him a proper salutation.” Veanelen displayed a twisted grin and she saw a green sparkle in Adar’s eyes. “I see we can follow our desired route to take the freed Atani to the shores of Endórë, I could sail with your fleet for one day and return to my company after the mission is complete.”

“The ‘flatulence ship’ may never offer the hospitality that befits your station.” Adar hesitated. “The Kartart-Burguul will, if you accept my invitation for conviviality and warfare.”

“I will bring waybread and full armour.” Veanelen teased Adar and the two of them smiled.

“No need but if you have sweets, Draddau would appreciate those.” Adar offered her a sesame cake he was hiding behind his cuirass.

“You dirty clever Uruk.” Veanelen hushed her laughter before she broke the treat in halves and gave one to Adar. The Falmari leader hid her face from the other guests as she complicitly ate what clearly was supposed to be Draddau’s fee for his patience this evening. “Your quartermaster deserves pears poached in red wine.”

“Bring some if you have them in your pantry, Princess.” Adar’s expression was begging for a slap across his cheek. 

Veanelen settled for scoffing at him before finishing her wine. “I must take Volarno back to the Ciria Lanca before he forgets how to climb down a rope ladder.” Veanelen saw Adar biting his tongue, and filled in the blanks: “Yes, it would be a terrible loss for me and my siblings.”

“That is not what I was about to ask, Meldë.” Adar whispered near her ear. “But I know the answer and I respect it. Please tell Vilverin I deeply appreciate her attendance.” Adar turned to face Draddau and pulled out a second sesame cake, he walked toward his right hand, and settled his debt.

Veanelen followed Sealord Father with her gaze, wondering what he meant and unwilling to explore the likely explanations. She turned to the armchair to thank Thanghat for the evening, but she was already asleep with her sleeve over her face. Veanelen felt relieved for that little privacy. The Elven party returned to the Ciria Lanca with a new mission on the horizon.

Chapter Text

25 Nautical leagues west of Edhellond

Unknown time, 11 lairë SA 3235

Veanelen was looking intently at the sailors of the Kartart-Burguul as a small group sang while they shared their meal surrounded by oil lamps. Two youths volunteered as temporary minstrels, the girl Bagronkat kept the rhythm by hitting the floor with a heavy iron hook, the boy Grithum led the few singers:

«Frápat gulzûk! — Frâp! Frâp!
Kronthap glikîsh! — Kronth! Kronth!
Olog klaikat snaish, — Klaik! Klaik!
Hogh-afthud-ump! — Kronth! Kronth!»

The admiral tried to follow their motions in the Silent Tongue. She had joined them at dawn for the last day of the hunt of lord Elön Mírener’s pleasure barge, she yet had been around Urukl for long enough to notice that some of them were using the modified words for talking with one hand as they took pieces of salted fish to their mouth. The Elf remembered that ‘frâp’ and ‘kronth’ were the sounds she heard long ago as their opponents mocked her kindred who died beneath the feet of Morgoth’s trolls on the crevasses outside Angband.

“Oh!” Adar exclaimed with false repentance as he walked her way. “I should have never taught them that song. Apologies, meldë.” He called her ‘friend’ almost whispering. “Its rhythm works with drums at celebrations and for the hearing Uruk to synchronise work.”

A team of sailors had climbed and was adjusting the only sail, trying to catch a tailwind. Yet Manwë was unhelpful today.

“So it does mean what I understood! Breaking bones and teeth, correct?” Veanelen was more concerned about improving her grasp of her mālo's language than in shaming him from passing down the memories of a war no one really won. Sealord Father went from offering gruesome details threatening the stranger that he met in a cove to shying away from discussing standard practices on his fleet. Or any fighter’s, for that matter, like I would flinch like a sheltered child learning the origins of their favourite meats.

“You understood the essence, yes. Perhaps you noticed that, in the Orkish tongue, it rhymes.” The shadow beneath Adar’s cheekbones turned a darker shade of grey before he translated for her:

«Snap go the bones!  — Snap! Snap!
Crunch go the teeth! — Crunch! Crunch!
Troll cracking spines, — Crack! Crack!
Beneath his feet! — Crunch! Crunch!»

“It keeps a rhyme in Quenya, is that a direct translation or your own penchant for poetry?”

