On Tides of Light by potorov  

AINA AR AISTANA

The heavens are full. They were always full.

That night a new star rose.

They were upon the quays when it came, half the city drifting out of the hall in ones and twos with nothing decided, because none of them could bear to go home. The lamps of naming were beyond sight. Elwing had followed two of them until she could no longer distinguish them from the others, and then had watched the outward scatter until distance took all certainty from her. She did not know whether the lamps of Elrond and Elros still burned. The Sea was black and quiet, and the sky had nothing new in it.

Then above the dark shoulder of the world, where there had never been anything at all, a light came up. It was not any star they knew. It was white and steady, and after a moment it began to climb.

Yárawë saw it first, for her sleep had long been light and she looked at the sky more than other people. She did not cry out. She reached sideways, took hard hold of the wrist of the man beside her, and pointed. The pointing went along the sea-wall faster than any word could have gone. In the space of a minute every face in Alqualondë was turned upward.

No one there knew what it was.

Elwing stood among them upon the wall. "That is my husband," she said, and her voice went out of her like something breaking.

She had not known where to look. She had put him ashore and let him walk alone into the land; and for seven days she had told the sorrows of other people in a loud, clear voice while holding her own behind it until the telling was done. At sunset he had returned only long enough for them to choose, and then had gone from her once more. Now the Silmaril rose above the Sea. As the light climbed, she saw beneath it the small dark shape of Vingilot, sailing where no sea lay.

She knew no more than the herald had said. She did not know whether that road would ever bring him down to her, or whether their meetings would be granted only in passing. She did not know whether Elrond and Elros lived. For a long while she watched the light. Then she looked east along the dark water where the two lamps had gone. Above her Eärendil climbed; beyond sight before her were her sons. She stood upon the wall between them, with no road to either.

No one cheered. Some wept. Some covered their faces, and some watched until their necks ached. The light restored none of the names spoken that week, and no ship had yet been given.

The darkness had not lessened. It was no longer the only thing in the sky.

After a long while one voice near the boat-sheds began the lament for Elwë, an old song made in the first years after the Crossing. They had never sung it after learning how his tale had ended. It passed along the sea-wall, climbed the terraces, and came back through the town. No note changed.

Before it came round again, Astoron had left the wall.

He went into the dark north shed and lit one lamp. Rain had blurred the chalk-lines upon the unfinished hull. He dried the strake with his sleeve, stretched the line anew, and sharpened an adze. The first blow sounded scarcely beyond the door.

He struck a second time.

Before the lament came round, a lamp was lit in the next shed. A sail-weaver came in carrying her awls and said nothing. A little later someone swept the rainwater from the floor. No one called it a decision. Across the harbour most of the sheds remained dark.