A/N: It has been about three years since I wrote fanfiction. I wasn't sure I'd ever write one of these again, but what can I say? When inspiration strikes, it strikes.

A few notes before I begin.

This story is going to follow the books, loosely. I say "loosely" because I don't consider myself a purist, and I see nothing wrong with a little tweaking here and there. Most of my "tweakage" usually concerns timing, or order of events. But I don't believe in hardcore deformation of character, so don't worry, purists. You won't see Legolas falling head over heels for any Earth-born ladies here.

This story begins in early March of 3019. All of Tolkien's characters that appear (later) in this story are obviously not mine. Let's hear it for disclaimers.

Lastly, if any of my (former) avid readers (especially fans of "The Cold Touch of Rain") are reading this, I just want to say hello, and I hope that you all enjoy this as much as you enjoyed TCToR. And without any further delays….

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CHAPTER ONE: Faeldor's Catch

Somewhere in the distance, a bird squawked loudly. Faeldor, a boy of seventeen years, turned his head towards the sound, squinting against the bright sunlight. He was able to make out a small black shape in the sky, which shrank in size as the bird flapped its wings violently, flying northwest and eventually disappearing behind the clouds.

"That bird has the right idea," he murmured to himself.

Faeldor sighed, sitting on the edge of his father's fishing boat. His own fishing rod lay untouched at his side, but he did not have the heart to pick it up. Every weekend since his tenth birthday, Faeldor's father would take him sailing in the Bay of Belfalas where they would catch fish together. "Someday, son," his father would always say, "this will all be yours."

The idea of following in his father's footsteps and becoming a great seaman of Ethir Anduin had always given Faeldor a sense of purpose. When he was younger, he used to watch his father fill heavy crates with the fish that they caught together on their weekend excursions in the bay. The crates would then be loaded onto a ship bigger than his father's. Faeldor remembered sitting on the shore, watching the big ships sail up the Anduin, fading into the horizon.

"Where are they going?" he would ask his father.

"They are sailing north," his father always replied. "To a beautiful city, with white flags and tall towers – taller than you can possibly imagine. Perhaps you will see it one day."

But after a while, the big ships began to slow down. Their arrivals were few and far between. Faeldor noticed that as the ships stopped coming, his father stopped smiling. Every so often, one would return, although such an occurrence was as rare as rain in the sunlight. Despite the ships' unpredictability, Faeldor and his father would sail into the bay religiously every weekend. With every fish he caught, Faeldor would hope that there would be a crate to put it in. The horizon was always waiting.

But somewhere along the line, Faeldor's hopes diminished. His dreams, which once glimmered with silver and gold, grew dull and lifeless. As he grew older, the bay began to feel smaller, and the horizon didn't feel so distant anymore. He felt as though he could reach out and touch it.

"Faeldor?"

Faeldor turned, seeing his father, a sandy-haired man named Thurandír, approaching. He was carrying his fishing rod at his side.

"Have you caught anything?" Thurandír asked, looking down at his son. Faeldor averted his gaze, watching his feet leave a trail in the water.

"No. Not yet."

"Son," his father said gently, sitting beside him, "what troubles you? Your eyes are shadowed as of late, and it has been too long since I have seen you smile. This is not the Faeldor I know."

Faeldor turned his father's words over in his mind slowly. He gazed up at the sky, carefully considering his response. The sun ducked behind a grey cloud, blending the blues of the water into one cold shade, and he shivered briefly.

"Tell me this," he finally said, turning his blue eyes up to his father. "What has become of the great city you once spoke of, with its white flags and towers? Because they obviously do not want our fish. I have not seen the great ships in months; Anduin is all but a ghost!"

"The market has been slow," Thurandír agreed. "With the growing shadow in the east, the people of Gondor have less need for our fish as they once did."

"Why not tell the truth?" Faeldor's voice rose to a new volume. "The people of Gondor have no need for our fish. The ships are never to return. I am not a little boy, father. I see the way you delicately speak of this matter in front of Mother and Coruwen. But you do not have to hide things from me."

Thurandír was quiet for a moment, and Faeldor began to wonder if he had gone too far. He stared at his father, waiting for a response. Thurandír swallowed thickly, and Faeldor's eyes flicked over his face, watching the muscles of his jaw contract and release. He was clearly holding back words, forcing them to the back of his throat.

