Lothíriel unfurled the scrap of parchment with her nail and scanned it quickly. The falcon whose leg she'd retrieved the message from accepted the bit of dried meat Gierolf offered it while she frowned over the message's contents.

"Gierolf," Lothíriel began slowly, but didn't get to continue.

"Cap'n!" shouted Harthor from aloft in the masthead. Lothíriel's head snapped up as he pointed west. "Ox-eye!"

Lothíriel and Gierolf started at the word, dashing to the starboard rail.

"Béma's nose," breathed Gierolf. An ox-eye call meant a storm was brewing, although how bad, she hadn't been able to tell. But the warm waters of the Bay of Belfalas meant stronger winds and more rainfall as storms approached land from the sea. Magolon's message alone had been grim, but the news of the storm didn't pair well. Lothíriel set her jaw. No use crying over spilled milk, her mother's gentle words echoed in her head.

"Very well," Lothíriel acknowledged. "All hands on deck!" she ordered, and Gierolf turned to bellow the order. She glanced at her hand, still clutching the scrap of paper. Her other hand absently went to the leather necklace Magolon had given her, stroking it idly as she thought.

"Gierolf, I want the report of the storm when I return. Hold the falcon, I'll have an answer shortly."

When Lothíriel was a child, she had been enraptured by stories of the Valar. Her mother had encouraged her, giving her a book of poetry and songs of the Valar, beautifully illuminated and illustrated by one of the finest scribes in Gondor. It was, even to this day, her most prized possession, dearer to her still for the memory of her golden mother. And in the book, her most cherished and oft-turned page was the one dedicated to the song, A Elbereth Gilthoniel. A breathtaking depiction of the Vala it was dedicated to, Elbereth, adorned one page with the accompanying text on the other. Lothíriel took so much secret strength and joy and passion from this painting. For in this portrait, Elbereth, the Queen of the Valar, was bedecked and crowned with starlight and her robe was of moonlight. Her chin was lifted, back and shoulders aligned and straight, feet light but planted. In her right hand was a sword crusted with stars and jewels but her left was held out, palm open, as if aiding or encouraging an unseen figure. Her eyes glowed in the light of the stars and while her expression was pleasant, her jaw was set. This was the ideal Lothíriel held for herself - the Queen of Starlight, challenging any threat but performing no evil, as gentle as the dove but as cunning as the serpent.

Now, as she disappeared into her cabin through the companionway, rushing to her desk, she called forth that image into her mind. As she rifled through the drawers, she prayed for that same strength of arm and mind as Elbereth Gilthoniel. She snatched up the oilskin pouch that held the messages she and Magolon had exchanged and dropped the newest one into it, but seeing the pouch reminded her there was another urgent missive from Magolon in it that she had to deal with. But first things first, she had this to figure out. Grabbing another pouch, she pulled a fresh bit of parchment and hastily scrawled a response. As Lothíriel replaced the items into her desk, she summoned every nerve and ounce of strength she could manage and went back to the main deck. Her crew stood assembled, waiting for her. She handed her reply to Magolon off to Brégdan, who attached it to the falcon and released him. Meanwhile, Lothíriel faced Gierolf, rolling her shoulders back and keeping her head high.

"Report," she said, and Gierolf saluted. A flash of a smile from her first mate bolstered and reassured her, before he obeyed her order and reverted to business.

"Ox-eye indicates at least a fresh gale, maybe even a strong gale, Cap'n. Be here in just under an hour," Gierolf answered. Lothíriel grimaced.

"Very well," she accepted the information, "Before I give you orders, you should know that Magolon sighted a Corsair ship just around the cape." Slight murmurings and shifting of feet answered her. Lothíriel felt the same - they were nearly at the tip of Belfalas but just on the other side of it, lay an enemy. "We'll clear the land in half an hour, at the rate we're traveling. So lads, we've got to make ready for a fight and then the storm. Barthion, Brégdan, Khaatbaam, and Pelingildor, you lot batten down the hatches. Ready her for the storm. Harthor, get your bow and quiver. Focus fire on archers first then anyone else. Therion, stay at the helm. I want to see if we can get them to follow us to open sea. This is our bay. We can weather it, but I'll wager they won't," Lothíriel instructed. The crew nodded to her words, grunting agreement. Pelingildor looked mutinous but wisely held his tongue. Therion raised a hand and Lothíriel gestured for him to speak.

