Author's note: Hello! Apologies again for the long delay-I rewrote this chapter about four times and it still annoys me, but there we are.

Thank you as ever to my wonderful reviewers. Without your kind, motivating comments, it would have been infinitely more difficult to find the determination to write this chapter.


"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."

-A.A. Milne

Gimlith died a mere hour's travel from the sea. Indeed, if the day had been clearer, one could have seen the glimmer of the western shore from the hill where they buried her.

Hers was a quiet funeral. Cestedir dug the grave deep, working with a makeshift wooden shovel through the night, accepting no help from either Glorfindel or Bereneth when they offered. Itching with restless energy, Glorfindel set instead to his own self-appointed task. He and Bereneth rode all the way to the coast to find the right stone-a long, man-sized, dark gray boulder, smoothed by centuries of the ebb and flow of tides, glittering subtly under the light.

Sitting there upon the sand he carved, letting the pillar within reveal its form to his searching hands. It emerged a whirl of motion, a woman with flaring hair and defiant posture, sprung from the earth and reaching towards the sky. Despite Bereneth's protestations, he carried the statue to the burial site on his back, the straining of his muscles temporarily driving out the feeling of tormenting uselessness that dogged his steps.

The funerals passed quickly and with few words, for none seemed quite able to find the words to express the horror of the losses they had suffered. Bereneth sang the single harmony of the beacon from Gimlith's wedding lay, casting several hopeful looks to where Aearis stood motionless before her mother's grave. But Aearis stayed silent, her eyes fixed away to the west, where the sea might be. She stayed long after the others had drifted away. Glorfindel watched the hill top for a while-two figures, one stone-still and erect, one trembling like a leaf in violent wind even in the warm noontide sun.

Every nerve in his body screamed at him to run to her, to wrap that fragile, shaking frame in his arms, to fill her to the top with love and leave no room for grief. And if he had been younger, stupider, vainer, he might have tried it. But he was not such a fool as that… surely, not such a damned silly, sentimental fool-

She did not turn as he joined her at the crest of the hill. Her eyes still settled westwards, out over the impenetrable mist that still hid the shore.

"This is all wrong," she muttered, her voice so quiet and toneless that she might have been talking in her sleep. Lost for words, Glorfindel stood beside her quietly, searching desperately for the right words to say..

After a long stretch of silence, he spoke, hoping fervently that he had chosen his words well.

"Well, then, shall we make for the tavern?" Whatever she had been expecting, it was not that. She turned to meet his eye for the first time, and he was warmed by the spark of curiosity that lit her bloodshot eyes.

"A tavern, you say?" she repeated tentatively.

"Many hundreds of years it has been since I had the honor of attending a Numenorean vigil,* my Lady," he said, then laughed when her eyes widened in shock. "Do I surprise you?" he teased. "Good. Then I still have a few mysteries left."

"And here I thought I had unraveled you completely," she replied, a slow smile dawning across her bloodless face.

"Not quite yet. My lady?" he prompted, offering his arm. The feeling of her small, warm hand slipping into the crook of his elbow was so achingly familiar that it almost brought tears to his eyes.

"Lead on, my lord."


The city of Mithlond nestled upon a stretch of silver-white beach, joyfully bustling and brimming with song. Complex garlands of woven, budding vines adorned every door and window-boxes overflowed with jewel-bright blooms, and the whole city of elegant, pale gray stone houses tilted towards the sea upon a great slope. The smooth white cobblestones, subtly luminous under the pale spring sun, felt warm and welcoming under Aearis's feet. Everything smelled of flowers and salt.

The tasteful elven inns were a far cry from the boisterous, uncouth warmth of Andunie's seaside taverns, and sometimes Aearis found herself rendered momentarily breathless with desperate homesickness. But as they drew nearer to the docks, the music changed, became rougher, rowdier, and far less refined. The elves of the Mithlond port worked in perfect, unchoreographed harmony, marshaled only by their simple, rhythmic songs. Aearis fixed her eyes on the broad, steady hands of the Lindon mariners and curled her toes against the weathered wood of the dock.

