Village of Windton, Southern Rills, the North of Westeros
Morning, 297 AC
Dawn found Aerindir already awake. He sat by the dying hearth, polishing his sword with a soft cloth Marda had given him. In Beleriand, in the days of the great wars, he had learned that a weapon is not merely a tool. It is an extension of will, frozen in metal. To care for the sword was to care for one's own soul.
The steel shone in the dim glow of the embers. The silvery tracery of Tengwar along the blade flickered in and out of sight like frost patterns on glass. Looking closely, one could make out the words of an oath in Sindarin: "Thenid avo pelo, elin síla" - loyalty shall not wither while the stars yet shine. It was the flawless work of the smiths of Gondolin, and the sword's name was Tenilgil.
Hobb woke among the first and, stretching with a yawn, noticed his guest at work.
"Early, aren't you, sir" he mumbled, scratching his face. "The roosters haven't even started proper."
"Habit" Aerindir said shortly, and the sword slid silently into its scabbard. "A warrior who sleeps past dawn often does not see the next."
Hobb grunted, acknowledging the grim wisdom, and looked about, squinting in the morning light. He yawned hugely and then froze, realizing the cottage was suspiciously quiet.
"Where's Marda and Torr?" he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"They went for water" Aerindir replied calmly.
Hobb hauled himself to his feet with a groan and stretched so hard that something cracked audibly in his joints. He smoothed his sleep-tousled hair and nodded toward the door.
"Then let's go see Garret. He's up early too. Says sleep in old age is a luxury the body no longer grants."
They stepped out into the grey morning. The village was stirring to life: thin threads of smoke rose from chimneys, a cow lowed plaintively, and in the distance the first roosters answered. The damp air was thick with the smell of peat and salt sea.
Garret's house stood apart, on a rise. It was noticeably different from the hovels of driftwood and peat: built of solid grey stone under a sturdy wooden roof. A small stable huddled beside it, from which came an impatient whinny.
Here lives a man who has seen better days. And has not forgotten them.
Hobb knocked three measured times. From within came a cough and the shuffle of feet, then the door opened.
On the threshold stood an old man. Tall and stooped, he still carried in his broad shoulders a hint of former strength. His grey hair was cropped short. His face was seamed with scars - one running from temple to chin, another crossing the bridge of his nose. Sharp grey eyes, accustomed to weighing and withholding trust at first glance. He reeked of stale drink.
He looked at Hobb, then raised his head slightly, shifting his gaze to Aerindir. For a moment it lingered on the guest's face, then moved to the armor visible beneath the open sheepskin coat. It dropped to the belted sword.
"Hobb" the old man said hoarsely. "Early for a visit. What do you want?"
"Good morning, Garret" the fisherman said with a respectful nod. "My guest would like a word with you. It's important."
Garret studied Aerindir once more in a long, measuring look. The elf met it calmly. Two warriors, sizing each other up.
"Come in" the old man said at last, stepping aside. "No sense talking on the doorstep."
They entered. Inside it was cleaner and warmer than Hobb's house. An old plank floor; the walls had been whitewashed with lime. A large hearth, built of dressed stone, took up a good portion of one wall. Garret led his guests through a small anteroom into the next. Here Aerindir paused, seeing something he had not expected to find in this backwater: books and maps.
There were not many books - fewer than ten, perhaps a little more. But in this impoverished village, where most folk surely could not read, even such a collection counted as wealth. The volumes stood on a rough-hewn shelf, their spines worn.
Two maps hung on the wall, one large and one smaller. Their corners were dog-eared and the paper torn in places.
In the corner, on a crooked stand, rested a sword. Not the rusty wreckage he had seen among the villagers, but a true weapon of war. A straight hand-and-a-half blade with a leather-wrapped grip, ending in a pommel of tarnished metal.
Garret went to a small table, took a clay jug and three cups, and poured himself a dark liquid that smelled like cheap sour ale.
"Will you have some?" he offered.
Hobb nodded, accepting a cup. Aerindir shook his head politely.
"My thanks, but I will abstain."
The old man shrugged, poured ale for Hobb, and set the jug back on the table. He lowered himself heavily into the only chair and nodded his guests toward a bench against the wall.
"Well" he said, taking a sip and grimacing. "Speak. Why have you come."
Aerindir straightened. He pushed back the hood of the sheepskin coat but left his hair loose, carefully hiding his ears. Then he spoke in an even, measured voice.