"So, Cap'n, you mean to bear up to lure them out and then bear away?" he clarified, brow furrowed. Bearing up would take them into the wind, leading their prey to the open seas. But at the last second, they'd have to turn leeward, following the same path as the gales.

"Aye, Therion. We'll have to be mindful of broaching," Lothíriel confirmed. Therion nodded fervently. Capsizing was only one of the dangers they'd face, but with the predicted winds, it was the foremost.

"Aye, Cap'n. But I think your plan just may work. We may have to tack, but it can be done."

"Agreed. In fact, plan to tack," Lothíriel decreed, before moving on. Tacking would allow them to travel in a zig zag into the wind so that the chance of broaching was minimized and also help them avoid the arrows of their enemy. "I've told Magolon our plans. Harthor, I'll join you with my bow. Gierolf…"

"Aye, Cap'n mine, I know what to do," Gierolf nodded, touching his knuckle to his brow. "Action stations, lads!" The crew ran off to obey their orders, but Pelingildor followed Lothíriel to her cabin as she retrieved her bow. Lothíriel sighed as she pulled it out and strang it.

"Speak your mind, Pelingildor," she said, resigned to his disapproval. But he seemed at a loss of where to start while she found her quiver and buckled it on.

"Are you mad?" he asked finally, through clenched teeth when she turned to face him.

"Mad, bad, or just plain sad, it's too late now, Pelingildor. I have a duty to this ship and to my people, and I will not fail either," Lothíriel answered, meeting his eyes resolutely. Her knees shook and her hands trembled, but she called upon every etiquette lesson she had ever had, and imagined herself becoming that picture of Elbereth, her spine becoming steel, her blood turning to ice. She turned to exit the room, her free hand on the handle, when her Swan Knight bodyguard spoke again.

"My lady, you have never seen battle, let alone sailing this storm!" Pelingildor objected. Immediately she whirled on him and advanced, mincing steps that while didn't take her far (given the small space), still forced Pelingildor to back up against the desk.

"Does that make me no less qualified than any Knight?" she ground out, a low voice that she struggled to keep steady. Calm, Princess, you must be calm. Flowers are no less strong for their petals. "Any Knight new to battle, am I any weaker than he? Answer me!"

"My lady," Pelingildor began, pleadingly, but Lothíriel cut him off, her blood rising as her passion ignited.

"You're right. I am young and my sword untarnished. But do not mistake naïveté with inexperience!"

She spun again, pacing to the door, before facing him again, and once more called to mind that image of Elbereth.

"I have trained under the same masters as my brothers. I have sailed through the coves and the lagoons and the rivers of this country as have my kin. I have weathered storms, shipwreck, capsizing, and cold nights in damp clothes many a time. Perhaps this sloop is a grander scale than a mere sailboat, but the premise remains the same. The novelty of leading a crew outside of my brothers does not mean I have no experience whatsoever with making tactical decisions. You may stake your life on that. Indeed, I require of you that you do. Or is this not the very idea behind your duties as my bodyguard?" Lothíriel took a sharp breath, forcing herself to slow down. She took heart from how her voice didn't waver or rise in volume, but she needed to regulate her passion. "I am Princess of Dol Amroth. Have I not, from the moment I first drew breath, been guided and trained to lead?"

"Oh, my Princess," whispered Pelingildor, sagging against the table. "There is no argument I can make, and I knew that from the moment I followed you here. I cannot offer an excuse for my behavior, but may I be allowed to offer an explanation?"

Lothíriel took a long breath, trying her best to rein in her emotion. Of all people to object to her, she had fully expected it to be with the one tasked with her protection.

"Of course you may, Pelingildor, and I'm sorry for getting carried away and intense. You are not my enemy, and I'm not going to treat you like such."

"No, my lady - I mean, Captain, you have nothing to apologize for." Pelingildor paused, gathered himself, and forged on. "But you remind me of my little sister, and that is why I find myself so protective. Because I could not protect her, the joyful little thing that she was, and I will not fail my duty again," he vowed. Lothíriel immediately softened.