As they walked through Mithlond, Aearis quickly became aware of the quiet flutter that stirred the streets when Glorfindel came into view. Every pretty elvish face turned towards him like flowers to the sun, wide eyes, flushed cheeks, breathless whispers followed them as their motley little party passed.

"I begin to think," she remarked to Cestedir in a low voice, her tone perhaps more acid than she strictly intended, "that he ought to wheel a fainting couch around with him. It might alleviate some of the casualties that arise upon his passing through."

Cestedir chuckled under his breath and cast her a sympathetic look that she strongly resented.

"Worry not, my dear," he answered, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "His fame has never dissuaded him from hanging upon your every word, I doubt it shall now."

"You mistake me," she replied, infusing her voice with as much of Rhossorieth's lofty condescension as she could. "I concern myself only with the health of the young ladies of Lindon. Swooning repeatedly on hard cobblestone is strongly discouraged by all reputable medical authorities."

Cestedir guffawed merrily, and for a few seconds it brought color to his sunken cheeks.

As the sun sank into the western sea, painting the clouded sky in brilliant, blooming hues of red and gold, and thousands of shining lanterns of silver and gold blazed into life throughout the port city, Glorfindel led them to a tavern near the water's edge. It was built in the same lustrous stone as the rest of the city, with high arches and elaborately wrought metalwork suspending brilliant lanterns. But one wall had been plastered and painted bright blue, with lively-colored scrollwork covering the wall with simple yet carefully drawn imagery of swooping birds, sea serpents, and ships. The Singing Marigold Inn, it was declared by the beautifully-painted sign. A taste of Andustar so potent and unexpected that Aearis's knees nearly buckled, for all her muttered complaints of swooning maidens just hours ago.

"What is this place?" she whispered, resting a trembling hand against one of the cool stone pillars.

"Step inside," Glorfindel said softly. "Go on. It will not vanish, I swear to you."

He pulled open the heavy wooden door, and a wash of light, laughter, and singing washed over her with a sort of stinging sweetness. She took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

It was all she could have hoped it would be. The interior was a large circular room, lit with braziers filled with driftwood that burned in blues and violets. Large tables were filled with sailors, elven and Mannish, clearly straight from the docks, with salt in their hair and the pink tint of sun on their cheeks. At the center of the circle, on a raised wooden platform in the rough stone floor, three elvish mariners, equipped with a fiddle, a set of pipes, and a small lute, performed a light, merry song.

An enormous man with wild, wiry red hair and hands like shovels rushed to and fro, maneuvering through the throngs of pleasantly inebriated patrons with surprising agility for a man of his size. And a Man he was, unmistakably, with his ruddy cheeks and coarse skin. Yet he navigated the room as if he owned it, perfectly at ease in his rule in this elven realm.

"That is Remlas, son of Remdorn," murmured Glorfindel behind her. "He has been master of this inn since his father died. Seven generations of Numenorean sailors have kept this place, since their foremother first came to these shores from Andunie."

"And they live here freely in the kingdom of the Noldor?" Bereneth asked with a tone of wonder. "I knew not that any Men dwelt in the realms of Gil-Galad."

"He is not such a terribly severe fellow as Silvan tradition might have you believe," Glorfindel replied lightly. But though he chortled as he spoke, there was a trace of regret in his eyes.

"I shall take your word for it," Bereneth said, a deep furrow between her brows. "I have no desire to test that assertion in person."

"I fear that you may find yourself without much choice in the matter," he sighed, resting his large hand on her shoulder. "King Gil-Galad has doubtless heard of you by now, and there is little chance that he would neglect the acquaintance of any warrior with your mettle." Aearis saw the proud girl's shoulders tense and her mouth harden into a firm line, and guilt clenched in her own belly. She knew without a doubt that Bereneth would never have chosen to set foot in the realm of the Noldo King, save out of devotion to her.

"Worry not, my love," she said, entwining their fingers and squeezing tightly. "While I draw breath, no one, be they dragon, king, or commoner, shall be allowed to do you harm."

Bereneth rolled her eyes, but her mouth softened into the hint of a smile.

