Where I can't follow you by Novenoe  

They called it longing for the sea; to her it seemed closer to an illness. The longing still for something — for the sand, for the halls of their palace, for an even more distant palace that now existed only in ballads and in the ruins of Doriath crusted with moss and blood.

Longing shouldn't keep you awake at night pacing corridors and piers with a relentless step. Not that her husband didn't do everything he could to stay anchored there, where he was, with her and their beloved children and the whole realm. But if your nickname is the mariner, and the longing for the sea is so painful, in the end there's only one thing you can do. The leaving hurt as much as the returning. Elwing understood that well. Finding the children a little taller each time was a small wound, just as having to catch up each time on what had happened in the realm, and to her. It was Elwing who governed and held audiences in his absence, often even after his return — a sailor on land is as much a stranger as a Man worn down by travels would have been in the shining halls of Doriath. His skill belonged to men of the sea, and Elwing let it be so. She had been born in an ancient forest that had seen maturity in twilight before any dawn; she was not made for the sea. Her children gathered shells while their father sailed, and Elwing told them that holding one to your ear you could hear the sea, the very one where their father was at that moment; they all wanted to hear, too, his bright, sparkling laugh fill the stairs of their small palace. Elwing tried to fill the emptiness by telling the twins stories at night, partly fishing from memory the adventures Earendil had told her (but without the fear, the melancholy and the constant danger among the waves — those did not suit a story for children; all that should be left to them was the joy of the wind and the currents, the kind every child dreams of), and partly inventing. Elros loved stories where there was a new place to discover; he liked to listen to the fishermen and had started sailing a little boat of his own. Sometimes he would look very far off, but not with the same spasm of leaving that tormented his father — as though he wanted to push the visit beyond the walls of the world, but not too far beyond. Elrond liked to hear about peoples who lived far away, and their songs and their books (his brother never teased him for it; he simply liked to learn things — different sorts of things). This filled her with a sad kind of joy: inventing happy adventures she wished Earendil could live, instead of the endless quest he could not escape. She wished he had been there to listen. Sometimes, when he came home, she would tell them to him too, whispered in his ear, laughing in the lakeside garden or between the sheets late at night. As children, huddled together in a fort of cushions, they used to tell each other about Doriath and Gondolin; each of them wished to see the other's city, but neither wanted to see it as it was now — nothing but ruins erased by time and ever-present grief. Earendil said his mother had seen the fall of the city in her dreams, and little Elwing told herself that living in a city knowing you were bound to lose it must be like dwelling among ghosts. Earendil also told her about grandfather Turgon, who had sacrificed himself so that everyone could leave the city; neither child wondered whether they too would one day be crushed beneath a tower, as he had been. They simply knew it, and only wondered how many others would manage to escape. Of Maeglin, Earendil never spoke — he had loved him, but then Maeglin had tried to drag his mother away. Now and then he dreamed of falling from the walls of Gondolin, even though he loved heights.

Elwing would tell him about the house where she was born, near the waterfall, and about how it had been before her father took Grandfather Thingol's throne, and the silmaril to keep. Sometimes she told herself it had been the beginning of all their troubles, that her father should have said no, or handed the gem over to those beasts, the Fëanorians. Then she would tell herself that the oldest light in the world could not fall into hands stained with blood. Not into the hands that had killed her mother and her father, and perhaps her brothers too. Uncle Celeborn and Galadriel had been kind to her and loved her, as did all the people of Sirion. Elwing knew the world was dark and that light was their only hope; sometimes she wished she could throw it into the sea and be done with it once and for all — they would be free, she would finally be free, and it would feel like flying, or maybe not. She loved flight, and the nocturnal wings of nightingales; sometimes she wondered what it would be like to be a little bird. Earendil, then, sitting on the tree's root while she dangled upside down above him, would tell her it would be a fine thing — that way she could follow him on the journeys he would make when he grew up, and they would see places still unknown and unexplored. Elwing would shake her little head, scattering the leaves caught in her hair, and explain to him, very patiently, that a kingdom cannot govern itself, and that she had to stay, bird or no bird. Then he, a little furrow creasing his brow up to his sand-colored eyebrows, would say it wasn't fair, and that he could name a regent — maybe Uncle Celeborn and Aunt Galadriel would agree to hold the role — and that they could go see the wide world and all its wonders, just as Eru had made them, without any trouble. Elwing would laugh, a little sadly, a little happily; he was a funny boy with eyes the color of a stormy sea who wanted to take her with him everywhere, and she liked that very much, so very much, enough to color her cheeks pink. She didn't fully understand his desire to see the world; she loved the home that her people, and what remained of her family, had built, and the world was also so dark. So she would say that even if she couldn't go see the world, and even though she didn't much like traveling, she would be there waiting for him, every single time. Then it was his turn to blush pink. One day, when they were teenagers, his blush turned a deep scarlet, while Elwing leaned down from the branch above him — the day before his first voyage.

