[Anguirel]

The Return Voyage

The boat that had been a little crowded with half-a-dozen felt almost empty with three. Malris and Tasa had found Lómwë waiting alone by the Ghostbearer.

"The others left by way of one of the fishermen's crafts," he explained to them. "Lindir has decided to return to Middle-earth, while Endamir would rather take the straight road alone, I think, than amid the bustle of the passage Cirdan has arranged for us."

"May the Valar give him an easy wind," Malris answered, biting his lip. "It is a small boat and Endamir is little versed in sailing."

"I do not think he will be troubled by storms this time," Tasa said quietly, looking up into the sky. It was indeed blue and cloudless, though there was a healthy pitch in the water and a chilly enough breeze.

"Let us to Mithlond, then. There we shall part our various ways," said Malris, feeling the wooden ship of the harp in his hand. "And I rename this vessel; not Ghostbearer, but Ghostlayer shall she be. I have," he smiled wryly, "a spare, white, sail..."

***

It was a swift, yet untroubled journey; indeed as if the ocean had taken pity on this battered group of travellers in their stained, torn, grey garb.

"Why, the Anduin can be more trouble than this," Lómwë remarked.

"On certain days. At certain periods. With certain passengers," Malris contemplated from the tiller. "This wind is a Western wind wafting us south-east, and I say it comes in the way of a reprieve."

And so it fell out. Mariners at Mithlond loitered at the harbour, waiting for the return of the ship with Star of Feanor on her black sail, scheduled to arrive on that day, waiting so that they could curse her.

But they saw no sign of the ship's dark sail. "She must have perished; good riddance," one Telerin sailor said to another. She had perished, in a way, or the spirit in which she had been launched; it had died within Malris when he decided to resist the Harp.

And none noticed the landing of a grey boat with a plain sail, with three wild-looking Elves swathed in tattered grey aboard.

None except the Shipwright, and he stood and wondered.

***

Malris, Tasa, and Lómwë found themselves disembarked amid a scene of splendour. Before a tall, three-masted ship the Shipwright spoke with the three Elven Ringbearers; Galadriel, mistress of Tasa, glorious but humble in the fresh cleansing of the air, her hair blown about; grave Elrond, foster-son of Maglor, bearing a silver harp, perhaps in secret remembrance; and hoary old Mithrandir, whose sardonic laugh brought something earthier to that very unearthly meeting.

"Tasarënì, my dear!" Galadriel cried in some astonishment. "You are as punctual as ever. Do you mean to come with my company after all?"

"Nay, my lady, mine is the way of Celeborn," Tasa replied with regret. In more ways than even Artanis knows, Malris thought. For Tasa too was watching her love sail while she waited on the shore. Only it was another sort of love, with less drama and more artistry.

The three last fighters of Maedhros' host went aside during the commotion the arrival of the Periannath caused, and Malris knelt before Tasa, kissing her hand once. Then they exchanged one look, a deep look of minds as well as eyes, and parted amid the throng. Malris and Lómwë filed wordlessly into the ranks of the Elven retinues of the Three Elven Ringbearers, walking uneasily over the birch ramp and onto the deck.

"You will find your wife, and Aradol too, Lómwë," Malris said softly as they walked alone on the deck. "Aradol was an innocent, and will have been freed from Mandos. He'll be a fine young Elf now...a sturdy son for your old age, eh?" he said, unable to resist a gentle jibe.

Lómwë looked back, and silence fell for a little. "You will enter Namo's Halls to find Giledhel?"

"Aye."

"Then may you be rewarded as you deserve," Lómwë said, his eyes wide. Malris almost thought that in that moment he had the aspect of a prophet.

"That is all I can hope for." Would he be forgiven by his time-estranged wife? Malris did not know; but this he was now sure of, that had he denied himself this path to possible reconciliation, he would never have forgiven himself.

The breakers shifted and crawled and pounced, but the ship went on just the same. It was a smooth road, a quiet road, a simple road.

A straight road.


Ahem. Does this work as a last post? If anyone wants changes, do speak up.