“Poetry is inevitable when in the presence of beauty.” Adar twitched his left eyelid so subtly that someone less observant than Veanelen would have missed it. Then he directed at her a half grin twisted to the right: “Salty fog uniting sea and clouds, deep mist hiding the flesh of my Children for lacerating sunlight, the softest of winds moving us to its will: this is beauty for the Uruk.” The Morion made a serpentine circle with his head but his tourmaline eyes never left her face. “Reminds us of our first years at sea.”

The Falmari leader had been sailing in proximity to Adar for nearly a fortnight, yet his stare had not diminished its intensity. After several days sailing in consort, she had separated from her company this dawn and they agreed to rendezvous at the end of the next day. But the Kartart-Burguul was currently stuck in a fog so dense that the eyes of an Elven wayfinder could not see further than a perch. For Veanelen, it had meant regular visits to the crow’s nest, trying to get a glimpse of any dim light to mark the passage of time, and hoping that the Ciria Lanca was away from the foul breath of the Lingwilókë boiling Ulmo’s waters and rising this blinding vapour.

Against Adar’s will, songs had just become the way to spend time. His fair guest was as amused now, listening to his Children keeping rhythm with improvised percussion, as she had been when she first heard their large drums in the cave shelter. Has she always shown this openness in the Uruk way to do things? Adar was pleased to see the Elf attempting to imitate the hand signs.

“It will be your turn soon, Ciriarāta.” Adar said loudly and seriously, accompanying the phrase with the Silent Tongue for everyone to see. “You cannot expect us to entertain you and give nothing in return.”

The Uruk around them laughed at his words. Bagronkat started banging the hook in syncopation, with her eyes fixed on the Elven mariner. Grithum immediately started hitting his own thighs in synchrony. Of course, if Bagronkat starts something, Grithum will make sure everyone follows her. It was the first mission for the two new recruits, both of them were seven and ten, and they infused his crew with their youthful joy. Five sailors next to them had already joined their ensemble.

Soon most sailors and deckhands were calling for Veanelen’s song, and Adar saw her bronze visage beaming at the prospect of singing. Sealord Father looked for Draddau. The Uruk was reaching for his inconspicuous pouch of strong herbal liquor as he covered his ears.

“My quartermaster does not seem too keen on your Elven songs.” Adar chuckled and lowered his volume for Veanelen’s ears only: “And he has not even heard your wicked Wingil wail.” Adar curved his lips up and waited for her response to his taunt, but her love for music and song overpowered any annoyance at his jest.

“Do you mind if I sing in Quenya?” She attempted to ask the crowd in Black Speech, with a timid voice that did not agree with the swift warrior who made Adar bleed. “A song older than the moon, from a time when my kinfolk extended their great journey and waited near the coast of Valariandë?”

“I will translate to the Silent Tongue.” Adar assured the admiral, she smiled like a child being handed candied ginger in secret, and stood up in the forecastle.

“I will do my best without a harp.” Veanelen winked at Draddau and did the sign for ‘harp’ although she knew he understood everything she said. Adar saw his quartermaster disappearing into the lower levels after signing a profanity. The Morion observed the tall ella taking a deep breath and her potent alto voice filled every space in his ship.

«There was a man who dwelt alone,
as summer and winter went past
he sat as still as a carven stone,
and yet no shadow cast.»

Adar signed every word his friend sang and he saw Bagronkat staring at him. Others repeated the words with their hands for their mates in the background.

 «The white owls perched upon his head
joining the winter wind’s tune;
they wiped their beaks and thought him dead
under a starry dune.»

Adar enjoyed the alternating rhyme and he had to admit that when Veanelen sang wholeheartedly, without invoking the tides, her chant was queer and fair, and quite pleasant.

«There came a lady clad in grey
in the twilight shining:
one moment she would stand and stay,
her hair with pearls entwining.»

As he interpreted the lyrics, Adar realised that his hands had betrayed him and he translated the Quenya ‘grey’ as the ‘silver’ sign. A minor mistake, without light they are almost the same. Was it ‘pearls’ or ‘flowers’? It has to be ‘pearls’. Veanelen may have noticed him struggling and slowed down her tempo.

«He woke, as had he sprung of stone,
and broke the spell that bound him;
he clasped her fast, both flesh and bone,
and wrapped her-…»

Veanelen stopped mid-verse, her dark amber eyes fixed starboard. Adar followed her gaze and he saw the same thing: a large shadow looming in the fog. Before he could say anything, the Admiral was rushing up the main mast to the crow’s nest.