"Oh, Pelingildor. I need to hear this tale in full, but we have work to do. Help me through this - that is the only way you can protect me, and the memory of her. We have to fight and we have to sail. Come, Pelingildor, won't you give me your hand?" Lothíriel offered a hand to him, but he simply pulled his blade free from its sheath and presented it to her hilt first.

"I'll give you my sword, Captain, and my word to obey your orders. Command me as you will."

Lothíriel nodded once, sharply, and he sheathed his weapon once more. She returned to the deck, her mind now racing ahead to the coming battle and storm. She was glad things were resolved, for the most part, between her and Pelingildor, but having to remind him why she needed his support had taken a toll on her remaining confidence. Elbereth, she reminded herself as she approached Gierolf and Brégdan, starlight and swords. Brégdan glanced up at her and winked, stepping aside to allow her to join them at the starboard rail.

"Storm's approaching, Cap'n mine," Gierolf reported with a nod to the rapidly unfurling grey clouds. "All's ready."

"No thanks to this one," Brégdan teased, jerking his head towards Pelingildor. "But we're waiting for action, now."

"Or rain," Khaatbaam added, as he strolled up, palms turned skyward. Indeed, as he spoke, great big droplets of rain began to fall, picking up speed and intensity.

"I don't think we're waiting for rain, anymore," Lothíriel replied, giving a wry smile and making Brégdan snort. "But battle, certainly."

"Aw, Cap'n mine, this won't be no proper battle," Brégdan drawled, purposefully thickening his Rohirric accent. "Just a bit of a tussle, all it is."

"As someone who won't be tussling," Gierolf interjected with a raised brow, "I don't think you've got much grounds to comment, lad mine."

The wind was picking up now, hurling the rain droplets with greater force, and Lothíriel drew a kerchief from her pocket to tie around her thick braid of hair, making sure no strays slipped free. She tied it so that part of her forehead was covered by the cloth, the ends knotted behind her head. Brégdan grinned at her.

"You are beginning to resemble a pirate," he said, winking at her. Lothíriel stuck her tongue out at him, falling into the sibling role she felt around the Northman.

"Aye, and I've a hankering for blood this day," she teased, growling the words. Khaatbaam laughed, shaking his head at her. Harthor walked up, handing Lothíriel a quiver.

"They've been sighted, Cap'n mine," he said, echoing Gierolf and Brégdan's Rohirric-style honorific. "They're exactly where we want them."

"And not a mite too soon," Khaatbaam exclaimed, as the heavens opened up and the storm descended in full. Brégdan ran to give orders as boatswain and fetch Gierolf. Khaatbaam went to the forecastle, ready to assist any in need of medical attention, while Harthor pulled Lothíriel to the rail to pick their targets.

"Will we be able to do anything in this deluge?" Lothíriel yelled above the wind, salt and rainwater pelting her eyes.

"Honestly, Cap'n, probably not," Harthor yelled back.

"Then take these and go belowdecks!" Lothíriel ordered, handing him her bow and quiver.

"Aye, Cap'n, but lash yourself to the mast!" Harthor acquiesced, but handed her the line tying to the main mast. Lothíriel quickly wrapped the line around her waist, years of practice and a childhood by the sea making her fingers nimble despite the wet rope to tie the correct knot. Brégdan and Gierolf came abovedecks at last, and Lothíriel gestured to Gierolf to join Therion. Gierolf saluted with a touch of his knuckles to his brow.

"Therion! Begin the tack," she cried, in between peals of thunder. Therion nodded to her, and the game of cat and mouse began with the enemy Corsair.

'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'

Bearing up was not the difficult part, Lothíriel realized, as she watched the Corsair ship careen past them out to open sea, her gambit a success. It was the bearing away, returning to the safety of the bay, that was the challenge. Therion fought for every tack he made, and she made a mental note to have him rewarded for his courage and sheer strength of mind and body when they returned. Lothíriel leaned port, waiting for the tack to turn starboard, but the miss stays had her turning toward the helm.

"Therion! Tack starboard!" Lothíriel shouted, before a salty spray hit her in the face. She spluttered and tightened her grip on the line tying her to the rail, trying to blink away the seawater that burned her eyes. Fortunately, the rain water quickly helped soothe the salt water from her face, although it felt like needles on her skin.

