Blazing Bay, Southern Coast of the Rills, the North of Westeros
Dawn, late 297 AC
The sea here did not smell of life.
In Aerindir's memory, the sea had always been bound to longing - to the cries of gulls above the quays of Alqualondë, or the stern thunder of waves upon the shores of Belegaer, washing the coasts of Middle-earth. That sea had sung the songs of Ulmo, Lord of Waters. It had been alive, breathing, brimming with ancient power. This sea was dead. Cold, grey water rolled onto the shingle shore with a dull, heavy sound. The air hung thick with the stench of rotting seaweed, damp, and stale fish. Fog, dense and clinging as wet wool, crept along the ground, swallowing the horizon.
Aerindir lay on his back, half-submerged in the freezing water. Waves lazily nudged him, trying to drag him back out or else spit him ashore like something inedible.
The first thing to return was pain. Not the sharp pain of a wound - his armor would have withstood a troll's blow - but a hollow, gnawing emptiness within. His fëa, his soul, had gone blind. The Song of the World, which every elf hears - the whisper of stone, the breath of wind, the calling of living things - here it sounded like a garbled, distorted murmur.
He drew a ragged breath and opened his eyes. The air, bitter and far too salty, seared his lungs. The hoarse sound of his own voice seemed foreign to him. He tried to move, and small stones dug painfully into his mithril armor. Heaviness. Unbearable heaviness.
How long have I lain here? Did the waters of Ulmo carry me to shore?.. And my warriors?..
He made to rise, but his strength failed him. Consciousness dimmed again, and the waves kept beating against his body.
* * *
Voices emerged from the fog. Rough, guttural sounds. This was not Quenya, melodic and lofty. Not Sindarin, flowing like water. Not even the Common Speech of the West, spoken by the Men of the Edain. This tongue was barking and hard, like boulders tumbling over stone.
Olden shivered, pulling his threadbare cloak of coarse old wool tighter around himself. The morning was raw even for the Rills.
"I'm telling you, Hobb, that storm was no ordinary one" he grumbled, poking a stick into a heap of seaweed washed ashore. "Granddad used to say waves like that come when the Drowned God turns in his sleep. Or when mermaids mourn their husbands."
Hobb, a stocky man with a weathered face that looked like an old boot, merely spat into the sand.
"Listen less to your granddad, Olden. Better look for driftwood. By month's end, the Ryswell steward will come for coin, and no storm will soften his heart. Our nets are torn besides. We need timber for mending, not fairy tales."
The third fisherman, a young lad called Will, walked a little ahead. He stopped suddenly, frozen in place.
"Uncle Hobb!" he cried, his voice cracking to a squeal. "Uncle! There's... there's a dead man!"
Hobb and Olden exchanged glances and hurried over. The fog parted reluctantly, but what they saw stopped them five paces short. A body lay on the shingle. But this was no drowned man of the kind they'd seen by the dozen - bloated, blue, gnawed by crabs. This man... looked as though he'd been carved from marble and draped in starlight.
"Old gods..." Hobb whispered, forgetting to spit. "What's he wearing?"
The stranger's armor was unlike anything forged in the North. No crude mail, no heavy plate. The metal seemed fluid, composed of countless scales layered one upon another like the scales of a fish. It was silver, yet in the pale morning light it shimmered with the faintest blue. On the chest, where knights usually bore a house sigil, an intricate symbol was engraved. Two intertwined trees: one gleaming a matte silver, the other a warm gold. The delicate inlay caught the thin morning light, creating the illusion that the branches stirred.
"Is that some kind of silver steel?" Olden leaned forward eagerly, a greedy spark lighting in his eyes. "Sell a breastplate like that, and you could buy our whole village - boats, nets, and every girl thrown in. With enough left over for ale till you die."
"Shut it, fool" Hobb hissed, his eyes locked on the shimmering metal. "Silver's a soft metal - they don't forge armor from it, far as I know. But it shines well enough... And look at that cloak."
The stranger's cloak, soaked through, still held its deep blue color. And it was whole. Not a single tear after a storm that smashed ships to kindling.
"Is he dead?" Will asked, taking a fearful step closer.