"My name is Aerindir. Three days ago Hobb, Olden, and Will found me on the shore, where the storm had cast me. I remember little. The ship was caught in a tempest, and the water took me. When I woke, I was alone. No ship. No other survivors."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Hobb took me in, fed me, and gave me shelter. For that I am grateful. But now I need help of another kind. I need to know precisely where I am and how to continue my journey."
Garret listened without moving, only his fingers slowly tracing the scar on his chin.
"Lannisport?" he asked at last. "Or Oldtown? Judging by the hair, one might take you for someone from Casterly Rock. The Lannisters love gold in all its forms."
Aerindir shook his head.
"I do not know those names."
Garret narrowed his eyes. He shot a quick glance at Hobb. The fisherman gave a barely perceptible nod.
"You don't know Lannisport?" Disbelief edged his voice. "And that armor of yours..." he waved a hand, "I've never seen its like. Nor the sword. And that device on your chest - two trees. Whose sigil is that?"
"My house" Aerindir answered evasively. "A house very far from here."
Hobb, who had held his silence, could not help himself.
"Garret, he's not from Westeros. And not from Essos. I'm telling you plain - he's not from anywhere around here."
The old man rose slowly. He went to the wall where the maps hung and jabbed a finger at the parchment.
"The world is big, Hobb, but not without end." Garret ran his palm along lines he knew well. "Here are the Iron Islands. Here's Casterly Rock. And here we are, in the Rills." His finger shifted, crossing the empty expanse of sea. "There lies Essos. The Free Cities, and further still Asshai - the very edge of the world."
He fell silent, watching Aerindir closely. The names plainly meant nothing to the stranger. The old man turned to him and asked:
"If you're not from here, then where?"
The elf stood and approached the map. He studied it for a long time, tracing the curves of coastlines with his fingers. His gaze moved across the inscriptions, and in that moment Aerindir realized he understood every written word. The strange gift of comprehension that had awakened in him with his first breath on this shore extended to the written script as well.
An alien will. First my hearing, now my sight. This world does not wait for me to learn it - it stamps its own nature into me.
He went on reading the names of cities, the chains of mountains, the threads of rivers, but the knowledge of the language brought no relief. Everything here was wrong. The shapes of the continents were utterly foreign, and the names rang wild and senseless in his mind. Before him lay a world that shared nothing with Aman or Endor.
Hobb came over and pointed to a spot on the coast.
"Here's where we found you, sir. Blazing Bay, the shore between the rocks."
Aerindir looked at the sea to the west of Westeros. Emptiness. Nothing marked. As though beyond the edge of the continent lay the end of the world.
"Perhaps from the west" he said quietly, running a finger across the blank space on the map. "I woke here, on this shore. The current carried me from the west. That means the ship was there." He looked at Garret. "Do you have other maps? Older ones, perhaps? Ones that show the lands beyond this sea?"
Garret shook his head.
"No. This is all there is." He stepped closer, arms folded across his chest. "There's one world, stranger. What's on these maps is all the world knows. Further west there's only water. Endless, dead water. No one comes back from there."
Aerindir stood motionless, staring at the map. Thoughts raced through his mind.
The Sunset Sea. To the west. Could it be... that these are lands lying south of Aman and Endor? Beyond the southern reaches of Belegaer? Could I have somehow circled the world? Passed through the boundary of the south?
He remembered the sky on the previous nights. The alien constellations. The cold emptiness where the Sickle of the Valar should have been. It was terrifying.
But perhaps... perhaps above these lands, other stars shine? If this continent lies on the far side of the world, hidden from the sight of Aman, then the sky here may open differently. Perhaps Valacirca simply hides below the horizon?
"But that's impossible" Garret broke into his thoughts. "No one has ever sailed in from the west. Not once. In all of history."
He returned to the table and poured himself more ale.
"Though..." He looked at Aerindir, and something flickered in his eyes. "Maybe today's the day. Judging by the look of you, the place you came from is nothing like our lands."
Garret drained his cup, wiped his mouth with a broad palm, and fixed the elf with another hard stare.
"What were you doing in the Sunset Sea?" the old man asked sharply. "Why sail where there's nothing?"
Aerindir turned slowly to face him, meeting his gaze, considering for a moment what measure of truth he could afford to reveal.
"We were pursuing pirates" he said evenly. "They fled south, and we followed their trail until we were caught in the storm. I was the only one cast ashore. The fate of the others is unknown to me."