"You will always come home. And I will always be here, don't be afraid. You have a home to come back to." Her fingers had traced the line of his jaw, lifting his face, as happy as it was uncertain — but she would never clip his wings, or his sails. "Don't be afraid."

"I will always come back to you, and then I will always be home. If... if you want me to, I mean..." The fingers tracing his jaw made it hard for him to put the thought into words; he wanted to reassure her, to tell her he was leaving in order to return, that he wished he could take her everywhere, far from that weight always circling her neck like a noose, and to tell her that he never wanted to feel so torn that he couldn't bear the ground beneath his feet — the way one can't bear pollen in spring and suffers from it — and that if she had seen the shoreless sea, it would have been better, at least until she had a different kind of longing. He wanted to say all these things at once, but there was no need. Elwing kissed all the words he never said.

Her husband sat at his desk, a compass between his fingers, tracing a course. She was not surprised.

"It must be somewhere," he said, answering the gaze at his back as if to justify himself, the lamplight streaking his hair an unusual red. "Valinor... it's out there somewhere. Why prophesy a hope of salvation if the place it's meant to come from can't be reached?"

Elwing sighed, leaning against his shoulders; she understood the urgency in his words — darkness all around them, and it was only a matter of time before the last light went out. Morgoth would not leave them in peace forever, even though they were a kingdom of scattered refugees. The silmaril pressed hard between her chest and the muscles of Earendil's shoulder blades, as if reminding her of an unbridgeable distance.

"You can't keep going on like this much longer," she said, burying her face in his neck — she had missed being able to do that. "You've been here only three months; how many will the next stretch be? Three? Two? Our people are here, not out there on the sea. And whatever hope you think there might be — at Valinor..."

He turned the chair, the lamplight darkening his features from behind, his eyes shadowed with weariness. "It was prophesied, by the Lord of Waters. And... the Valar don't play tricks." Elwing arched an eyebrow — maybe the Valar didn't play tricks, but dealing with them was no small matter for mere mortals either. "If I could speak with my parents... they, perhaps, would know... or maybe, when Gondolin fell, fate changed after all... They didn't turn their backs on us, from the Undying Lands, otherwise... I've searched for them, my mother and my father — they must be in Valinor, just as they said..."

He fell silent, turning the compass over between his fingers; it had been the last gift his father had left him, before being swallowed by the sea along with his radiant wife. Elwing shook her head, trying to shake off the thought — if the choice was to be devoured by the sea or by Morgoth, she too would have preferred the sea. "Earendil, they... there's no certainty they're there. It's sung in ballads and legends, and people like to hear it because it's a good story. Everyone likes a good story. But, my love..."

She set a hand on his shoulder, carefully, as if afraid of frightening him away. "Earendil, who has ever actually reached Valinor? It's a beautiful story, but... it might only be a story. It's... it's life. And..."

"DON'T SAY THAT." He leapt to his feet and paced their bedroom in long strides, disheveled from too much work, hair tousled over his shoulders — though it wasn't by working himself to exhaustion and pacing in long strides that he would face the problem, his wife thought, following his motion with her eyes. "What's the alternative? That they're lost, or... dead? That my father dragged my mother across the waves for some foolish wish, and that if I actually reached Valinor... they wouldn't even be there?"

He looked to her like a lost child with enormous eyes, like their own children, like herself. But Elwing had more experience with that kind of grief. "The ballads say my brothers survived... fed by little birds through the depths of winter, and that they live wild in the woods..." She felt the tears of two decades past tighten her throat; they weren't salty, they were bitter. "It's a beautiful story. But it's a cruel story. I was four years old, they were eight. And I only survived because my aunt and uncle managed to drag me away — Elured and Elurin were abandoned in the forest by the thugs of that monster Mahedeos, in winter. What little birds are there in a Doriath winter? None. Not even a crow. Only snow and cold and black branches. And if they had survived, why would they never have come back to me? The songs are cruel — it's all false hope. And whoever sings those songs never stops to think they might reach my ears, and to me they are not stories. If they had survived..."

