“Thy mind is greatly burdened,” Olwë said as Arafin continued to stand in silent contemplation. “Is there aught I can do to ease it?”
“Nay,” Arafin replied softly. “My worries are beyond both my reach and thine.”
Olwë nodded solemnly, taking a deep breath as he looked up at the stars before speaking. “I sometimes think of our kin who remained at Cuiviénen.” He spread his hands, unable to quite put into words the pain which that sundering had caused. “It seems that we are fated ever to be parted.”
Arafin bowed his head slightly. “Fated? Or doomed?”
“I admit, I cannot always tell the difference,” Olwë replied.
“My brothers and children have fallen under the Doom of Mandos,” Arafin murmured. “Was that fate? Was such a thing truly meant to happen?”
“If it was, would that be a comfort?” Olwë asked.
“No, I would not think so, either,” Olwë said softly, his eyes filled with sympathy.
“Dost thou not fear for thy brother?” he asked then, not looking at his companion but gazing still across the sea to the dark line of that hinterland.
“Fear? No,” Olwë said, and a faint smile touched his lips. “It gives me hope to think of him there.”
Arafin was surprised to hear that. “Hope?”
“That he might yet be leading those of our people who remained on that distant shore.” Olwë sighed. “I have not forgotten them. Though Oromë has brought me little news of his journeys there, I am comforted by the thought that he is still their king.”
Though he had never seen it himself, Arafin wondered at Olwë’s words, that even with Morgoth there, he holds hope closer and trusts in the strength and wisdom of his brother.
“I fear for mine,” Arafin whispered.
Olwë looked at him with pity. “Ñolofin?”
“Both of them,” he admitted. It had been hard to admit even to himself, but as the time had worn on, he could not deny that he missed even Fëanor.
Olwë nodded, resting a hand on Arafin’s shoulder. “Perhaps my brother might yet talk some sense into thine,” he offered. “For he was closest to thy father.”
“I doubt either of them will listen.” Arafin’s eyes fell to the foamy waters, and for a moment a sad smile touched his lips, but it faded quickly. “Forgive me, I know that it must be hard for thee to speak of them-”
“‘Twas not thy doing,” Olwë said gently. “And thou hast done all in thy power to right it.”
“All the wide seas cannot wash that stain away,” Arafin sighed. “But I am grateful to thee, grateful for thy friendship.”
Olwë gave him a gentle smile and the two fell silent for quite some time. Arafin had always found comfort and strength in his father-in-law, perhaps now more than ever.
“I am not altogether certain I like this sensation,” Edrahil said as the ship rolled gently with the waves.
“We have not even left the firth yet,” Felagund said, unable to resist a laugh, even though he felt for him. He did recall the first time he had brought Turukáno with him on his grandfather’s ship, having no idea it was possible to turn such shades of green.
But he and his siblings had spent their youths on the Swanships of Alqualondë, ever at the side of their Telerin kin. They would sail the shores of Eldamar even as far as Tol Eressëa, swim in those starlit waters, feast upon the bounty of the sea. This soothed Felagund’s soul to be upon the waves again.
Felagund closed his eyes and inhaled the brine-rich air, the wind already whipping at him. He had not felt so deeply at home in this new land until this moment, resting his arm over Edrahil’s shoulders.
“You will feel better when we reach Vinyamar,” he said.
“A journey I was perfectly happy to make on horseback,” Edrahil said as he stumbled slightly to the left.
“A two-month journey,” Felagund countered. “Whereas we shall be there in less than a week.”
“You shall be there in less than a week,” Edrahil said. “I doubt I will survive the voyage.”
Felagund chuckled softly, shaking his head as he tugged Edrahil further into his arms. “Ossë’s music echoes all along this shore, can you not hear it? The song of the gulls, the rhythm of the rowers, the rush of the hull through the waters-”
“I hear the rushing of blood in my ears,” Edrahil interrupted.
“Oh, my poor meleth,” Felagund cooed, cupping his face softly. He almost admitted defeat in convincing him of the pleasure to be found upon the sea, but then a thought struck him. He fetched his harp, and, sitting at the prow, began to play. Soon his voice lifted, singing of calm and comfort, of seafoam and gentle waves lapping upon crystal strands, of a grandfather’s love and a father’s pride.
As he sang, Edrahil settled at his feet, resting his head in Felagund’s lap as the music flowed through him.
“It does feel better here,” he murmured, his eyes falling closed. Felagund sent currents of serenity to encompass him, lifting him to float gently in that sea of song.
Eventually Felagund let his harp go silent, continuing only his song but now letting his fingers rather play through Edrahil’s hair, who was humming softly in his lap.