A lie. But a lie close to the truth.
Garret nodded, accepting the explanation. He thought for a moment, studied the map, then began firing questions.
"How many men were aboard?"
"Fifty warriors and the crew."
"And how many ships in all? What size? What did they look like?"
Three, one of which I commanded.
"One. A large vessel of cedar, with white sails."
"What weapons did you carry?"
"Swords, bows, and spears."
"And who commanded this ship?"
"I did."
Garret blinked slowly and looked at Hobb, who was also listening with keen interest. Then he took another sip of ale and regarded the guest in a different light entirely.
"Captain of fifty men. No common soldier, then." He studied Aerindir intently. "Are you a knight, or perhaps a lord?"
Knight? I wonder what that word is meant to signify in these parts.
"A captain of the guard" the elf replied.
"A captain" Garret repeated thoughtfully, his gaze moving between Hobb and the elf.
At last, after many questions, Garret sank back into his chair. He made to pour himself more ale and raised the jug high above the cup, but it proved empty. For a moment the old man's face creased with plain displeasure.
"Very well. Let us say I believe you. Though the story is mad." He looked the elf in the eye. "What do you want from me, stranger?"
"Information. Where is the nearest large port? A harbor where ships put out?"
Hobb answered before Garret could.
"Barrowton. Roughly six or seven days' ride. There's a port - small, but ships come and go."
Garret nodded in approval.
"Barrowton is the nearest. But why do you need a port?"
"I wish to find a ship sailing west" Aerindir said calmly.
A beat of silence. Garret and Hobb exchanged glances.
"West?" the old man echoed, and disbelief laced his voice. "Have you lost your mind? No one sails west! It's death! Endless sea, storms, creatures from the deep. Ships go out and never come back."
"Nevertheless" Aerindir replied, unyielding, "I must try. I have no other choice."
Garret heaved himself from the chair and stepped right up to the guest. Hobb, startled by the sudden movement, sprang from his seat. The old man stopped before the elf and peered up at him, craning his neck.
"Listen to me, stranger. I don't know who you are or where you truly come from. Maybe you're telling the truth. Maybe you're lying. But if you ride to Barrowton, do it with sense."
He turned to the window, looking out at the village.
"Tomorrow morning a man called Vilar leaves from here. He's a trader - carries cloth, spices, sundries. He told me yesterday he's bound for Barrowton." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Ride with him, so you're not traveling alone."
"Why not alone?" Aerindir asked.
"Because you" Garret turned his head slowly toward the elf, "look far too different for these lands. Your armor, your face, that strange way you speak."
The old man glanced out the window again, where ordinary life went on: someone hauling heavy pails of water, people passing by, children running and shouting everywhere.
"Northerners don't care for strangers. Especially handsome, wealthy strangers who can't explain where they've come from. Something could happen to you on the road - you don't know these parts at all."
Aerindir was silent. The old man's logic was faultless.
"With Vilar it will be safer" Garret went on. "He knows the route, and he's used to Northerners. And you'll look like his hired guard, protecting the goods. That explains the armor and the sword."
"I have no horse" the elf said.
"Vilar does. He hauls his goods with three horses, and one is unladen at the moment. He needed a guard. None of the locals would agree, but you'll do. He'll give you a horse."
Aerindir nodded slowly.
"That is sound counsel. My thanks."
"Don't thank me, stranger" Garret muttered. "I just don't want them finding the corpse of some rich fool on my village's doorstep. Lord Ryswell would start asking questions, and I don't need that."
He showed them to the door, and on the very threshold he held Aerindir with a heavy look.
"Good luck. Hobb will show you where to find Vilar. I trust you won't bring trouble to the village."
Hobb nodded his thanks to the old man and stepped out first. The elf followed.
* * *
When their footsteps had faded, Garret returned to the table and sat for a long time staring at the door, drumming his fingers slowly on the wood.
Captain of fifty men. Armor the likes of which I never saw in all my years serving the Ryswells and the Starks. A face far too young for one who commands a company. And that strange way of speaking.
The old man rose with effort and went to the shelf for a scrap of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell. He began to write, slowly and carefully forming each letter. He had learned to write late in life, and it still did not come easily.
"To Lord Rodrik Ryswell, Warden of the Rills.