Earendil broke off his march, his bare feet making the floorboards creak; he couldn't blame his wife, who was looking at him with grey eyes too adult already since they had been much too small. A smile slowly rose to his lips, weary and bitter, too unlike his usual self — but who even remembered normal anymore. "They would have come back to you. Sometimes I tell myself that I can't find Valinor because I'm too afraid of not finding Mother and Father again, you know?" The silmaril's light glowed softly against Elwing's gown — it was never blinding, only a diffuse glimmer, but now it seemed to weigh her down like an anchor, like a waterlogged sail. "I know they might not be... but none of this spares any of us. What I feel, or my parents, or..." He stopped, gazing at Elwing's face, which no longer looked at him, her eyes fixed somewhere on the floor and in her own thoughts. Their family wasn't spared, nor was anything else. Hadn't he always known it, Earendil, that sooner or later they would all fall together with their tower, and that salvation would not be for them?

"It doesn't matter? Is that what you mean to say?" Elwing snapped, the light at her throat less furious than she was. "It doesn't matter that your wife and your children are swept up in the great prophecy along the way, is that what you mean? That if Elros asks every sailor about you, that's fine; that if Elrond collects shells to show you when you come back, because that way it's certain you'll return and won't be killed by a storm, that's fine; that if I'm here governing an entire kingdom like... like some widowed queen, that's fine too? I must always stay here, but it doesn't matter to you, does it? Go with your little boat east of the sun and west of the moon, go right ahead!"

Earendil didn't back down; it hurt him to hear her speak like that, and she knew it — she wasn't merciful enough to spare him the same treatment, arching an eyebrow in the way she knew drove her mad, the edges of his smile sharper. "I didn't say that. But what would you have me do, stay here with you for whatever time we have left, which will truly be very little if I don't find that cursed land, because Morgoth or the Fëanorians will fall on us out of nowhere, and then you'll be happy when we're all bleeding out on the floor, dying, because you preferred having me for a few more months rather than for a whole lifetime, is that it? If that's what you want, fine. Might as well take that compass and drive it into my throat right now, and into the children's too, for good measure!"

Instead she dug her nails into his hair and gripped the back of his neck — something that at any other moment Earendil would have found rather pleasant — feeling his pulse pound furiously against his jugular. "Leave the children out of it, what do you even know. You weren't even there when they were born!"

Elwing let go, frightened by her own words, and pressed her hands to her lips — she wished she could pull the syllables back. It hadn't been his fault; Elwing hadn't known she was pregnant when he left (it was always good, but even better to do it with the hunger of departure and the thirst of return, taking and giving for the months to come and the months gone by), and the voyage had lasted longer than it should have, because of a long winter, harsher than usual — damn Morgoth.

"No, no. I didn't mean..." She wiped away the silent tears from Earendil's cheek, with her fingers and with her lips. "I didn't mean to... I'm sorry. I didn't mean it! I know that, I know that if we'd known, you would have stayed. I know, I'm sorry. Sorry, I didn't mean it. I know..."

Earendil pulled her close, cursing the waves and the stars and the prophecies. She was light as a feather; she could have vanished between his arms. She was so young, like him, and he already felt so weary of the world. Of everything, but not of her, or of the children. Only of the world.

Elwing gripped the fabric of his shirt, with anger. "Why did it have to be us? I always knew it wouldn't be easy — if we had wanted a political marriage between our houses, you could have married one of my ladies. You knew perfectly well how they looked at you, the way I did. I could have married one of the scions of Doriath, or of the Falas; instead I chose to marry you, and the fate that comes with you — and everyone knew that wasn't a fate fit for someone who wears a crown." The words burned her throat as she clutched at the fabric under her fingers as if to tear it apart. "But I chose to marry you — the guest taken in by a city in ruins, who put himself in my service on his knees along with his parents, a vassal in exile among the exiled — I chose to marry you." She rested her head on his chest, without letting go, panting as though she had run for miles. "And I have never once regretted it. I only wish... Go if you must, leave, find Valinor, put an end to all of this and come back to us. But do it quickly, before you lose yourself" — she brushed his temple — "in here. Don't lose yourself in here!"

"No," he answered, his face resting against her hand, the salty trail of tears already fading — there hadn't been many tears left by now. "I won't. I'll come back to you and the children. Safe and sound." Then he laughed into her hair, a laugh closer to normal. "How could I have married one of your ladies, when I've adored you since I first laid eyes on you as a child? I believe I asked you what you wanted me to do... and what was your answer?"