"She won't answer, Cap'n!" Therion yelled over the din. He wrestled with the helm, but the ship refused to move according to his actions. Rudder chain must've been disabled, Lothíriel thought dully, but knew he needed directions, and fast.

"Lay ahull!" Lothíriel ordered, knowing that their only hope now lay in not fighting the wind. But they ran the risk of running aground on Tolfalas, with the winds blowing in a clockwise pattern in toward Lebennin. Therion released the rudder, and bellowed the corresponding orders to loosen the sheets. His grim expression matched hers. Buffeted by the wind, the sloop creaked and groaned as it rocked wildly through the crashing waves.

"Valar protect us," Lothíriel breathed, as wave after wave rose up higher and higher to meet them. The Alph Gwathren did her best to climb and cut through each one, but the angry sea tossed them to and fro. Brégdan began to make his way toward her from the forward, timing his movements with the descent of the ship from a wave and using the rail to propel himself. She knew why he was coming, it was the same reason why Gierolf was near Therion in the aft. Two people could stand together against the jerky and dangerous motions of the sloop far better than one. Alone, she was already being tossed about like a rag doll. But Brégdan's progress was slow, for every five steps he took forward, he staggered back one giant one. Yet Lothíriel waited for him, doing her best to ride out each up and down crash.

"Cap'n!" yelled Gierolf, in a tone of voice Lothíriel had never heard him use before, panic stricken and half a scream. Lothíriel turned to see the biggest wave she'd ever beheld in her life rising up to meet them, cruel and wicked and ruthless. Lothíriel swore viciously (in Rohirric and Sindarian) and immediately rolled herself into the line, wrapping it multiple times around her. It was her only hope to remain secure. In nearly one motion, the wave crested and Brégdan flung himself as far forward as he could make it, a huge lunge that brought him nearly to her side. But the wave descended over them before he could catch hold of her, and Lothíriel's voice was ripped from her throat as she was thrown back sharply. With the voices of Gierolf and Brégdan shouting her name ringing in her ears, something struck her head and she knew no more.

'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'

The brilliant sun reflecting off of the glassy sea did nothing for Lothíriel's headache as she clambered to the deck from her blessedly dark cabin. She had awakened on her bed, salt crusting her eyes and clothes, and head feeling like it had been used as an anvil. But she had forced herself to move, to go in search of her crew and the damage done in the storm. Now above decks, she groaned, shading her eyes with her hand and wishing with all her might for a flagon of good, cold, clear water sweetened with mint like the royal family was served at meals.

"Aye, that storm really hurt us," Lothíriel muttered bitterly, mouth feeling dry and cottony, surveying the mess strewn about the ship. Ropes hung limply every which way, chunks of wood littered the deck, and anything that hadn't been secured lay in pieces. Therion and Galon stood at the helm, debating how to fix the rudder chain, while Khaatbaam finished tying a bandage on Barthion's arm. Brégdan and Pelingildor had begun to tidy the ship, flinging seaweed overboard and coiling the lines that had tied them to the deck. The smell of wet wood, salt, blood, and brine burned Lothíriel's nose, and she sighed. Gierolf's hand on her shoulder was a gentle weight, but even that much hurt.

"Y'alright, Cap'n?" Gierolf grunted, voice gravelly and hoarse. His eyes watched her carefully, inspecting her for any other injuries.

"Aye, but how my head aches," Lothíriel groaned, rubbing her neck with a wince. Near her right temple, her fingers discovered caked blood, dry and flaky, from the blow which had rendered her unconscious. "How're the lads?"

"We're alright, Cap'n mine," Brégdan answered, his voice, too, rough and weary. "Béma's balls, but the sea is a vicious and cruel mistress."

"Aye, but she's our mistress, and we'll keep her all the same. Somebody's got to cleanse her waters," Khaatbaam answered softly, his usual cheerfulness present but muted. Lothíriel sighed heavily, the throbbing of her head seeming to increase in pressure. She found Pelingildor watching her carefully, and he nodded to her when she met his eyes. Lothíriel inhaled slowly, rolling back her shoulders. Her muscles protested the movement, but she knew motion would loosen them back up again.