"Careful, Aearis. You make promises that you cannot keep."

She opened her mouth to argue, but she was forestalled by the red-haired Man, who skidded to a stop mere inches from flattening them. His face was ruddy from the exertion of ceaseless activity, and he huffed in a way that an elf never would. The sight of a mortal soul in this shining city of the firstborn was almost more than Aearis could endure without weeping.

"So you came back." He began speaking to Glorfindel without greeting or preamble, in a voice like war drums. "Looks like I lost that bet." Glorfindel stepped forward to clasp his hand in the manner of Numenor, somehow flawlessly blending the delicacy of the Eldar with the unpretentious warmth of Men.

"You thought me lost forever, Remlas? How quick you are to dismiss old friends," he replied with a brilliant smile that belied his reproach.

"Twenty years is a long time for a wedding, no matter how many thousands of years old you are. I figured you'd been eaten by a dragon. Or met a woman. Either way, I counted you among the fallen." Remlas spoke Sindarin with a perfect, careless drawl that left Aearis feeling rather self-conscious of her coarse Adunaic accent.* He turned his gaze upon Glorfindel's companions. His eyes were dark beyond color, and lustrous in a way that reminded her of intolerably nearby grief. "And what have you brought me now, milord? Not your usual company, I think."

"New friends, in need of a warm fire and strong ale," Glorfindel said, and his hand jumped-reflexively, it seemed-to the small of Aearis's back as the Man's discerning glance fell on her. She watched as he took in the freckles on her cheeks and shoulders, her diminutive stature compared to her tall, graceful companions, her wild curls and dark skin. Then Remlas smiled broadly, his strong, brilliantly white teeth flashing. Again, Aearis felt the reminder of Andunie like a knife slipped upward behind her ribs.

"Daughter of Numenor, you are welcome here," he boomed, and it took Aearis a moment to realize that he was speaking in Adunaic. "Yours is a story worth hearing, I'll wager."

She stepped forward and clasped his rough, calloused hand.

"My tale for yours, brother," she replied, the language coming to her tongue reluctantly, clumsily. "But today I come to tell the story of another, for one of my kin fell in battle, and I would honor her memory in the way of our people."

Though his bushy eyebrows shot up into his hair and curiosity glittered in his eyes, he asked no more questions. Aearis was grateful for it, for she had no heart to answer questions. Instead, he leapt into action. Barrels of wine were hauled up from the cellar, patrons were swiftly herded, chairs rearranged, platters of meat brought from the kitchens, and Aearis found herself unaccountably holding a fine, heavy fourteen-string lute in her arms and lifted unceremoniously onto the raised wooden dais. For a time, the inn was drowned with the clinking of tankards and the inquisitive murmurs of the patrons.

But slowly the din died to an expectant silence, leaving Aearis standing with Cestedir, Bereneth, and Glorfindel at the center of the circle, arms heavy with the daunting instrument and tongue suddenly leaden under the scrutiny of many eyes. Strangers. They knew nothing of the woman who had glittered like the night sky, ridden like a stormfront, fought as though the world's injustice was hers to redress. And now they would never know her, for she had died in the dirt with a hole where her heart, her tireless heart, had once beaten stronger than thunder.

Aearis's fingers slipped on the strings, and a discordant note rang out. She saw the winces on the delicate elven faces mingling with confusion and pity. Her hands had never felt so weak, and the name of the dead woman stuck in her throat. Unbidden, the image of a looming Shadow, a tear in the sky, advancing towards her, smothering her fëa with its poison voice, sprang into her mind's eye. She was choking, her vision swimming, cold fingers creeping under her skin and reaching for her heart.

A pair of warm hands resting lightly upon her shoulders yanked her back into the present. She looked up into a pair of pale green eyes, sunken and heavily underscored with dark circles, but bright with life still.

"Start slow," said Cestedir. "When you're ready."

