She watched as Arthandron hefted the last of her bags onto the ship, then looked up one last time at the manor house of Xandalif. The house stuck up like a broken tooth on a promontory overlooking the bay. It was surrounded by a small town. Noble and servile, craftsman and cottar in their jumble of Gondorean angularity. Here and there a guildhall stuck up, its flaccid dome recalling breasts emptied of milk.
“You're certain you don't want to say farewell in person?” her husband asked in a patient and quiet tone as he stood on the deck under a sky as grey as the sea and tried to follow her gaze, knowing much of her mind.
“There's no point. I've served my purpose here. They don't need me. Arahen has a bond with Xanderian or...whatever her true name is in truth. As for Addiela I helped Addiela all I could. I upheld my troth. She's lost now. Lost to her own shadow. If her ambition doesn't destroy her, she may endure to some learn a kind of of wisdom”
“The others?”
“I can only hope those children end up alright. Calidis has a peculiar resilience. Eduwiges and Nethrida... I don't know where they'll end up. I think they will somehow keep one another alive.”
“The place is like a hen house, it is said in Dol Amroth,” he said sharply.
“It certainly has a pecking order,” she replied, forcing a knowing, tight-lipped smile. ““I left them some gifts. I don't know what else to do. Louch and torpid, I am not, so the instructions you bring are welcome indeed,” she said, walking surefootedly over the gangplank onto the deck. Once it was drawn up behind her, the crew bustled suddenly about and long poles pushed the vessel away from the pier. Sails dropped from spars and a listless breeze very languorous breeze pulled the shining silver elf-ship out into the broad bay. Ahmo studiously looked out to sea.
“I could ask them to head straight out to sea,” Arthandron suddenly said. Cirdan told me no blame would be attached to our names if we just disappeared.”
“Darling, you tempt me,” she answered, holding him close. “But our people depend on us too much to vanish. Beside, they might fear we were lost in a storm..”
A familiar face appeared over Ahmo's shoulder and Arthandron smiled, saying, “Arrothiel. I am sorry we made you wait so long.” Ahmo released her man and turned.
“We'll get you home as promised. Going through Eriador is a far better path than Anorien, which has become dangerous ro travellers as you well know!”
The younger girl bowed self-conciously. “I”m just glad to be away from the angry one,” she answered.
“So am I,” Ahmo sighed, barely above the snapping of the sails. "Maybe someday Xandalif's dream of becoming an orc will be fulfilled. Maybe this thing called Mans can help. They belong together.”
“Earlier-you said something about storms?” Arrothiel asked.
“We are the storm,” was all Ahmo said.