Elwing pushed him onto the bench behind them and sealed his lips with her own, her hands running between his neck and his hair, searching for something to hold onto.

"Something like that, yes." Earendil caught his breath for a moment, and she took pleasure in the thought that she could leave a sailor breathless when not even the waves could manage it.

"Will you be leaving soon?" she asked him, straddling his lap, her lips brushing his; she could feel his tension even through their clothes, and the strain in his breathing. He was like the sea, and she had decided she would drown him.

"With the tide, tomorrow," he answered, hoarse with desire but with regret gnawing at his voice. Longing for what he held in his arms and what would fly away.

Elwing kissed him harder still, swaying like the tide, matching the rhythm of his catching breath, wanting to leave him breathless. She wanted to take something for herself, wanted him to beg her for mercy from the effort, wanted to take everything the waves would deny her, wanted to take everything he would have wanted to give her. She unclasped the necklace and flung it aside; the primordial light could bear this and more — she could not.

"My lady is angry," Earendil whispered, arching his eyebrow in the way his wife found both irritating and irresistible at once, invitation in his voice; in the lamplight at their backs his face was undone, flushed and glowing, barely restrained. Elwing continued with a shiver, tearing another kiss from him. She thought of when they were teenagers and he would ask her to follow him into the sea, and she would stay in the shallows — I can't, I'm a daughter of the earth, she used to say. The waves would brush her ankles like a lover's promises. Sometimes she would jump onto the little sailboat; they never sailed far, but the sea and the wind would reduce their clothes to little more than a veil. She thought of when, older, they would lose themselves in the seaside woods, and the flowers would welcome them in an embrace.

She let her breath escape, light and deep as a gust of wind; she felt supple and weightless, even as she used the whole weight of herself with pleasure — she was emptied out and full at once. She often wondered what it would feel like to fly; perhaps it felt like this.

She tore herself from his embrace, leaving Earendil still gasping, half-dressed, startled as though she had woken him with a slap. She didn't want to give him any satisfaction, not now, not right away. Not when she wouldn't have any for months. Nor would he. She wanted him to die of thirst and hunger, just as she was doing.

She lifted his chin between her fingers; he had bitten his lips, and she traced them with a finger, inviting.

