Wanderer

1 - The Perfect Night

Earendil

It is a beautiful night, made perfect by the fact that I am outside in it.

 The perfection is there, as tangible as the polished oaken ship’s wheel between my hands, as tangible as the wooden boards beneath my feet. I can see it as much as I can see the ice-clear stars above my head and taste it even as I taste the salt spray that soaks my arms and face and slicks my hair. The wind that plays with the edge of my ink-black cloak and flaps the sail like the wings of a seabird whispers to me of the night’s perfection beneath the overall inundating roar of the wind and waves.

 This is when I feel most alive. Not in the heat of battle, when your heart is pounding so fast it drowns out the din that is the result of a man’s final moments on this earth. You are aware that you are alive because any moment could be your last, but it is a forced consciousness because you are deadly afraid.

 Nor in the dead of night do I feel most alive, when the room is dead quiet and the only sound you can hear is your name, whispered as she sleeps in your arms. Then, you are certainly very glad to exist, but you are half-drunk with pleasure and almost asleep.

 I am alive now, and I do not care that I can see the shore looming to the port side. One hard swing on this wheel and I would be aground. I am just thrilled to be out on the ocean on this perfect night. I am here, alive, and feeling it. I am free, with many paths opened before me, and I am free to choose any of them.

 Free, and yet not free. The type of freedom to drink red wine until you can think of nothing but the good times, and of course your aching head. You are free to do it, but you will almost certainly regret it the next day. And so, there are more important things than freedom. But who is to begrudge you a glass of red in the evening – or traveling home by sea?

 I know this part of the coast quite well. I have numerous maps of it hung in my study, this return route from the Capitol, that I can, and quite often do, sail by night.

 All too soon, I round a small cape into a sheltered bay and the wind dies instantly, slackening the sail. I can see the beach, the wharf, and the house on the hill. I smile at the glimmer of a candle in window. Of course she stayed up for me. The promise of a piping meal twists my stomach. I did not realize that I was so hungry.

 I dock my craft on the dock I built last summer. The boards creak as I disembark. I decide to rebuild it next year.

 The climb from the wharf, up the hill, through the trees, and across the top of the cliff is a long one. I am thoroughly chilled in the night air. With one last look at the crystal stars above my head, I pull of my glove and open the door.

 In the kitchen, I am slightly disappointed. Yes, the candle is bright on the windowsill, but Elwing isn’t sitting in her usual place by the fire. The fire itself beckons, though, so I close the door and sit beside it. Slowly, I thaw. It is a long time before I move, and longer before I see the plate of food waiting for me. Elwing didn’t forget. I eat gladly, and probably too quickly to be polite. Then I catch sight of the time, and eat even faster. Three in the morning!  No wonder she didn’t stay up for me.

 Upstairs, decide to check on the boys. I pad down the hallway and enter their bedroom. Sixteen-year-old Elrond is sprawled under the blankets. No worries there. His hand rests on the floor, touching the hilt of his sword. I smile. Elrond is truly always ready.

 Frond, on the other hand, is curled into a tight ball beneath the covers. I can only see the edge of his long dark hair on the pillow. He is probably dreaming, though he doesn’t like to say of what. I adjust his blanket, then, satisfied, leave the room.

 In the bedroom, all is quiet. Moonlight seeps through a crack in the curtain onto the floor. Elwing’s golden head is visible above the blanket. I pull back the heavy covers, and lie down beside her. Elwing says something in her sleep and rolls towards me. The night is perfect once again.