My lord. I write to report a strange guest in the village of Windton. Three days past, a stranger was found on the shore. Calls himself Aerindir. Says his ship was wrecked in a storm. But my lord, this is no common man. Golden-haired. Armor the likes of which I have never seen. Speaks with a foreign accent. Claims to have come from the west, from the Sunset Sea. He may be a sellsword, or a spy, or perhaps a killer. Rides tomorrow for Barrowton with a trader. I deem it my duty to give warning.
Respectfully, Garret of Windton, former man-at-arms to your father."
He reread what he had written and blew carefully on the wet ink, then rolled the parchment with care. He sealed the letter with a heavy drop of wax and resolved to send a rider to the lord on the morrow.
Maybe I am just an old man who sees trouble everywhere. Maybe the fellow really is nothing more than a shipwreck survivor. But years of service taught me that it is better to warn and be wrong than to hold your tongue and let trouble in.
He tucked the letter into the table drawer and went out to feed the horse.
* * *
Leaving Garret's house, Hobb and Aerindir walked in silence along the village lane. Morning was gathering strength, and the sun broke through the clouds, lighting up the wretched houses, the muddy puddles, and the scrawny hens scratching in the dung.
"Garret's right" Hobb said at last. "You can't go alone. The roads of the North have grown dangerous. They'll kill you for your boots, and you've got..." He waved a hand at Aerindir's armor. "You've got a fortune on your back."
The elf, who had been deep in thought, nodded slowly and turned his gaze to Hobb.
"I understand. Where do I find this trader?"
"Visiting traders set up by the square" Hobb pointed toward the center of the village. "They pitch tents there and sell their wares. He should be there."
They reached a fork in the road, where Hobb paused.
"Shall I come with you?"
Aerindir looked at the old fisherman. He saw the weariness on his face, the morning stiffness in his movements.
"My thanks, Hobb" he said gently. "But I can manage on my own. You have already done more for me than you were obliged to."
The fisherman nodded awkwardly, embarrassed by the gratitude.
"Right then. Until we meet again, m'lord."
They parted, and Aerindir made for the square.
* * *
"Square" was a grand name for a trampled patch of earth between the houses, where an old well stood and a sickly tree grew. But it was busy: women drawing water, children chasing a skinny dog, men arguing and gesturing about something.
At the edge of the square stood a tent. Not luxurious, but well-made: canvas stretched over poles, goods laid out within. The fabrics were coarse and woolen, but brightly dyed. Beside them lay pouches of spices, clay pots, and bundles of dried herbs. A man stood at the counter.
Bald, short, and round-bellied, his leather vest straining tight. A ruddy, open face and eyes that danced with merry mischief. He was saying something to a woman customer, grinning broadly and showing yellow but sturdy teeth.
"...and this cloth, straight from Winterfell! You won't believe it! Lord Stark himself wears a cloak just like it! Only three silver stags - but for you, two!"
The woman was fingering the fabric skeptically and haggling. At last they agreed on a price and she left satisfied, parcel in hand. Vilar - for that was who hid behind the trader's mask - turned and saw Aerindir. For a second his face froze. His eyes widened. He stared at the armor, the sword, the guest's face, and everything in his bearing spoke of genuine astonishment. Then he blinked and pulled the mask of good cheer back on.
"Oh, milord!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "What an unexpected honor for this humble village! What brings a noble gentleman to such a..." he faltered, searching for the word, "...remote place?"
Aerindir stepped closer and nodded in greeting.
"I am no lord. And my nobility counts for little in these lands."
His voice was calm. Even Vilar's patter sounded coarse beside that melodic, flowing accent.
"My name is Aerindir. Three days ago the sea cast me ashore after a shipwreck. I survived, but I lost everything. Ship, men. The local fishermen took me in."
Vilar listened, his face shifting gradually from surprise to sympathy.
"Oh, milord... that is, Master Aerindir. The sea can be a cruel mistress." He scratched his bald head. "How can I help?"
"The village elder, Garret, tells me you ride for Barrowton tomorrow morning."
"I do, yes" the trader nodded. "Sold my goods here, now I need to sell there. Can't stay long in one spot. Folk here are poor - they won't buy much."
Aerindir looked him straight in the eye.
"May I ride with you? I do not know these lands. The roads and dangers here are new to me. Company would be welcome. And I am told that traveling alone here is... unwise."
Vilar considered for a moment. Then his face broke into a grin.
