The star which Malris wore upon his tunic had hardly prepared him for this.The
emblem of Feanor and his house on a great field of black!
Even now his breath caught in his throat at the sight of it. For all its bloody history it was a powerful symbol for him, recalling the deep bonds forged among those whom he’d fought beside. Many of whom had died, he reminded himself.
Did they find the peace my brother seeks on their return to Aman? he mused.
How long did Mandos’ halls echo their steps before they were allowed to leave? Or did they still walk there with Fëanor even now?
The sail rippled in the breezes; the star glinting brightly as it caught the light. A sudden, short gust from the north caught the material and snapped it into a deep fold. From his vantage point, the star all but disappeared beneath the darkness of the billowing sail.
A cold chill ran up his spine.
Goose walking over your grave! the old women left in the Angle’s hidden Rangers’ fastness would say, making a sign of warding against it. The feeling recalled the doom he’d heard in Lindir’s caution about the trip to Himling.
The wind had gentled now; the inky field lay at rest. The star, again, shone out brightly.
The grace of the Valar be with us! he murmured.
Orëmir tore his eyes from the sail. His hands unclenched, prompting him to consider what he might do with them to keep them busy and his mind free of thought. Gear needed to be stored, secured against the rocky waves of the northern sea. Of especial concern to him were the weapons they had brought. From the feeling that had crept over him he feared they might indeed have use of them. And his satchel of herbs and unguents and potions. He should be ready, he thought, to use his healer’s arts if needed.
A little ways away from him, Orëmir saw Lómwë, also looking at the sail. He called out to him to come lend him a hand. ‘We should get our gear below,’ he said, drawing nearer to him. ‘Will you lend me a hand?’