She began tentatively, and her fingers explored the strings like lands unknown. The strings responded readily, plucking out a fragile, lonely, uncertain melody. It wandered aimlessly for a time before picking up strength, finding a wild, restless rhythm as it swelled. Her lute was joined by the woodwind shiver of a flute and and the warm, sharp cry of a fiddle. And finally by a voice-Glorfindel's voice, deep, resonant, and intimate, pouring into her like honey wine. The words came to her in a mix of Adunaic and Sindarin. The story of the lady of the shore, of the dancing girl, the starry shieldmaiden, the dark rider.

The world was a swirl of dizzying light and music, throbbing with the sort of desperate vitality that could only follow from the deepest tragedy. The music swelled simultaneously boisterous and profoundly sad. Sweet wine made from frozen grapes flowed freely, leading the Lindon mariners into a state of half-delirious revelry. They succumbed to her will, dictated by the rhythm that Aearis drummed out with her heel against the wood.

She played late into the night, until her arms were too heavy to bear the weight of the beautiful lute and her throat was raw. When she finally retired to a table beside a large window that faced the ocean, her companions joined her, instantly replaced on the podium by the elven minstrels. The room was thrumming with energy, still caught in the strange mood of hysterical celebration.

She glanced around, her gaze alighting first on Bereneth, whose eyes were fixed steadily on her own. Though she was smiling, there was worry etched in the slight furrow of her brow and at the corners of her eyes. Uncomfortable under the sincerity of those luminous gray eyes, Aearis elected to drink deeply from her glass of fiery whiskey.

"Aearis-"

"Come dance," she interrupted, before Bereneth could say anything hard to forget, rising to her feet. But she was stopped by slender fingers wrapped in an unbreakable grip around her wrist.

"Sit still for a moment, Aearis. For my sake." There was no resisting the gentle firmness in that voice. She sat.

From her pocket, Bereneth withdrew what appeared to be a handful of twinkling stars. Aearis stared at them blankly for a moment before her mind identified them, then, to her horror, she found her vision blurring and her eyes stinging with salt. She shook her head without speaking, afraid that the words would catch in her throat.

"Take them, Aearis. You were her daughter. You are her daughter." Reluctantly, Aearis received the little trove of silver light, warm and strangely heavy in her palm. Absently, almost involuntarily, she reached out to catch a strand of Bereneth's silky hair between her fingers. Heedless of Bereneth's soft protest, she began to braid with her mariner's hands, weaving the glittering beads into auburn hair in a hazy, pleasant trance. She worked with the slow, tentative uncertainty of one recalling a long-forgotten tune on the strings of an unfamiliar instrument, but gradually she found again the intricate, woven maze of lustrous braids.

"There," she murmured, taking her seat once more watching the blue light of the braziers dance over the little silver beads in Bereneth's hair. "Now they are where they should be."

"But-" Her wide gray eyes were bright with tears, and Aearis clasped her hands to stop them trembling.

"You are her daughter too, you know. I may carry her blood, but I think it is you who carries her spirit. And, sister, if you promise to tell me that I am a fool when I deserve it, I swear to drive away your unwanted suitors with fire and steel."

Bereneth choked out a sound somewhere between laughter and sobbing.

"To Gimlith of Andunie," she whispered, raising her goblet. Aearis looked upon her companion, lustrous and quietly marvelous, and she found that the sound of her mother's name did not drive quite so cruelly into her heart this time.

"To Gimlith," said Cestedir hoarsely, raising his tankard of ale. His voice was so weak that it nearly vanished under the current of music.

"To Gimlith." Glorfindel's voice rang strong and sweet, but his eyes were dim with sadness.

Aearis let her eyes rest on the face of each of her companions in turn, memorizing each of them with voracious attention. Her vision darkened for a moment. When she looked at Cestedir again, he seemed slightly transparent around the edges, with the flickering, spectral unsteadiness of a guttering candle flame. She shook herself and turned her eyes to Bereneth. But what was that, staining her cotton riding clothes, like a pool of rust spreading out from her heart? And Glorfindel… his eyes were like lanterns extinguished, and the way the shadows fell upon him suddenly resembled dark arrows marring his beautiful form.

A sharp, cold pain lanced through her chest and her hand flew to her heart. Then it was over. The room was warm once again, and her companions, unstained and alive, watched her expectantly. With a hand trembling only a little, she raised her glass.