"Of course you can, sir! Glad of the company!" He drew closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "And to be honest, I could use a guard. The roads of the North have grown restless. Bandits, deserters, all manner of riffraff. And you" he nodded at the sword, "clearly know how to handle yourself. Good for both of us."
He looked Aerindir over once more, appraising.
"Besides" he added slyly, "you look like a man with plenty of stories. It's a long road, and dull riding alone. We'll have something to talk about."
Aerindir allowed a slight smile.
"I do have many stories. Though I fear you would not believe most of them."
No. You have certainly never heard anything like it.
"Try me" Vilar winked. "I'm a trader. I've heard everything."
Aerindir, after a moment's hesitation, admitted:
"I have no horse. Is that a problem?"
Vilar merely waved a hand.
"No problem at all! I've got three horses. Two pull the wagon, the third goes light - a spare. Just right for a guard." He held out a hand. "So - do we have a deal?"
Aerindir clasped the hand firmly. Vilar winced; the stranger's grip was uncommonly strong.
"We have a deal" the elf nodded. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow at dawn. The earlier we start, the more road we put behind us. Come here, to the square. I'll be hitching the horses."
Aerindir nodded and turned to go.
"Oi!" Vilar called after him. "What was your name again? I've already forgotten."
"Aerindir."
The trader tried to repeat it, but his tongue stumbled on the unfamiliar sounds.
"A-er... erin... bah. Tricky. From Essos, are you?"
"No" Aerindir answered without turning. "Not from there."
He melted into the crowd, leaving the trader scratching his bald head in thought.
Odd fellow. But he'll scare off bandits on sight alone. Yes - good company to have.
He struck up a cheerful tune, laying out goods for the next customer.
* * *
The day passed in a strange, heavy suspension. Aerindir wandered the village, committing faces, sounds, and smells to memory. Tomorrow he would leave this place, perhaps forever. And somehow this wretched, grey settlement had become important.
The first home in an alien world. The first people to show kindness.
In the evening he returned to Hobb's house. Marda had baked fish, packed it with local herbs, wrapped it in burdock leaves, and buried it in the coals. The smell was extraordinary.
Supper was quiet. Hobb sat gazing pensively into the fire. Marda sewed, but her hands moved slowly, almost mechanically. Torr sat beside Aerindir, silently whittling a piece of wood - a future fish that for now resembled a shapeless stump.
"You're really leaving tomorrow?" the boy asked at last, not raising his eyes.
"Yes, Torr" the elf answered gently. "I must go to Barrowton. To find a ship."
"Will you come back?"
Aerindir fell silent. It would have been easy to lie to the boy. But looking into those honest eyes, he could not.
"I do not know" he admitted. "Perhaps not. My road leads far from here."
Torr nodded, accepting the answer, and went on whittling.
Hobb cleared his throat softly and glanced at his son, who had already grown used to the elf.
"Listen, sir. There's something I wanted to say." He hesitated, searching for the words. "You... be careful there, in the town. Barrowton isn't a village. The people there are different. Cunning. Greedy. They'll see your wealth and want to take it."
"I will be careful" Aerindir assured him.
"And another thing" Marda set her sewing aside. "Don't tell everyone you're from the west. Folk here are superstitious. The west means death to us - dead lands. They'll say you're a ghost or a fraud. Better say you're from the south. Or say nothing at all."
Aerindir nodded.
Wise counsel.
They sat together deep into the night, barely speaking. Simply being near one another. A last night by the hearth, the last hours of simple human warmth before the road into the unknown. When everyone had gone to bed, Aerindir lay awake a long time, staring into the dark.
Tomorrow the true journey begins. A journey into a world that does not know me. That may not wish to know me.
He touched the hilt of the sword lying at his side.
But I will not surrender. For the memory of my friends. For the light that still glimmers within me. I will find the way home.
He closed his eyes and sank into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
The next morning was cold and clear. The sea wind had died, and for the first time in days the sky was clean: high, pale blue, pierced by the sharp rays of the rising sun.
Aerindir woke with the dawn. He gathered his few belongings: sword, bow, quiver of arrows. He rolled the blue elven cloak separately. Over it all he threw the sheepskin coat. Grimy, foul-smelling, but warm. The sheepskin hid most of the shining armor, and although it was impossible to conceal a mithril breastplate entirely beneath rough hide, at least it no longer blazed like a lit torch from a mile off.