"One day," Thurandír said softly, "you might be able to understand this. But for now, all I can do is tell you, in hopes that you will simply take my word for it."

"Tell me what?"

"My father was a great seaman of these lands, long ago. He taught me everything that I know about fishing, and boats, and the sea. For as long as I can remember, my life was consumed by sunrises and sunsets, tides and waves. When my father died, I was a little older than you are right now. I promised myself that I would become the best seaman that I could possibly be. I would live up to his name, to the standards that he set for me on that very first day that we fished together." Thurandír turned his head, locking eyes with his son. "As long as I have breath in my body, I will continue to fulfill my vow. I have many years of fishing left. And nothing, not even the clouds of the eastern lands, can stop me. I cannot simply give up on what my father built."

"And what if the great ships do not come?" Faeldor asked. "Are your efforts not all in vain?"

"They will come," Thurandír said confidently. "And when they do, we will have crates for them."

As if to emphasize his point, Thurandír cast his fishing line into the bay energetically. He threw a sideways glance to Faeldor, who could not help but grin.

"Fine," he said, picking up his own rod. His fingers surrounded the heavy stick, and he threw his arm back, letting the baited string sail over his head and into the water.

"Ah," Thurandír said with a chuckle. "A fine arm you have, my boy."

"I only learned from the – wooaaahh!" Faeldor cried out in surprise, feeling a strong tug on his line. He lurched forward, briefly losing his balance.

"Pull it in," his father instructed. "Just like I taught you."

Faeldor grunted an inaudible response as he began to draw in his catch. He gritted his teeth, placing his feet against the solid wood of the boat, and heaved his arms upward, sending the huge fish flailing into the air, still attached to his fishing line. The fish landed on the boat, flopping back and forth loudly, flinging droplets of water in every direction.

"My, my," Thurandír said softly, sounding impressed. "That is one of the biggest fish I have ever seen."

Faeldor grinned, jumping to his feet.

"It will need an even bigger crate then."

--

"Coruwen! Your father and brother will be home any moment now!" Gailrin's voice floated down the stairs of the small house on the shore. "Have you begun to prepare their tea?"

Coruwen glanced towards the staircase, sighing and rolling her eyes to the empty kitchen.

"Yes, mother!" she lied. She continued scrawling in her journal, quickening her pace and darting her gaze back and forth between the page and the doorway, keeping watch for her mother. When she had completed her thought, she snapped the red book shut and threw it carelessly on the windowsill. Racing across the room, she grabbed an already-filled pot of water and hung it above the fire. She was in the process of crushing tea leaves when Gailrin entered the room, casually putting pins in her long black hair.

"Good morning, Mother," Coruwen said, smiling brightly at her.

"Well!" Gailrin said, taking in her daughter's groomed appearance. "You certainly look lovely today. Do you have any special arrangements? Perhaps with a certain red-haired captain?"

Coruwen blushed under her mother's inspective gaze.

"Yes," she replied. "Pelilas and I are going to be having lunch by the water."

"Ah, of course." Gailrin's dark eyes twinkled happily, and she sat in a chair across from her daughter. "Tell me, Coruwen. Do you think that Pelilas and you will be married someday?"

"Mother!" Coruwen exclaimed, her green eyes widening. "I hardly know how to answer that!"

"Well, it is not an unreasonable question," Gailrin said with a shrug. "You are sixteen years old. He is of twenty years. It is time that you considered such things."

"Well, I will consider it. But not today."

The front door flew open just then, saving Coruwen from any of her mother's further interrogation. Thurandír and Faeldor walked in, their boots slick and smelling of the sea.

"You will not believe the size of the fish that Faeldor caught today!" Thurandír exclaimed, his voice vibrating with the kind of pride that only a father could feel for his son. Coruwen and Gailrin both got up to look at Faeldor's fish, and as they reveled in sensations of accomplishment and victory, all talk of marriage was forgotten. At least for the moment.

A/N: I have to say, it feels good to be at this again. Let me know what you think of the opening. It's going to get darker. Oh, will it. Cues ominous music