Adar could hear one of his Uruk talking to her fellow sailors: “Burz thuzgum.” Bagronkat signed a string of insults to the sailor who spoke of ‘dark malice’. They cannot blame her song. “Ciriarāta!”

Veanelen had to reach a higher point to have a better perspective of what was in front of them. In all her yéns dedicated to the Gaiar, she had never mistrusted her eyes. But they had to be deceiving her now. The ropes had soaked the dampness in the air and she felt the most horrible and uncanny cold coming from her chest and slowly freezing her lungs, her guts, her arms and, finally, her legs. The grasp of her hands was failing her near the top. The Elf fell paralysed and breathless, as she barely reached the inside of the basket for the sentinel.

“Ringló” the old Sindarin word resonated inside her head, a moaning with a voice that was not hers. “Hondoringa.” The unknown voice wailed accusing her. “Wailonn” The last word felt like a dagger piercing her temple and she heard herself scream. The ocean mist was replaced by a hungry shadow. “Óre” the last word was said by a comforting voice from the past, and invited her in Lindárin to believe her inner mind.

Veanelen gasped for air and forced her lungs to expand and breathe. She stubbornly repeated the phrase as she learned it as a child: “Óre nia pete nin. Óre nia pete nin. Óre nia pete nin.” Was she mumbling, screaming or babbling, she could not say. Her mind held to those words like a castaway holding to debris in a storm.

Veanelen opened her eyes and saw a face of carved stone. The marble face moved and a gravelly voice reached her ears, then she heard her name. She remained agonisingly paralysed as the clawed grey hand caught her hair, and she closed her eyes waiting for a final lashing. Instead, the grey hand placed a braid behind her ear and shared its warmth when it stayed on the back of her neck, holding her head. Veanelen finally breathed, now she could fill her lungs again. Adar! It is Adar!

“Meldë?”

“They are attacking.” Veanelen could not explain what was coming their way, she could barely speak. But she felt consumed by the certainty that it was coming for her. Veanelen grasped Adar’s broad shoulders to pull herself and sat up. Then she felt being lifted to her feet and held standing by the Morion’s arms, with seemingly no effort on his part.

Veanelen had no words to describe the violation of her mind. Not even when she reached Angband with the host of the Valar was she fending off so many hostile wills making their way through her gates. They were trickling through miniscule chinks of her Osanwë armour and calling for her to leave her allies behind. Not the mālo who is now lending me his strength.

Veanelen reminded herself that an untrained mind will give itself away through fear. And she forced her eyes to explore beyond the blinding fog that had grown thicker as she sang. Adar’s face was next to hers while he held her, and he was also trying to see through the inescrutable mist.

The shapeless shadow Veanelen saw earlier was now close enough for her to see a dimmed blue light coming out of broken spheric lamps. The leaded mist reflected that weak cyan gleam, the faint flame delineated torn white sails attached to a white wooden mast, partly reclined on the white hull, and the prow adornment was a disfigured swan head. This was not the gold-beaked ships of Alqualondë, this was a carving from Nowë’s oldest shipyard, broken, ragged, consumed by sea moss and colonised by barnacles. Instead of the bright voices of her Linda kinfolk, she heard coarse wails and menacing intrusions in her head. The Elven boat seemed distorted and corrupted, sailing against the wind yet approaching at chase speed.

“We were escaping them.” The choir screeched inside Veanelen’s head, like fingers digging in the soft mass of her brain, tearing her apart. “Not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains.” Their screams weakened her like a thunderbolt. “Slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief.”

“Ba! Ba! Ba!” The foreign words came out painfully from the mouth of the Admiral.

Adar held Veanelen tighter to keep her from falling down the mast. She was crying out in Lindárin and she was as absent as she had been in the spring when the Lord of Waters spoke through her. That time she peacefully gave away control, this struggle has to be something malicious. Adar heard the old high pitch whistle that used to announce Mairon’s entrance into his consciousness. He is not here, He is not here. He was able to slip into my mind as He slipped into His breeches: this is not Him. Adar reassured himself, but it must be something as nefarious as He.

“Veanelen. Veanelen, listen to me. Listen only to the sound of my voice, anyone else you can ignore.” Adar held her from her back, supporting her weight on his chest, and he placed all his strength on his left hand. He left his black armoured gauntlet across her silver cuirass and he tried stroking her hair as he instinctively hummed the tune of the Crimson Demon. “If we are going to survive this, I need you here. Come back to me, meldë. Come back to me.”