When he stepped out, Hobb's whole family was already waiting at the door. And not only them. Olden and Will had come too.
"Couldn't let you go without seeing you off, m'lord" Olden said awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. "You're... well, you're the first noble we've met who spoke to us like people, without turning up his nose."
Will only gave a slight nod. He was silent, but his eyes glistened. Aerindir inclined his head.
"Thank you. Few would have shown such kindness to a stranger."
They walked to the square in silence. By the well, Vilar was already finishing hitching the horses. The wagon was loaded with bales and sacks, covered with sailcloth. The third horse, a piebald mare with gentle eyes, stood off to one side, already saddled and ready.
"Ah, here's our guard!" Vilar called out cheerfully, seeing the procession. "Good morning, Master Aerindir! Ready for the road?"
"Ready" the elf answered shortly.
He turned to those who had come to see him off. Marda stepped forward first. In her hands she held a bundle wrapped in clean cloth.
"Here" she said quietly, offering the parcel. "Bread, dried fish, a little cheese. Not much, but it'll last a day or two."
Aerindir received the bundle in both hands, bowing his head in thanks.
"Thank you, mistress. Your food has warmed me. Your home has sheltered me. I will not forget it."
Marda brushed away a tear and turned aside, pretending to adjust her kerchief. Aerindir slowly moved his hand along the side of his breastplate. Within the mithril armor, in a small hidden pocket in the chest plate itself, he carried one thing. An object from his former life. He drew out a golden bracelet.
It was no ordinary ornament. It was a bracelet of heavy, warm-toned red gold. But its worth was not in the weight of the metal. Along its surface ran an engraving - leaves of ivy and grapevine. Between the leaves lay enamel of a deep, rich green. And at the center, woven into the golden pattern, three stones burned. They were white crystals. Clear as a tear. They caught a thin ray of morning sun and shattered it into a thousand sparks, flashing with a cold, pure fire.
Aerindir had worn the bracelet as a keepsake of a sister who had long ago departed for Aman after the last war. She herself had braided it while still an apprentice, with unsure hands. Imperfect work by the standard of Noldorin masters, but priceless to him.
Vilar, standing by the wagon, choked on air. His jaw dropped, and his small eyes went round, riveted to the gleam of the stones.
"Accept this" Aerindir said, holding the treasure out to Hobb. "As a token of gratitude. You saved my life. You gave me shelter, food, and care."
The silence rang. Even the wind seemed to stop.
Hobb stared at the bracelet, not daring to touch it. No one in the village had ever seen such a thing. It represented months - years - of comfort.
"M'lord..." he whispered, unable to tear his gaze from the play of light in the stones. "We can't..."
"It is the work of the craftsmen of my house" Aerindir replied calmly, placing the bracelet in the fisherman's callused palm and folding the rough fingers closed over the gold. "It is beautiful, but for me its worth lies in memory. For you it will become a future. Share it among you. Sell the stones separately, the gold separately. There will be enough for you, for Olden, for Will. New boats, new tackle, a life without hunger."
Hobb held the treasure in trembling hands. The gold seemed hot, as though the stones burned his skin with their icy brilliance.
"You have done more than you had to" Aerindir said firmly. "Accept it. It is only just."
Hobb swallowed hard and raised his eyes to the elf. They glistened, and he bowed low - nearly to the ground.
"Thank you, m'lord. Thank you. The Old Gods bless you. You"
His voice broke. He straightened, and tears ran down his weathered face, but he felt no shame for them. Marda pressed her hands to her chest, her lips whispering prayers. Olden and Will stood stunned.
Olden stepped forward. He stared at the bracelet with awestruck dread. His face had gone blotchy red.
"M'lord, I... I have to say" he forced out, eyes on the ground. "When we found you on the shore... seeing that sword... and now this... I wanted to rob you. Strip the armor off you. If I'd found this on you then..."
He raised his gaze, full of anguish and shame.
"I'd probably have killed for a thing like that. I was a greedy fool. You turned out better than I deserved. You're giving us the life I wanted to steal."
Aerindir looked at him with a long, piercing gaze of grey eyes. Then he laid a gauntleted hand on the fisherman's shoulder.
"Gold has power over the minds of men - I know this well. But you did not do it, Olden. You chose to help. In the moment when it mattered most, you remained a man. You are forgiven."
The fisherman nodded slowly, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Will stared at the bracelet with wide eyes in which the sparks of the stones were reflected, then shifted his gaze to Aerindir.
