Forchalad raced up and down the rocky cliff line, heedless of the heights but as sure of foot as one of the mountain goats that roamed the crags around the Angle. Gwetheril sat facing the sea. Her book, a repository of stories she had so far gleaned containing snatches of songs she was too afraid to ask their singers to complete—it lay abandoned in a patch of heather. She would return to it, she told herself. But now she succumbed to the delight of watching the clouds drift across the sky and the seagulls soaring to meet them.
Here she found her words were slower—slow as the turtles that dragged themselves from gliding in the sea to sink their fins into the sand. Her laughter too came even less quickly. The Elves could be flippant, or seem so, their laughter blending into the sounds of wind and waves. But there was too much irony in her laughter. Laughter here must be earnest or not at all, for it was an earnest world. Sorrow there might be, apathy to all that lay beyond its borders, but half-hearted cynicism could not be watered by the briny sea.
From her high place she could hear the sound of flute carried from a ship that flew into the harbour, the waves and the song in perfect rhythm.
She wandered to the docks following the sound of the wind-borne melody. At the prow stood an Elf with chestnut hair that flew in the wind with such fervour that she thought it must tangle in his flute. He paused not until the boat came to a stop, and placed the wooden flute into a pouch at his waist.
Gwetheril watched the Elven sailors bustling around the ship. A silver-haired elleth leapt to the dock as light as a settling swan, and the musician joined another Elf with hair of a lighter brown to unload a large crate from the ship.
Forchalad ran back up to her just as the two Elves passed with their burden.
The flautist paused, causing his companion to stumble back, “Welcome Sea-Gazer. Rarely does one of your kindred tarry in our havens.”
Before Gwetheril could respond, the other Elf snapped back, “Thou shalt get nowhere at all if thou stoppest to greet every dog on the dock. I at least shall get somewhere! Under this crate when thou droppest it on me!”
Gwetheril blinked, taking a moment to determine whether or not the Elf spoke of her at all. Forchalad wagged his tail.
“Thou idiot! I spoke not to the dog—though having greeted the woman it would be only polite.” He nodded toward the dog.
The other Elf peeked over the crate, and his eyes widened as he saw that his companion had indeed not been speaking to the dog. He made an attempt at a bow, oddly graceful considering the size of the crate, which seemed to be mostly resting on him, “I saw her not, owing to the giant crate with which thou nearly crushed me. Greetings to you woman.”
The two set down their crate, and repeated their bows.
The first Elf smiled, “Forgive any accidental offence from my brother! I am Dínfalver of the ship Limsúl, and this is her captain, Súldil.”
Gwetheril returned the bow, “No offence is taken, for I am a stranger here—it may be that insults are the mode of greeting here, if insult it was! I am Gwetheril of the Dúnedain.”
Súldil gave his brother a glare, “I cannot see through crates as a window! Yet welcome indeed.”
Dínfalver paid no mind to that comment, though he replied to Gwetheril, “It is an honour to meet you Gwetheril, and the dog to which my brother thought I spoke.
“He is Forchalad of Forochel.”
“From strange corners of the world do you both come! What brings you hither?”
“You, or rather your people—stories and songs and lore of your long years that I would not have lost to the sea. And I also long have dreamed of looking upon the sea.”
He smiles, “To look from land is only half to see it! You must find a ship that will bear you among the waves, far enough that land is but a memory.”
And it seemed to her then that the song still played with a promise of the open sky and the unimaginable deeps keeping close their secrets upon secrets. In her heart awoke a yearning to see waves blessed by Uinen, to hear again the song, and to fly the waves on the Elf-ship.
She turned back and smiled, “Know you an Elf-captain that will take me for memory of the sailors of Númenor, and shall not require any demonstration of skill? For I once had to take the helm on a river, and showed none of the skill of my kindred.”
“I do not think we shall expect you to sail the ship! At least not until you are used to the sea.”
Súldil raised his eyebrows, “Brother! Wouldst thou so quickly recruit this mortal woman to our crew! But for tomorrow at least, thou and I, and any of the others that be willing shall take her upon the ocean.”
On the morrow four of the Elves of the Limsúl’s crew took to the sea with the mortal and dog. The fifth, Hearon remained, occupied with arrangements for their next voyage, but his daughter Mithes was the navigator. She spoke no word to Gwetheril, but smiled in welcome. More talkative were the brothers and Calaereth, the Elf she had noted the previous day, her hair now covered with a deep blue scarf.
Dínfalver played and the timbers of the ship quivered and glided over the waves. Gwetheril leaned forward and let her hand fall over the edge of the ship, catching the sea-spray.
At last he stopped and the ship slowed, carried by the sails that still Calaereth adjusted. Now Gwetheril took up song, and sang of a mariner of old, Nimrûpher of Númenor, of her flight through enchanted waters from the King’s Men.
As she sang of their emergence from the darkness that had followed them, she heard the flute again, in countermelody to her own voice. She could almost see that mannish ship that sought for an unknown haven, and sailed through the realms of Uinen’s folk.
It was not until the tale was finished that she thought of the meanness of her own voice, and looked down abashed, seeking the familiar comfort of Forchalad rather than the Elves, but he sat near Mithes.
But Dínfalver laughed, “Fair singing, Gwetheril, Sea-Singer! If you seek our songs and tales, you give well in exchange!”
Then the Elves again sang a song of harbour, all save Mithes the Navigator, who spoke no word during their voyage, but listened and turned the ship to shore.
So then she was invited to their next voyage, a short delivery of wood to another settlement. But her mind was on old traditions, when they set to sea she brought a green bough from a fragrant tree. Not Oiolairë of days past, yet one whose white flowers still laid the ship with sweet scent. Súldil poorly hid a laugh, but Dínfalver helped her affix it to the prow and smiled. After a few days the flowers shed their blossoms to the deck, but the leaves stayed green.
