Wanderer

27 - Close Shave

Elwing

When Ëarendil wakes me, it is not yet dawn.

He kisses me awake, but I taste an urgency. In an instant, I raise myself up onto one elbow, awake. “What time is it? Is it time?”

“Yes.” The urgency is definitely there, overwhelming. “We need to leave, now.”

I don’t argue. I just get out of bed and stumble across the room to where my clothing is, hanging over a chair.

While I dress, Ëarendil opens the window and the salt air clears my head instantly. I see a tall ship moored at the wharf, shining silver in the moonlight. A single lantern hangs at the prow, in the swan’s mouth. It emits a single beam of glowing light.

“Hurry!” Ëarendil is bordering on impatient.

“What is it?” I struggle with the laces on the back of my dress. Ëarendil crosses the room, and curses softly as he tugs at them. My fingers are busy, weaving my hair into a braid.

Ëarendil comes around to face me. I get a good look at him, seeing his clothing. He’s dressed to travel; dark clothing, blues and greens, a heavy ink-black cloak. He leans in, and his lips brush my ear. “Are you ready to go?”

Mutely, I nod.

“Alaytar warned me.”

I jerk back. “What of?” A bubble of panic rises and snaps in me.

“Do you trust me?” Ëarendil’s eyes, the same colour of the storm-swept sea, shine brightly.

Unbidden, a scenario comes to me.

A darkened room, save for a single candle burning brightly on the bed-stand, that casts high shadows. They are a young girl, just turned seventeen, and a tall raven-haired man already in his thirties. The girl is very beautiful; slender, golden haired, and blue eyed, but also equally scared. She’s imagined every word, every feeling, but nothing could have prepared her for this. The night air is cold through the thin shift that is the only garment she is wearing. The man is already shirtless, and he’s holding out his arms to her…come.But she’s still afraid, and she can’t. Then he speaks. His voice is her favorite in the world.

“Do you trust me?”

She thinks about it, the long walks, the hours together, all leading up to this. The burning devotion in her heart. Yes. Yes. Yes. She wishes to express it that it drives away all her fear. She steps forward into the strong arms.

The night is warm. His hands are gentle, and she never doubts again.

I just nod.

“Valthalion’s come for the Silmaril. He’s here. We need to get to the ship.”

I nod again. Words have deserted me. I take Ëarendil’s hand.

Ëarendil leads me through the little dark house. I take a last, hurried look at the rooms, the furniture I’ve left, and then we’re out in the warm, dark night.

It’s then I hear the voices.

I freeze on my doorstep, and clutch at Ëarendil’s arm, hard, just as he’s trying to lock the front door. The key falls to the ground. I hear him bite back a curse as he retrieves it.

Finally, he locks the door, pockets the key, and leads me at a swift pace through the path in the woods.

A shout rings out. Torches. I can hear the crackling. Ringing steel.

My heart jumps.

The sight of Ëarendil’s sword does little to ease my fear. We break into a run. I concentrate on pushing the gut wrenching terror down past my wild heart – and keeping my feet.