“I will not give you away, mālo.” Her incoherent answer made Adar think she had gone into a trance state. Instead, the Elf recovered her footing, then turned around to face him. Her mahogany eyes had hollows under them, and had lost their golden flecks. Instead of fear, they were full of conviction: “We must gain speed. Now.”

Adar unfastened the hold and removed his intricately embroidered black cloak, a practical garment and a sentimental gift that, despite the centuries of emancipation, still tasted like mutual betrayal. He tried covering Veanelen’s shoulders and she seemed surprised. “You were shivering when I found you. You just stood up by yourself. Stay here. I must command the retreat.”

“You are in command, but I must pilot.” She hesitated before explaining “We need help.”

“Can you get down by yourself?” Adar was not really waiting for her answer. He knew there had to be a safety rope up there… But he only seemed to find discarded wine bottles from looted vessels. “The Peredhil have been a terrible influence on my Children.”

“Wha…?” Veanelen stopped again mid word and covered her temples with a pained twist in her mouth.

Adar caught her by her midsection and, with the rope he found buried in rubbish, he did a double bowline knot around her waist. He passed the other end of the rope around each of her upper thighs and then behind the knot, as an improvised harness. Then Sealord Father repeated the knot around his own waist with the other end of the rope.

“I got you, meldë. I will not let you fall.” Adar spoke close to the Falmari who was holding onto the mast to keep from falling. “You said you must find the way. I am right behind you, pilot.”

She stood up straight and looked at him. “I need you to keep talking to me, mālo, give directions, recite your poetry or sing, do not stop.”

“Behold! The hope of Elvenland…” Adar helped the Elven Mariner hold onto the ropes as he recited the verses of the Lay of Beleriand. When he made sure she had descended enough, he started climbing down from the crows nest, holding fast and repeating the old lines dedicated to the valiant Elf maid who, against all odds, fought Tevildo and won.

Whatever bewitching was haunting the mind of Veanelen, the voice of Adar seemed to keep at bay. For she managed to reach the main deck without losing her footing. The Dark Elf continued telling the epic of Lúthien. But a violent rush of wind blew him down the ropes. The Morion mustered every remaining Elven grace in his ancient limbs and landed crouching on the floorboards, the same pull from the wind tensed the rope joining him with the Elf and he raised his face to see the Admiral holding to the base of the mast to keep her stance. Adar ran towards his friend still declaiming heroic deeds. As he reached her, they locked eyes and she opened her mouth to speak.

“Dead elves kept from Valinor. ‘For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow.’ Ossë enforced The Doom on all Elves. But something else kept them here in the rotten houses of their fëar.”

“What kept them on their ship? Are they bound to it?”

“I do not know. All I know is that every slain Elf must abide in the Halls of Námo, they want me to take them and…” Veanelen hesitated before continuing. “And avenge those whose aggression pushed them to Ossë’s wrath.”

Adar hummed as he took in the news delivered by the Falmari. “This crew was not killed by my Children, their grievance is with Ossë.”

“We cannot simply shrug and dismiss their threat, Sealord Father.” Veanelen’s voice was tense as she tried to cover her fear. Adar could hear her heart pumping fast and her troubled breathing. “Hoist your sail, for we are being hunted by sea wights.”

“You said you had to pilot. I will go with you and pass instruction.” Adar signed his last words so that the Uruk nearby knew that he was taking charge of the deck. “Fetch Draddau. Now.” He signed to a deckhand nearby.

Adar started walking next to Veanelen and saw her cutting the rope with her pearl knife. She turned to see him and made a childish attempt at signing “Thank you” at him. Adar felt his lips curl to the side and said softly: “I am glad ‘my poetry’ helped, you will never be allowed to complain about it.”

“You have every right to forbid me from singing in the presence of your Children.” Veanelen joked as she cut the end of the rope around Adar’s waist. “After this.”

The fog had become so thick that Veanelen’s Elven eyes could barely see beyond her extended arm. The sounds of the waves had entirely disappeared, for the only sound in her head was that of fingernails scratching on her mind’s door, and suffering moans of bottomless dread.

Veanelen saw Adar give instructions to reinforce the sail for manoeuvres. Ulmo, please help us. Guide me, Lord of Waters. Veanelen sought for the will of the Vala without opening herself to the unhoused fëar trying to invade her. She did not notice her meandering steps until Adar caught her waist with his gauntleted hand.

“Apologies, Ciriarāta.” Sealord Father justified his closeness: “You almost fell.”