"To Gimlith."

Though the music played on, Aearis found herself drawn away to the shore as the night wore on. She slipped out when she saw Bereneth and Cestedir engaged in conversation with Remlas. Glorfindel was nowhere to be seen, and Aearis could only guess that he had found a pretty mariner to share his bed for the night.

The sky was moonless and dark with clouds when she found her way to the sea. She walked westwards until the lights of the city vanished behind her and only the song of crashing waves remained. The night air had an electric quality, the scent of a coming storm, and from the North a cold, piercing wind began to tear at her skin.

The brine rushed in to meet her with ardent urgency. It pulled her in greedily, drawing her out until she stood up to her waist in the water, riding the seductive ebb and flow of the crashing waves, letting the sea explore her curiously, reviving her shredded fëa with every tender incursion.

She could keep going. Strike out straight ahead and lose herself in the current until nothing except her fëa remained, nothing but a spray of sea foam. The ocean stretched out invitingly before her, black and fathomless under the clouded night sky. The song of distant trumpets seemed to echo far away to the West. And after all, why not? The world behind her had gone silent. It was ugly and harsh, and it took, and took, and took. Why carry the weight of such a vicious, ungrateful world, when the saltwater could bear her aloft, weightless and forgetting?

She wanted to take another step, then another. She wanted to dive down deep and let the silence of the sea take her into its cold embrace.

"Aearis." Glorfindel's musical voice behind her shattered the crystalline state of tranquility that had taken over her. Reluctantly, irritated by her own weakness, she turned to look over her shoulder. Under the starless, moonless sky, the land was perfectly, uniformly dark, lit only by his glowing figure. Golden light rippled over the dark water, dancing out upon the waves to reach her. He stood knee-deep in the sea, his great, gentle hands hanging limp by his sides, absolutely still save for the stirring of a breeze in his glorious hair.

And if the sight of him did not soothe the torment, at least it distracted her from the cleansing sting of the saltwater washing over her raw, tattered fëa. She held her arms out to him and he came instantly, wading to her until they stood together in the endless expanse of dark saltwater. His light encompassed her, falling over her skin like a caress. The closeness of him set her pulse racing, ignited a loud, gnawing hunger to touch and be touched. There were reasons not to want this, not with him. So many reasons. Good reasons. But for the life of her, she could not remember a single one.

Before her memory could return inconveniently, she seized the front of his shirt and pulled him down, heard the sharp intake of breath seconds before her lips were on his. It was a searing jolt of heat, starting deep in her abdomen and propagating out to set her whole body vibrating. Slowly, she released him, and he stared at her with wide, blackened eyes, breathing hard.

She watched him raptly, suddenly feeling unbearably vulnerable as the silence stretched. Then his arms were around her, gathering her up into a crushing, feverish kiss.

She pressed into him, lost her fingers in his golden mane, tangled herself deeper and deeper in his embrace. He captured her senses completely. All she knew was the sweetness of his mouth, the pressure of his hands against her waist, the firm, powerful body of a warrior that shuddered and trembled under her touch. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she felt warm.

But then he was pulling away, caging her lips with the fingers of one hand as she made to follow. Every ravenous fiber of her body and spirit shuddered at the sudden withdrawal, but he disentangled from her with gentle perseverance. She shivered violently as the cold came rushing back in, freezing the blood in her veins.

"Azruari, I must be heard." He spoke urgently, one hand wrapped around both her wrists to keep her still. "Please, just listen to me for a moment." At the sound of her true name, she found herself acquiescing, though she could not bring herself to meet his eyes. When she stood perfectly still, he continued. "It would be wrong now to keep it from you, though I wish with all my heart that I had been free to tell you before. Gimlith was ill. Terribly ill. She-" He broke off at the sight of her expression.

"You knew?" she hissed, and she saw his face buckle under her hard glare. He opened and closed his mouth several times before speaking again.

"Yes," he said, finally. "And I saw that she would not live to meet the sea again. I begged her to reconsider the journey. She would not hear of it-"

"You knew, and you did nothing-"

"She would not be restrained." Under the full force of her ire, he remained calm, rational, and it infuriated her beyond speech.