"You don't swim wearing iron like that, lad" Hobb snorted. "A drowner, mark my words. Maybe some prince from the far islands? Maybe they like dressing up like peacocks over there."
Will crept closer and bent down.
"He's got a sword" he whispered. "And a bow. White, like bone."
"Don't touch it!" Hobb barked, but it was too late.
The instant Will leaned in to see the face of the figure, the "dead man" jerked. It was not the sluggish movement of someone half-alive, but an instant, violent contraction of muscle, like a striking snake. The body that had seemed lifeless a second ago arched like a bow. The stranger rolled onto his side, and seawater poured from his mouth.
The fishermen recoiled. Olden grabbed the knife at his belt; Hobb raised his gaff. The stranger coughed hard, a wet rasp, as though water had filled every hollow of his chest. His bright golden hair, long and straight, clung to his face, yet even in such a state he looked terrifyingly majestic. At last the coughing subsided. The stranger raised his head.
Aerindir looked at the men before him with eyes grey as a storm-tossed sea. Three of them. Dressed in rags. Dirty, unshaven, reeking of fear and fish. Coarse faces, lacking the fine beauty of the Edain. These were lesser men, low folk. Savages.
His head was splitting. The last thing he remembered was the black waves. Unnatural, raised by the will of darkness. The cry of a gull, cut short in the storm over Belegaer. Lightning flashes ripping the dark for an instant. And the shadow beneath the water. An ancient evil, a relic of the wars of the First Age, one that had survived the War of Wrath and hidden in the southern depths of Belegaer. They had fought on the very deck of the white ship. His sword had sunk into the creature's flesh. Tentacles lashed the air.
Then a blow that shattered the mast. Another. Striking him. And cold black water, dragging him down into the abyss.
Where was his company? Where were the others? He scanned the shore. Empty. Only shingle, fog, and these three mortals.
Aerindir tried to stand. His body obeyed poorly, but the discipline of ages took hold. He braced a hand against the stones, and his gauntlet clinked on the pebbles. The fishermen retreated further.
"Stay where you are!" the older one shouted, thrusting the iron-hooked gaff forward. "Who are you? A Lannister?"
Aerindir frowned. The words sounded like barking. He grasped the general tone - threat, fear, a question - but the meaning slipped past. Slowly, careful not to make sudden movements, he rose to his full height. He was tall. A full head taller than any of them, perhaps two. In his armor, spine straight, he towered over them like the statue of an ancient king.
"Man le? Who are you?" he asked. His voice, even rough from saltwater, rang like a flute's melody amid the clatter of wooden blocks.
The fishermen looked at one another.
"What's he mumbling?" Olden asked, knife still raised. "Some eastern tongue?"
"Doesn't sound like it" Hobb muttered. "I heard a trader from Lys cursing in White Harbor once. Their speech hisses. This is... soft."
Aerindir listened to their speech. At first it was mere noise, a crude piling of sounds. But suddenly, as if someone had torn a veil from his mind, the chaos found order. Syllables aligned into words, and words into images. He did not know how it happened. It was not like learning - more like a memory he had never possessed. Eastern... White Harbor...
He blinked, faintly stunned by this sudden gift - or curse. Why did he understand these savages? There was no answer, but a Noldo does not waste time on empty questions when weapons are pointed at him.
The elf drew a deep breath, steadying his heartbeat. Panic is the province of mortals. He was the captain of the Guard of the Silver Light. He had stood before dragons. He had witnessed the fall of cities. He slowly raised his hand to his chest, touching the emblem of the Two Trees with his fingertips. His gaze was calm and faintly proud, yet within it one could read a deeper wisdom.
"Aerindir" he said clearly, pointing to himself.
"A-er-in-dir" Will repeated syllable by syllable, picking himself up from the sand. "That a name? Sounds like a girl's."
"Shut it, Will" Hobb snapped. He lowered the gaff slightly, seeing the "dead man" made no move to attack. "Look at him. Not a whisker on his chin. Skin smooth as a maiden's. But those shoulders are broad. And that sword..."
Aerindir's gaze swept over the fishermen. He read their intentions. The one with the knife - greedy, his eyes fastened on the armor. The one with the gaff - cautious, a leader. The boy was simply frightened and curious.