He responded as much as the effort allowed him, with a desire that bordered playfully on anger. "Do you think I'm meant to be the only one to surrender? I don't think so — where do you think you're going?" He pulled her back into his arms, fiercely, as if he were wrestling the current of a river. Elwing took up her rhythm again, while Earendil bared one shoulder, then further down, kissing her freckles, which looked so much like the markings on the wings of woodland birds. His lips lingered on her breast softened by motherhood, while his eyes sought hers to read the desire there, and found the hunger he was looking for. Elwing was soft, small and light. Even more so since she had brought their children into the world, her edges further smoothed. He hadn't been able to see her and love her while her body and her life were changing, nor known that his own life was changing too. He tried to love her now for all the time he hadn't been able to, his lips tracing the roundness of her, lingering at its peak, his fingers retracing the shape of the other, guided by her shivers and her breath. I love you too, I love you too, Elwing thought without speaking, understanding everything Earendil was telling her without a single word — I miss you too, I'm sorry too. He held her close, while she kept up her motion, stubborn, yet surrendering more and more to herself. She let herself slide to the floor, and to Earendil the rustle of fabric sounded like a retreating tide. Her fingers were quick and nimble, clumsy with urgency and with clothing that wouldn't come free. She finished what she had begun, with the eagerness of someone parched who finally brings water to their lips; her mouth was glossy as the sea. Earendil felt himself break apart, like a rope in too much wind. It wasn't everything, it was too much, it almost hurt, it wasn't enough, it was only a drop in the sea, it was the whole ocean. Elwing laughed, without wiping her lips, and then went on slowly, like one who is sated and can now savor more deeply. He would miss her too much, and not only for this — again his breath began to catch — he would miss her too much because he wouldn't hear her laugh for months, because when he returned he would find her sad and weighed down by the light and the crown, and he didn't know how to ease that burden. If only he could succeed this time... In the dim light he raised his eyes to the ceiling; he knew it was painted with constellations, though they couldn't be seen now — one day they might never see the light again. He pulled his wife closer to drive the thought away; at sea he couldn't do that, and the stars weren't enough. He stared into the dark without truly seeing it, while Elwing led him, guiding him where she wanted. He lifted her easily and she let herself be lifted, so responsive it seemed as though she must be running from something, when in truth she was running to meet it. They went on together, she glossy as a shell, as her last garments came away in a rustle, light as a pair of wings; he kissed her deeply, on the neck. She gasped, her tender anger not yet spent; she held her husband still by the hair, wishing she could stop the moon in the sky. The moon would understand — the moon was always running to catch up with the sun. She pressed further, as deep as she could go, to reach him.
They gave themselves over into each other's arms, and stayed like that to catch their breath, softer now, sadder now. She kissed his temple, the way she would have done as a girl after a quarrel, or to reassure him.
"Elwing, Elwing..." he sang out, the way he would have done as a boy to make peace, with a laugh. "Elwing!"
She let herself fall back onto the great bed behind them, while the lamplight died away. In the dark Earendil reached her, letting her hands guide his fingers. She truly was as glossy as a shell.
"Do you want something to remember me by, my lady?" Earendil whispered, kissing her shoulder, her black hair spread across the pillow; he felt her nod with the desire of anticipation, and pressed his lips against her neck and shoulder, again and again, and then the edge of his teeth. He stopped only when she told him to, after having begged him to go on. In the moonlight Elwing's shoulder glowed red, tender where he had bitten it; he traced the little mark with his fingers, and she gasped at the pleasure and the faint pain — he wished he could devour her whole, while she trembled.
"I won't be able to wear low-cut dresses for weeks," she remarked, without it really being a reproach. "Down! But no teeth!"
He laughed. He loved her too much, and she loved him just as much in return. Like home.
They lay among the blankets in that drowsy half-sleep. The moon ran swiftly across the sky.
"Have a good journey, tomorrow," Elwing murmured, nearly falling asleep against his heart, "and when everything is over... if it ends well..."
Take me... take us with you. She wished she could say it. She didn't.
"What will we do if the Fëanorians discover we're here?" It was a question he often asked her, and it was perhaps less terrible than wondering what they would do if Morgoth arrived — or perhaps just as terrible.
She hated him a little for bringing up the subject at that moment; she understood a little that he wasn't speaking as her husband now, but as the Lord of the Havens. And so she answered as the Lady: "You know... the only way to resolve this matter would have been possible if Curufin and Celegorm hadn't kidnapped my grandmother, and hadn't tried to kill her, or if they hadn't killed... They would have to offer something of equal importance — namely, their own lands — and they wouldn't. Or declare themselves our vassals, and they wouldn't do that either. And the head follows the neck. And our neck — our subjects — believe that damned rock is the reason for the land's prosperity..." In the dark she twisted her mouth into a clinical smile. "Perhaps it's true. They say Lúthien made the whole Isle of the Dead that Live blossom simply by wearing it around her neck. But she was closer to the divine than we will ever be... Without an adequate exchange, giving up the silmaril to the Fëanorians would be the same as handing them our sovereignty. And what happens when a people feels betrayed by its own sovereign?"
She leaned toward the nightstand to drink the potion — they didn't want any more surprises, however unexpectedly welcome.
Earendil buried his face in the pillow, regretting having brought up the conversation at all; his wife was the keeper of the silmaril, and however much the people loved their rulers, they would see surrender as a betrayal. The Noldor had been willing to accept vassalage because Idril and Tuor were wise, and because of their distant kinship with the ruling house — but without the guarantee given by Fëanor's own creation, who could say what the more turbulent fringes might do. "If the diplomatic path is bound to fail... what's left?"