"M'lord... sir... sail home safe. Don't let the sea take you again."
Aerindir smiled gently. The smile was sad, but warm.
"I will try, Will. I promise."
Vilar, on the wagon seat, finally found his voice. He was looking at Aerindir no longer merely as a hired guard, but as a walking riddle wrapped in a mystery.
Who is he? A prince? A lord? Who tosses stones of the first water about like copper pennies?
"Oi, Hobb!" the trader called, his voice unsteady with excitement. "Hide that! Hide it inside your shirt right now, and don't show it to a soul until you reach the jewelers in White Harbor or Lannisport! Around here they'd slit your throat for a stone like that - your own neighbors would!"
Hobb hastily shoved the bracelet deep into the inner pocket of his jerkin, pressing a hand to his chest.
"Good luck, Aerindir" the old fisherman said, steadier now. "Wherever your road takes you."
The elf clasped his hand firmly. Two palms met: one callused, rough, scarred by nets; the other smooth, sheathed in a gauntlet.
"Thank you, Hobb. For everything."
Aerindir stepped back, straightened, and raised his hand in blessing.
"May your home know only warmth" he said in a ringing voice. "May the sea bring only bounty. May your children grow strong, and your old age be long and peaceful."
The words sounded like an incantation and like a prayer. The villagers stood motionless, listening.
Then, more softly - almost a whisper - he added in Quenya:
"Aiya Eruion, símaryassë. Á vala Manwë lye, á horta Ulmo lyen. Namárië."
Children of the One, be blessed. May Manwë shield you, may Ulmo keep you. Farewell.
They did not understand the words. But they felt their weight. Their antiquity. Their power. Something greater than mere sound.
At that moment came the patter of small feet. Torr burst from behind the adults, clutching something in his hands.
"Captain!" he shouted. "Wait!"
Aerindir, already walking toward the horses, turned. The boy came up to him and held out a wooden figure. A fish. Clumsily carved, lopsided, but recognizable. Torr had worked on it all these days.
"This is for you" he breathed. "For luck."
Aerindir slowly dropped to one knee, bringing himself level with the child. He accepted the figure. It was warm from the boy's hands, light, and smelled of fresh-cut wood.
"I will keep it, Torr" he said gravely, looking into the boy's eyes. "And I will remember you. I promise."
He tucked the fish behind the breastplate, in the place where the bracelet had been. Then he laid a hand on the child's head.
"Grow strong. Look after your family. You are a good boy."
Torr nodded, holding back tears with everything he had. His lips trembled, but he did not cry.
Aerindir rose and turned to Vilar.
"I am ready."
The trader nodded, his face serious.
"That's your horse, sir" he said, pointing to the piebald mare. "Her name's Patches. Not fast, but she's got endurance. Not too willful, either. Good for a long road."
Aerindir approached the mare. She turned her head, looked at him with a large brown eye, and snorted softly. The elf reached out and touched her muzzle. It was warm and alive - but empty. No connection, no answering mind.
Just like that gelding. This world is deaf to ósanwë.
He stroked the mare's neck and checked the girth. The saddle was old and worn, but sound. The rolled elven cloak he stowed in the saddlebag.
"All is well" he said, fitting his foot into the stirrup and swinging the other leg over the horse's back.
He settled into the saddle lightly and naturally, like one who has spent centuries on horseback. Patches flicked her ears, sensing a sure hand. Vilar clambered onto the wagon seat and took up the reins.
"Right then - off we go!"
The reins snapped and the horses moved. The wagon creaked and rolled down the muddy road. Aerindir followed, guiding Patches with a light touch of his heel.
He rode without looking back. But when they passed beyond the edge of the village, at the very fork in the road, he did glance over his shoulder. There, by the well, they still stood. Small figures against the grey houses. Marda waving her kerchief. Hobb with his hand raised in farewell. Torr standing motionless as a little soldier, watching.
Aerindir raised his hand. He waved once. Slowly, solemnly. Then he turned and touched Patches' flank. The mare broke into a trot and drew level with the wagon.
The village of Windton fell behind. Ahead lay the road. Wide, unknown, leading to the sea, to ships, to the west.
Namárië. Farewell, Windton.
The sun climbed higher. The wind tugged at golden hair. Beneath the sheepskin coat, his armor shone. The last star had left its temporary harbor and set out upon its journey through an alien world.