"Where am I?" Aerindir asked in their language. The words came to him with surprising ease on his tongue, though his accent was strange-ancient and melodic, as if he were reciting verse rather than asking a question.
Hobb's eyes widened in surprise.
"You speak our tongue? A minute ago you were chattering like a bird." He paused, then added, "You're in the North, m'lord. The Rills. Ryswell lands."
Aerindir caught a familiar word. North. Cold, darkness, the fortress of the Enemy in ages past. But here "the North" sounded like a word for home. At that moment the fog thinned slightly, a breeze rose, and Aerindir felt it brush the tips of his ears. He swept a hand through his hair, pushing the wet strands back. The fishermen went still.
"Old gods..." Olden breathed, and the knife slipped from his hand. "Look at his ears, Hobb. He's no man. It's a demon! I'm telling you... a demon!"
"A demon?" Hobb murmured, though his voice shook. "Demons don't go about in iron."
"A merling!" Will exclaimed. "Gran used to tell stories! They've got gills under their necks. Maybe he does too!"
Aerindir felt the hostility rising. Fear turns to aggression swiftly in mortals. Olden reached for his knife again, this time with intent to strike.
The elf moved faster than mortal eyes could follow. In one fluid, almost imperceptible shift, he closed the distance. A gauntleted hand caught the fisherman's wrist. Aerindir squeezed. Not hard - not enough to break bone - but enough to send the knife tumbling into the sand once more. The grip was iron, far stronger than any man Olden had ever grappled with. He looked down into the fisherman's eyes. In that gaze lay the weariness and wisdom of ages.
"I am not your enemy" he said quietly in their tongue, pronouncing each word with care. "If you do not seek death, do not bare your steel."
He released the man's wrist and stepped back, raising both palms to show they were empty. The sword of flawless elven craft remained in its scabbard. Across his back hung a bow and a sealed quiver of arrows.
Hobb slowly lowered his gaff. He was a rough man, but no fool. He had seen how this stranger moved. Faster than the blink of an eye. Had he wished them dead, they would already be cooling on the shingle.
"Right" Hobb exhaled, finally lowering his weapon. "Right. You're no merling…" He shot a glance at the lad. "And no demon neither, seeing as you talk like a man. That's good enough for me."
He nodded toward the soaking elf, then waved a hand toward the dunes.
"Can you walk? Ryswell's castle is a long way from here, but our village is just past that hill. It's no good leaving a living soul on the shore in weather like this. The wife will have stew on, and there's a hearth to be had."
Aerindir did not move. His gaze darted again to the grey line of surf.
"My people" he said, and his voice carried steel beneath the worry. "I had a company with me. Fifty warriors. We were aboard a ship. I must search the shore. I cannot leave without knowing their fate."
The fishermen exchanged glances. The youngest sniffled and shook his head.
"Begging your pardon, m'lord, but we've walked a long way. From the far rocks all the way here. Not a soul - just driftwood and dead fish. You're the only one... the sea spat you out."
Alone... In this strange, silent land. Does the boy lie? No. There is no deceit in his voice.
Hobb sighed, seeing the shadow that crossed the elf's face.
"The lad speaks true" the old fisherman said, more gently now. "But the sea is vast. If anyone else survived, they're either fighting the waves right now or already ashore somewhere. What you need is to dry out. You've been in the water a long time, and the northern sea is cold and cruel. Come into the warm. Get dry, eat something - then we'll walk the shore together and look for your people. You have my word."
Aerindir studied the fisherman. There was no menace in the man's words - only a rough, simple kindness. It was strange and unexpected in a world that had greeted him with cold and grey. But he felt the truth in the mortal's words. If he froze to death here, he would help no one. He nodded with dignity, accepting the offer.
Three fishermen and one elf walked away from the water's edge. Behind them the grey sea went on rolling against the shore, hiding the secret of how the captain of the Guard of the Silver Light had passed through the storm between worlds and come to a foreign land, where the voice of Arda was silent to his spirit. But on his breastplate, beneath the grime and salt, the Two Trees still shone - a reminder of a light that would not go out without a fight.