Elwing
It's quite dark in the cabin. I've long since put out the lantern for fear of fire. I'm huddled tight in the bed in Earendil's cabin. Every couple of minutes, the Vingilote gives some kind of a jerk, down or up or to the port side. The rising or falling action always follows.
The sea is angry. Every wave feels like a physical blow to the ship. I feel like I can hear foul names on the air if I listen to the raging wind. We're pulled one way, the slapped the other. Twice I've fallen out of bed with the force of it.
Worse yet, there's not been any sign from Earendil or Alaytar since the storm began two nights ago. For all I know, I'm drifting alone on the open seas, and both of them have since long been washed away. If I dwell on that thought, then I drift in and out of consciousness from sheer terror. So I pretend that each jerk, each rise, each fall is Earendil's doing, steering us out of the storm.
I don't quite know how to pass the time. I sleep, uneasily, fitfully. In waking hours, I beg for it all to stop and finger the Silmaril, thinking of Earendil.
I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. If the storm doesn't kill me, then the waiting and the uncertainty will.
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Wanderer
FantasyShe never dreamed that she would have to give him up. He only dreamed of going. Earendil the Mariner is in love with the sea. It dominates his waking his hours and his dreams. It's beginning to take over his life. He's got to choose what's more impo...