"You could have told me-"

He hesitated, his serene mask slipping for a moment.

"She would not have it known. Azruari-"

"You will not call me by that name." She pulled her wrists from his slackened fingers and his hand fell to his side. He was looking at her with an intolerable expression of sadness and sympathy.

"As you wish," he said.

"Leave." Her own voice sounded toneless and cold in her ears. "Please."

For a moment he looked like he might argue. But something in her stare seemed to kill the words in his throat. She watched him vanish, and let silence reign.

A biting wind began to stir the waves into fury and heavy rain followed closely after, but Aearis remained by the shore even as blue bolts began to fork over the sea and thunder rolled over her. The song of the storm ran through her blood, violent, electric, and exhilarating, and she joined her voice with it. The sea's power coursed from her feet to the tips of her hair, filling her until there was no room for anger, grief, or even regret. Her skin tingled under the freezing onslaught of the downpour, and she let the wind encircle her before bringing it under the power of her voice.

It shuddered under her yoke, bucking and snarling against her will. But her spirit was hungry and drunk with anger, and the more the wind struggled the more entangled it became, until finally it surrendered to her will. She wreathed herself in cyclonic winds and let the hurricane grow, carrying her out over the water. Her circling winds sang out with her voice to the lightning, and it answered her call, danced to her song with perfect obedience. It was intoxicatingly, irresistibly satisfying, to bend the storm into a crown, to hear the thunder drum out her heartbeat over this foreign shore, to impose control where once there was chaos.

She drove the storm to exhaustion, let it fill her aching, empty breast with its tumultuous song, until the skies were emptied and the stars shone once again above the shore. The tide deposited her gently upon the sand, swirling in tentative eddies around her feet.

"Now that," said a clear, ringing voice, a clarion voice of singing steel and rumbling quakes, "was fun."

She was tired. Too tired to stand and face the stranger. But she raised her eyes to look at him as he stood towering above her, crowned by the glittering firmament. His eyes burned like stars framed between lashes so thick and dark that they seemed rimmed with kohl. His face, all angles and edges, was lit by a wild, fierce smile. Everything, even his mirth, was razor-sharp and savagely beautiful.

Aearis, still pleasantly drunk from her dalliance with the storm, extended her hand up to him and he bent low to kiss it with ironic, but impeccable, chivalry.

"Yes," she mused, "yes, it was, rather." He lowered himself gracefully to sit beside her in the sand. The lustrous blackness of his hair reminded her of Elrond, but in the luminous, merciless perfection of his features he seemed more alike to Galadriel or Glorfindel.

"You have an appetite for control," he observed, fixing her with a bright, penetrating gaze. "And, more importantly, a talent for it." She started and stared at him. This was not the first time such a thing had been said of her, but it chilled her now more than ever, for she felt the truth of it.

"I suppose," she conceded, with the sudden sensation of teetering on the edge of a blade. "Control is some consolation when worthier prey eludes me." He raised a quizzical brow, and his eyes burned brighter still.

"And what do you hunt, storm-charmer?" He leaned forward, and she felt the impact of those glittering eyes like a tangible force, dazzling and disorienting.

"Answers." The reply sprang to her lips without consideration. A slow, sharp smile spread over the stranger's face.

"You are a diverting riddle indeed my lady."

"I strive to entertain," she said, and she could not keep the note of bitterness out of her voice.

"A noble vocation," he replied. "Perhaps the noblest of all, these days." His face was unreadable, but his words made Aearis oddly sad.

"And you? Have you a vocation?" she asked, unable to break from his gaze.

"A vocation…" he repeated dreamily, testing the word on his tongue. "I could not say. An occupation, certainly."

The conversation lulled, and Aearis realized that every muscle in her body was extraordinarily tense. To distract herself, she hummed to herself, a tune whose origin she no longer remembered, but which spoke to her of somewhere that might be home.

The stranger shuddered suddenly and fixed her again with those star-bright eyes.

"Do you know any songs about dragons?" he asked suddenly, impetuous as a child. His eyes glinted hungrily and she hardly suppressed a shiver.