Elwing brought a hand to her chest automatically, where the stone should have been — she only took the necklace off to sleep or for intimacy; otherwise she would have felt the weight of the institution creep even into their bedroom. It would fall to her to remain the walking target, and then the twins? No. Never the twins. One way or another, she would be the last to bear that weight. "I fear the Fëanorians even when they bring gifts. After everything they've done to me... I hope the diplomatic solution works. They say Mahedeos searched for my brothers, you know?" She laughed bitterly while Earendil stroked her back. "A heart of gold, is it? He's grown gentler over the centuries. He was terrifying — I only remember he had red hair, it looked bloodied to me; I had never seen anyone with hair that color before. My father seemed like a mere boy next to him — he was one, really... If he had managed to bring them back to me... I would give him nothing. What would Lúthien say of me? And everyone else? But the diplomacy has to work, because it isn't only about us."
"I'll stay here," Earendil pressed himself against her, feeling sleep weigh down his thoughts. "If something happens..."
Elwing sighed; saying what she had to say weighed on her, but it was right. "No. I'll deal with it here. If you're not here, I'll take my time and say I can't decide without my lord — no, thank you."
Earendil kissed her one last time, as sleep claimed him. "But I am only a vassal, light of my life." Elwing seemed already asleep, hair across her face, so he went on more quietly, "And Lúthien would be proud of you, and so would all the others. Beren recovered a silmaril for love, and none of us has ever done anything that wasn't for that same reason. When I go to Valinor, if I manage it, I will look for Melian and Thingol — surely they'll be together, if Mandos hasn't kept him too long — and your mother too. And I will tell them about you and the children. I would like to see Grandfather again too — I was only a child... I must tell him we made it. And perhaps I'll even meet Aunt Aredhel, I would like that. And who knows what I'd say to Maeglin... And who knows if I'll find Mother and Father again..."
And if I die, he thought without saying it, for fear that Elwing might be awake, then I will find Beren and Lúthien again, your father, your brothers, my cousins. Perhaps Father, if it's true he never reached Valinor... But I would also like to see my mother again... Why must we always be split in two? Death should be a gift, but as long as you are here, I would rather live.
He slipped into sleep as the moon disappeared into the dark.
He was woken at dawn by a mocking voice knocking at the door: "Mother? Father? Are you decent?"
He leapt up, snatching a robe and his trousers in a rush, while Elwing, jolting upright, searched for a dress like a girl caught red-handed; he rolled his eyes with a laugh — his younger son reminded him so much of himself as a boy. "Elros, how many times have I told you, you ask permission, not... if people are decent."
The boy opened the door anyway. Elwing, fully dressed by now, slid under the bed regardless, red with embarrassment. Their son paid no mind, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "Well, anyway, Elrond's having a nightmare and won't wake up. And I don't want to have to dunk his head in a bucket."
Elwing sprang up and started running, barefoot across the tiles decorated with ferns and sea-flowers.
"Does it happen often?" Earendil lifted the boy into his arms, ashamed he even had to ask.
"Not always. But when it happens he doesn't wake up. It's scary. I wake up right away instead — sometimes I even fall out of bed."
Earendil stroked the boy's dark little head; they were too young to be having nightmares — though they themselves had been too, at that age.
"Will you tell me what you're dreaming about?"
Elrond sat on the pier, his head resting against his father's arm, his feet dangling, while Elwing held Elros in her lap; he had already fallen back asleep. The boy sniffled, calmer now. "It's a huge wave, Father. And it sweeps everything away. I don't know where it is. It doesn't look like Sirion. There are palaces of glass, and they aren't beautiful. And the ships have no sails."
Earendil shivered, not from the morning air. His mother had been a seer. But his children couldn't be. Ships without sails... It was only a nightmare.
"Don't worry." Earendil wiped away a fugitive tear. "Nothing can happen. Do you know my father was friends with the Lord of the Waters? No one will be swallowed by a wave. What does Elros dream about, instead?"
"A great big empty palace, Pa," the boy answered, wide awake and lively now. "It's a beautiful palace in a forest, with a river, and there's a library. Enormous. The library is beautiful. It feels like being home — maybe I'm there to visit someone I know, because I'm happy to be there. But there's no one. It seems like it's been empty for years. So I tell myself that I couldn't find the person I was looking for, and I never will. And I feel really sorry, and then I wake up." At that point he dove into his brother's arms for a while, while the other boy gave him a few pats on the shoulder. "Don't worry, if you came to live at my house I wouldn't be rude enough to leave you behind. As long as you don't make me angry, that is."
"IDIOT!" Elros grumbled with a stifled grin that made everyone laugh. Then he pulled himself up, wiped away the single tear that had dared to show itself, and, cheerful as ever, pointed a finger. "Since we're all awake anyway, why don't you tell us a story? Ma always does it, but I want to hear yours. Is it true you met the Fastitocalon?"
Earendil winked. "The great turtle-giant who lives in the far seas, old Stilo? What do you want to know?"
Elwing perched on his shoulder as he told the story, one foot dipped in the sea, which teasingly splashed the hem of her dress. Silently, she asked the waves to take care of the man she loved, and just as silently she watched the flight of a gull cutting through the sky beneath the last stars before it returned to its nest atop the tallest pine. She would have liked, she thought, to be a gull.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks you if you read it all, let me know what you liked if you want. Thank you so much, see you soon. N.

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