DISCLAIMER: Maglor belongs to Professor Tolkien. So does Valinor. I think everything else here is mine.
Sailing
"Bob, you can't."
Robert Taylor sighed, and looked at the other members of his team. "Does it seem to anyone else like we've had this conversation before?" he asked, in a desperate attempt at levity. Mary and Joe, however, didn't even smile. Bob thought that rather unfair, but maybe Sandra's mood was upsetting them. "Okay, Sandra," he said, "you don't think we should take the boat and follow the instructions."
"Not just that," Sandra Newton replied. "First off, you'd have to get that boat out of the cave. Then you'd need to get it over to the ocean. Then, you'd still be following maps and star-charts thousands of years out of date. How do you think this is workable, Bob, really?"
Bob frowned. "It has to be, Sandra," he said. "We can't come this far and then just give up. We've got to take the ship – the Sinda Cirya Métima – and tell Maglor's family what happened to him. We just have to."
"Now, look," Sandra began, but was cut off by a snort of laughter from Joe Nesmith. "What?" she snapped.
Joe shook his head, still smiling. "Nothing. Just remembered a word." At Bob's raised eyebrow, he rolled his eyes. "Swarn. It's a Nandorin word, means stubborn, obstructive, that sort of thing. I just thought it described the two of you perfectly."
Bob frowned, sidetracked. "Nandorin?"
"Er, Green-Elven. The language of those elves who tended to stick to the trees, avoiding warfare and so on."
"It's not relevant, then?" asked Sandra. Joe shook his head, chastened, and she turned back to Bob. Fortunately, the team leader had now had time to think.
"Sandra," he said, before she could launch into another tirade, "you're concerned with the money we'd lose in this enterprise. That's admirable, and I agree that we cannot simply abandon the St. Paul's dig. Even with the inscription finished, there's bound to be all sorts of other stuff under there, right?" Sandra nodded, and Bob smiled. "However," he continued, "think of the profit we'd get from an expedition to Valinor. From what I remember, the dust on the streets there is diamond."
Sandra snorted. "I've heard that one before," she said, but Bob thought he detected a little uncertainty in her voice. After all, they were dealing with a race of immortals, a single member of which had made inscriptions – and a ship – beyond anything created by Man.
"Even if it's not true," he said, "the possibility of seeing architecture built over thousands of years by the same hands is truly staggering." He glanced at the others, trying to guess their reaction to his upcoming proposal. Joe, he saw, looked very uncertain, whereas Mary, judging from what she'd said earlier, would gladly go on this trip just for the sake of doing it. "The same goes for everything else – gardens, art, language. They'll doubtless be far more beautiful and advanced than our equivalents." That got Joe's attention, as he'd known it would. The man was, and always had been, obsessed with his languages.
"Sandra," Bob said, "I'm not going to order anyone to come along on this trip. If necessary, I'll go alone. I will not, however, turn down anyone who asks to go with me. I'll also pay for the transport of the ship out of my own pocket."
"Bob, no!" exclaimed Mary Cloud, appalled. "It's an archaeological project, we-"
"No, it isn't," said Bob and Sandra in unison. "You know what we're meant to do," Bob continued. "We dig up the things, we don't make off with them, not even following instructions from those who left them. For it to be an archaeological project we'd have to hire a normal boat, and from the instructions down there, I don't think it would work. It has to be that ship, and that means that we'll technically be stealing it." There. He'd said it, and now it was time to see their reactions.
Mary, predictably, didn't care. "We have to do it anyway," she said, stubbornly – swarnly, Bob thought irreverently. To his surprise, though, Joe nodded.
"I agree," the Professor said. "We may be taking one find, but we'll bring back a record of an entire culture. It's worth the price." Bob smiled in thanks, and then looked at Sandra questioningly.
The linguist sighed. "I still don't think it's right, but I won't stop you. I won't come with you, though," she added hastily. "You're on your own in this. I'll be going back to London to get back to work." She paused, and then said, "I'll tell the team that you're engaged in continued investigations out here. And, if you need any more equipment…"
Bob let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Thank you, Sandra," he said. "That's all we can ask of you."
Sandra smiled. "No," she said, "you could ask a lot more. But you and I both know you wouldn't get it."
Bob laughed. "The team will be lucky to have you as a leader, Sandra Newton," he said. "Something tells me I won't be getting my job back when I return."
"Optimist," muttered Joe, but Mary had another comment in mind. "What, Bob?" she asked, eyes sparkling. "You think you are the team leader? Oh the delusions we make ourselves…"
Um. Okay, so the delay between the last chapter and this was somewhat longer than I thought it would be. I can't really offer any excuses, but I'll try to finish this off - only three chapters to go, we are winding it up - before posting any new 'fics. I actually have several sitting around in various states of completion, but I learnt my lesson when I posted Of Time And Sea without thinking about how long it would take to do chapter 4.
Sinda Cirya Métimais Quenya, the name of Maglor's ship, and, in a willful bit of self-pluggery, means Last Grey Ship. Or at least, it should.
Cloaked Eagle