"A few rather morose ones," she replied holding his gaze with great difficulty. "From the First Age. But I have little taste for sad songs at the moment." For a moment his eyes hardened, but then he smiled again, slowly, revealing all his glinting white teeth.

"Indeed, such a night as this should not be sullied by grief," he agreed, with a gracious nod.

"I do know a fanciful old tale of a sailor and a sea serpent," she offered. "If you would accompany me..." He stared for a moment at the little silver flute that she offered him before uttering a single, jagged bark of laughter and picking it up delicately in his long, powerful fingers.

She began to sing, and the star-eyed stranger watched her unblinkingly, Runhilde's flute poised against his lips. The melody that formed between them was tense and turbulent, with a rhythm that rushed and accelerated into a mad, frenzied crescendo. The wind stirred uneasily around them again. Then they dropped suddenly into silence, leaving Aearis covered in cold sweat and struggling to breathe. The stinging power of the brine coursed through her bloodstream and the music of the shore rang in her ears. And through it all, that bright, mesmeric gaze. A constant, unwavering call to glory.

"Well?" she prompted, though she could scarcely hear her own voice as it wove itself seamlessly with the rush of the waves and the harmonies of the wind. "Are you entertained?"

He smiled his fierce, avid smile and rose fluidly to his feet.

"More than I had any right to expect," he replied. "Thank the Valar for stormy nights and interesting strangers."

He bowed over her hand once again before sauntering away, eastwards along the shore, whistling as he went.

"Will I see you again?" she called out, wincing at her own trite words. But curiosity had flickered to life, drawing her towards the steel-bright stranger like an unfortunate moth.

"I suppose you shall have to," he replied with a rakish grin of wild, breathtaking beauty thrown over his shoulder. "I have your flute."

And then he was gone, swallowed by the all-consuming night.

Left perfectly alone upon the sand once again, Aearis lost herself in the deafening song of the strange shore. Time passed unmarked, and that darkest of nights stretched infinitely out in every direction, and she felt it press against her skin like an embrace. The wind and sea and stars rushed in through her skin, filling her with unfamiliar, exhilarating stories. She let the music of Lindon permeate her, drive her thoughts outward until all her aches and pains receded into obscurity. Power flooded through every fiber of this overwhelming, starlit realm, and it sent her head spinning with its intoxicating potency.

But slowly, lazily, the first rays of dawn crept up behind her, and with them returned the yawning ache. She shivered under the blushing sky, but her eyes stayed fixed on the western sea.

"Are you ready?" The voice beside her was so quiet that for a moment she thought she had imagined it, until she realized that there were long, slender fingers interlaced with her own. Bereneth's hands were always so warm, even on the chilliest days.

To her own surprise, Aearis smiled.

"There are quite a lot of layers to that question," she said. Stalling. "But I think," she sighed, "the answer is generally 'no.'"

Another hand, rough with scars and calluses, grasped her left.

"We'll start slow," said Cestedir.

Aearis raised a brow at him. He looked exhausted, hollow-eyed. But beneath his skin he still shone with the light of a hearth fire. She laughed despite herself when Dinalagos pressed his hot, wet nose against her ear and grumbled loudly, announcing his expectation of a swift and extensive breakfast. She breathed in deeply and nodded, and if her hands shook, they were steadied by the firm, warm grips on each side of her. Then she turned to meet the breaking day.


Notes:

*The Adunaic language apparently had a lot in common with the languages of the Men of the East, with some Sindarin influence mixed in. So I'm imagining the accent to roughly resemble an Israeli accent, whereas a Sindarin/elvish accent might sound more Welsh.

*This may not be at all canon-compliant (I've found relatively little information about Numenorean culture). However, given that Numenoreans were initially pretty cool about death, and also given that they're sailors, I imagine traditional (that is to say, pre-corruption) Numenorean death rituals as boozy and celebratory like an Irish wake-especially when the deceased died valiantly in battle or comfortably after a long life. Of course, Aearis handles death less gracefully, but Gimlith, I think, would want them to paint the town good and properly red.