"Alright, lads," she said, knowing they would recognize the phrase that usually precluded an order. Sure enough, despite her quiet words, the sailors turned her way, rubbing various aches and avoiding the glare of the sun.

"First," Lothíriel began. "Well done. The battle was unexpected but thanks to you, it was swift. Good work, indeed." A smattering of grunts and shifted weight were the only response she received before she continued. "Now then, to business. Khaatbaam, Harthor, do an inventory of what we have left. Barthion, Galon, you two see to cleaning up the rest of the deck. Therion, fix the chain and restore our course. Gierolf, Brégdan, and Pelingildor, to me."

Scattered "ayes" met her as she turned to re-enter her cabin. She went straight to her desk and pulled out the oilskin that protected her map of Arda. Now was finally the time to address Magolon's first message.

"Cap'n?" Gierolf asked. Lothíriel glanced up at them, as they stood in her threshold.

"Ah, yes. Come here, lads. I have an idea." The men gathered around her map, and she placed her finger on the island of Tolfalas. "As you know, Magolon has been using Tolfalas as a base for his operations. Just before the battle, I received his falcon. A Corsair supply shipment is coming up from the Mouth of Harnen toward the Mouth of Anduin." Her finger traced the route of the map, rising north from Harad. "Magolon believes that before the year progresses much further, there will be a sustained attack on Pelargir."

"Have they been warned?" Pelingildor asked, studying the map.

"Aye, Magolon said he sent a raven," Lothíriel answered, glancing at each man in turn. Brégdan muttered a soft curse in Rohirric, making Gierolf raise an eyebrow at him. Brégdan looked up, meeting Lothíriel's eye with a shrewd gaze.

"And you mean to cut them off, Captain mine," he guessed, at which Pelingildor's eyes snapped to Lothíriel.

"You cannot be serious."

"I swear by the Valar above I am," Lothíriel replied sharply.

"We just came from a battle, one we were not even supposed to have," Pelingildor argued back. "And you want to seek another?"

"Without a doubt. Look here, we need supplies. Pelargir needs time to mount a defense. The Haradrim and Corsairs don't even know we exist, thanks to that battle we just fought. There is a supply ship just begging to be caught. Damn what we're 'supposed' to do. This is what we're going to do," Lothíriel countered, firm but not unkind. "If you can provide me with a genuine reason why we should not engage, I'm all ears. But logically and strategically, this makes the most sense. We have the advantage of time, knowledge of the sea, and information. If it were my brothers, they would not hesitate. Neither will I." She turned to her first and second mates. "Anything to add?"

"Nay, Cap'n mine," Gierolf answered mildly. Pelingildor opened his mouth, brows furrowed, to continue, but the sound of boots in her threshold drew their attention behind them. Therion stood in the doorway, pausing to scan each of them in question, before turning to her.

"Cap'n? Do we have a heading?"

Lothíriel straightened, glancing at Therion but looking back to Pelingildor.

"Aye. The gap between Tolfalas and Harondor. Take us around the northern end of the island, past the Mouth of Anduin."

Tharion touched his brow in salute and turned smartly to do her bidding. Lothíriel sighed and turned back to the map.

"Pelingildor, I hear you. You worry for my safety, don't you?"

"Aye, my lady," Pelingildor replied, and as she opened her mouth to protest the title, he hurried on. "But I know that here you are not just a princess. You are our leader. And I would follow you to the Halls of Mandos and beyond. But you are our future, my lady. My conscience would not allow me to remain silent."

"Oh, give it a rest, Mother Hen," Brégdan broke in with a grin and wink at Pelingildor. "She's proven herself in the last 24 hours, not that she ever needed to. Permission to take this sodder and prepare the ship for battle, Cap'n mine?"

Lothíriel smiled at her second mate in relief as the tension eased from the room.

"Please do, but for the love of Béma, keep out of trouble. I'd prefer to fight with a ship still under sail," she teased, making Brégdan laugh at her use of his favorite epithet, but she paused to nod slowly to Pelingildor, to show that his concerns had been received and noted. Pelingildor gave the tiniest of nods in return, as Brégdan slung an arm around his shoulders and led him out. Gierolf turned to Lothíriel as she bent over the map once more.

"Now, to discuss our plan of attack…"