Veanelen nodded and looked to her left. The handrail was a palm from her hip, a fall would have meant delivering herself to the mercy of Uinen. The assailants cried foul words against her and her spine curled.

With Adar’s help, Veanelen reached the sternpost that had no helmsman on duty. Veanelen reached for the tiller and, before she could wrap her hand around it, she turned to look at Adar. The air around them was now as dark and as impenetrable as his armour, she could barely see his pale face contrasting with the black foam rising from the cursed trench submerged below them.

 “Your children must take cover.” Veanelen fought against the tightness on her chest to get the words out. “See that they are safe.”

A deep growl rose from the throat of the Uruk leader: “Our fate is now tied to yours.” He paused for a moment. “I must order Draddau to take everyone below deck.”

If Adar left, Veanelen could not tell. A deep darkness engulfed. She could only hear the bitter grieving voices of the wraiths chasing them on board a drowned swan.

Veanelen could now feel the weird cold damp grasp of Unhoused fëar creeping up from her ankles and up her legs. “Commune, Amanyar.” The haunting hands held her by the hipbones and prevented her from standing up, then an assaulting voice broke through her shield groping her mind. “Submit.”

“Get thee gone, abar!” Veanelen cried out loud, hoping the Sea would hear her.

“Me?” Adar’s voice caught her by surprise, and released her from the wrestling of wills. “You cannot steer, Veanelen, you cannot even stand.”

The sight in front of Adar was pathetic: the tall and strong Elf was kneeling in front of the tiller, attempting to take it with one hand and wrapping her head with the free arm, like a mortal child with a fever. She was as surprised by his voice as a blindfolded Atan who could not hear his steps.

“Can you see, Ciriarāta?” Adar used her title to appeal to her good sense.

“As much as this wicked fog allows me.” Her voice was trembling, her left hand caught the tiller and she used the weight of her torso to push the plank and turn it to her right.

The ship listed to port at such speed that Sealord Father stumbled like a recruit on his maiden voyage.

“Veanelen,” he said cautiously, “the fog is dense but I see you from where I stood a moment ago.” The Morion was already by her side. “Yet you did not see me.”

When he tried to place his palms over her shoulders, the elleth recoiled violently, and she stood up defensively but unable to meet his gaze. Before Adar could speak, Veanelen turned the tiller again and the cog moved with a soft push.

“Look at me, meldë.” Adar wanted to scold this stubborn Elf as much as he wanted to shield her from what she was fighting against. “Please, look at me.” He placed his palm on the sleeve of her arm that held the wooden handle. “Talk to me.”

Adar saw his ally shutting her eyes and taking several shallow breaths, fighting to regain control of herself. Then briefly opened her eyes only to quickly close and open her lids again several times. When she finally adjusted her sight, she took his hand in hers and moved it away from her forearm. She turned the tiller in a more subtle angle, like the skilled mariner she was.

“They are no longer begging for me to guide them to Aman. They are battling to enter a living Hroa.” Veanelen spoke with a thin and distant voice.

Adar felt cold sweat running down his back. “Lingerers or refusers?” Adar asked his friend with an uncontrollable tremble on his voice.

“It matters not.” Veanelen turned her face away from him and toward the rear listening to the tailwind.

“One kind still serves Morgoth.” Adar tried to keep calm, but those under his Shadow would not restrict themselves to Elven hroar, they would possess any living body and evict its owner. “We must get away.”

A creaking sound interrupted their exchange and the snapping of the brace made Adar race to catch the line yelling out commands.

His Quendi speed made him reach the loose line before anyone else, Adar alone caught the end after it lashed against the side of his face. He was hissing when Draddau and the two teenagers reached and pulled with him.

Together they sank to keep the sail tense and reach the yard brace. Despite their effort the canvas fell flat and the Kartart-Burguul halted. The Blue Shadow that hunted in the Sundering Sea for the best part of this Age, now a tailless fish waiting for the shark to reach from below.

“Bagronkat! Grithum! Go get older sailors!”

“We can help, Sealord Father.” Bagronkat tried pleading as the younglings did in their dwelling.

“You’re at sea, pup!” Draddau growled his answer. “Twas an order!”

Both youths let go of the line and ran to the below levels to get help from more experienced Uruk.

A figure in a torn black hooded cloak climbed up from the rail only a perch away from Adar. When the intruder lowered the hood something clenched inside Adar’s chest and for a moment he could not breathe. No. No. I saw him slain in the Falas. The flesh in the water had gone softer than custard, and turned the colour of curdled milk. Half his hair was gone and the rest had turned as white as the peeks of Forodwaith and brittle as a straw. Beneath his ravaged scalp, his face was shredded skin and black blood where the gulls had started gnawing. But his eyes were the most terrifying thing. His eyes saw him, and they hated. Mordûsh never spoke. His throat only made the sound of pooled blood gurgling in the gash the Elven blade had left centuries ago.

Draddau took his hand to his knife and prepared a defensive stand.

“Keep the Children below.” Adar ordered. He saw his quartermaster forcing himself to heed his own advice and obey his Sealord’s command. “Go now, my son.”

The ghoulish eyes of the former Morion left Adar, they were now fixed on the stairs coming from the stern. The rotten mouth twisted with the cruel greed of the Moriondor who enjoyed their carnal duties in Utumno, and Adar knew who was behind him.

“I said ‘begone’, Houseless shadow.” Veanelen had unsheathed her curved sword of Elven silver steel, and stood defiantly, clad in her argent cuirass that reflected every lamp on the deck. “Release the captive fëar.”

A clicking sound came out of the decomposing necromancer attempting to laugh through an open trachea. The putrid wraith stepped forward. A black sluggish tongue licked the leftover flesh of the bloated upper lip, and a blind rage made Adar draw his great sword.

A whistling sound made Adar pause before attacking, he turned his head and looked at his ally. The Falmari Admiral had recovered from the wounds that this enemy inflicted upon her mind. And now they stood together ready to drive this fugitive of the Valar away from his Children.

Adar brought his great sword around and up in a swift deadly arc. His black steel met decayed flesh and corrupted bone. An inanimate arm flew overboard with the first hit. The putrefying Morion showed no signs of pain. From Veanelen’s chest rose a water chant almost as old as the music of creation and she drove herself at him, the short sword alive in her hands. The decomposing remains of Mordûsh stepped back, but the Admiral followed, pressing the attack. Her song was sonorous, tempestuous and beautiful. Adar could feel his vessel moving forward, rising and falling with the waves as Veanelen’s voice rose and fell.

High, low, overhand, Adar rained down steel upon his desecrated brethren. Left, right, backlash, swinging so hard that he almost decapitated the unnaturally agile corpse. Upswing, sidelash, overhand, always attacking, moving into him. Step and slide, strike on the soured meat and step. Strike on blubber. Strike on fouled tissue. Hack pieces of carcass. Slash molded bone. Faster. Faster. Faster. Until Adar jumped away to avoid getting knocked down by a rogue wave.”

Veanelen whirled the blade back up above her head and flew at the rank necromancer again, singing the song that Ulmo taught to his incarnates as he populated his waters. She heard the wave long before its coming, because on its surging surf it carried more singers, their bluish silver hair glistening with a luminescence of its own. The fist of Ossë hit the deck of the Kartart-Burguul with the strength to destroy it, but it only carried away the cursed wraith, and the Wingildi harried the degenerated cadaver to their hallowed depths.

Adar rose, drenched in dark sea water, still shaken by the sight of the cursed Morion serving Morgoth after death. Did he surrender his will or is that our doom? He stood next to Veanelen and heard her whispering a mourning song in Lindárin:

“Auta Spanturo.” She said the last words and turned to look at Adar. “They can finally answer the summon of Mandos.”

“Was he hunting for you or for my children?”

“My heart tells me it was both. The last living forefather of the Uruk suddenly joined forces with an Elf born from a Wingil. Older and deeper things might have been awakened by our alliance.” Veanelen looked right into his eyes and the gold flecks reappeared in hers. “We should thank Ossë for his help.”

 Adar took her forearm with his gauntleted hand and pulled her softly towards him. Veanelen pressed her forehead against his, and her dimpled smile made Adar think all the fog had dissipated. “Thank you for your Wingil song, meldë.”

“Thank you for not letting me fall, mālo.”

The white flash of a lightning bolt traveled through the fog and made them step away from each other with the sound of thunder. When they looked starboard, the empty ciria had caught fire.

“The swan will finally rest.” Veanelen murmured to appease her own conscience. “We still have to catch a big fish.”

“More rotten than the ghoul melting on my deck.” Adar stared at the elleth who was making her way to the stern in the dissipating mist. “Can we wait until we are on dry land for you to finish your song?”

Her imitation of Draddau’s earlier hand sign was endearing, after all, Adar always chuckled when small uruklings cursed.