Barrowton, The North, Westeros
Evening, 298 AC
The city proved far larger and more imposing than Aerindir had expected to find in this harsh northern wilderness. It sprawled at the confluence of two rivers, at the very point where their currents joined and emptied into a broad channel carrying its waters toward the open sea. But it was not its position by the water that struck him as strangest.
Timber buildings, blackened by time, rain, and hearth smoke, crowded at the feet of great hills overgrown with thick grass. These mounds rose above the city like silent sentinels, looking too even, too regular, and too ancient for ordinary landscape. Nature rarely works with such precision, and Aerindir had seen the like before. This was how the barrows looked in the lands of the men of Beleriand - tall mounds raised over the graves of kings, warriors, and heroes of long-forgotten wars, where the earth still held the memory of swords and oaths. If his guess was right, then a city of the living had grown up amid the houses of the dead.
The people of Westeros build their cities atop bones... A strange folk. Then again, perhaps the dead make quieter neighbors than the living.
But the elf's gaze was not searching for architecture or history. His eyes reached farther, to where beyond the palisade of the city walls a broad strip of water darkened.
The port. Aerindir's heart, accustomed to beating steadily even in the thick of battle, suddenly quickened. At the wharves ships rocked gently - not many, but more than enough for his purposes. Pot-bellied trading cogs with wide decks sat alongside long river barges laden with northern timber to the gunwales, and nimble fishing schooners with patched sails. Furled canvas promised swift passage, and the water gleaming in the sunset called westward, toward a distant home.
Aerindir guided Patches toward a long wooden bridge that arched across the river in a broad curve. The planks boomed in steady rhythm beneath the mare's hooves.
The bridge teemed with life. It was the narrow throat through which the human tide flowed ceaselessly, noisily, and restlessly into the city gates and back again.
The air here was different. It carried the smells of river mud, wet timber, tar, and fried fish, mingled with human sweat and horse dung - the thick, palpable odor of a great port, so tangible it seemed the river itself was breathing it straight into his face.
Aerindir rode at a walk, rising above the foot traffic from the height of his saddle. Peasant carts creaked past him with a labored groan, their owners returning from the city. Some carried empty baskets but heavy purses; others came back with those same baskets heaped with cheap goods but purses nearly empty. Sullen fishermen in soaked clothing hauled heavy nets over their shoulders, water dripping onto the bridge planks and leaving dark stains. A little farther on, a group of soldiers in worn leather jerkins with tarnished rivets laughed loudly, shoving each other's shoulders. By the scraps of conversation, they were arguing over where the ale was cheapest tonight and the straw softest.
Many followed the lone rider with their eyes. People sensed his otherness, though they could not have explained what caused it. The crowd parted of its own accord before Patches, yielding the way as gazes slid over the tall figure in the saddle. His straight, calm bearing bore no resemblance to the hunched caution of common wanderers or vagabonds. Women lingered on the golden hair escaping from beneath the hood. In port-town Barrowton, where ships from Essos called rarely but not unheard of, fair hair was no great marvel. Such types appeared among the eastern sailors. But this man was clearly different. Where the boisterous Essosi seamen usually radiated wine, loud laughter, and a habit of brawling, the rider's bearing spoke of something else entirely - a cold nobility and detached composure.
Some watched him with curiosity, others with wariness, but most were too occupied with their own affairs. To them Aerindir was merely another shadow amid the evening bustle, or yet another foreign guest seeking fortune, work, or refuge in this city.
The gates of Barrowton stood flung wide. From the walls hung banners bearing the Dustin arms - two crossed axes beneath a black crown on a yellow field. The cloth stirred lazily in the evening breeze, and the guards at the gate looked weary and bored after a long day's duty. Aerindir halted Patches before the watchman, who leaned idly on the shaft of his halberd. The man raised his head, swept the rider with an indifferent glance, yawned, and slowly barred the way with his weapon.
Axes and a crown... A curious sigil for rulers. Their power, it seems, rests not on blood of ancestors alone, but on steel as well.
"Gate toll" he grunted, not looking at the rider's face but fixing on some point behind his back. "A copper penny for the horse, a copper penny for the man."
The elf wordlessly drew two coins from his purse and tossed them into the outstretched palm. Metal clinked against calloused skin. The guard caught the coppers in midair with practiced ease, nodded, and stepped aside, losing all interest.
"Pass through. And no trouble in the city, stranger. Else you'll wake up in the dungeon."
A dungeon... After millennia of war, it would be truly absurd to end my journey in a damp pit beneath the tower of some northern lady whose name I learned only days ago.
* * *
Patches' hooves struck cobblestone, and Aerindir found himself inside Barrowton.
After days of solitude on the road, the city overwhelmed him. Noise crashed in from every side - the cries of street vendors hoarsely hawking the last of the day's wares, the barking of dogs fighting over a bone in a filthy puddle, the unceasing wail of children demanding food, the ring of hammers from smithies where craftsmen hurried to finish one last order, and from tavern doorways the spill of drunken songs and coarse laughter. It all merged into a single hum of the city.
Buildings stood so close together they seemed to lean over the narrow, grimy streets. Everywhere torches and oil lanterns already burned, casting long shadows across walls and cobblestones.
Aerindir rode slowly, letting the horse pick her own way through the chaos of streets and alleys. Patches walked with confidence - she already knew the city and deftly skirted puddles, rubbish heaps, and people who grudgingly yielded the road. He steered toward the residential quarters, where lights grew noticeably thicker and the smoke from chimney stacks smelled not of soot but of roasting meat and fresh baking.
He had not gone two hundred paces, threading deeper into the labyrinth of streets, when two lads darted from a dark alley and blocked the horse's path. They looked young - fifteen, perhaps sixteen - in homespun shirts that hung on them like sacks. Their faces were grimy and their elbows worn through to the threads, but both had eyes that were sharp and quick, like street cats accustomed to seizing any chance to earn.
"M'lord!" the shorter and nimbler one began chattering, with a ratlike face and fast hands.
He seized Patches' reins without ceremony, making the mare snort in displeasure. He was about to add something more, but looked up and met the rider's gaze. The icy grey stare from above made him loosen his grip involuntarily.
"Just look at this horse, m'lord! A beauty!" he hurried on, pretending nothing had happened. "She could use a rest after the long road. And you too, I'd wager. Long way, was it?"
"Looking for lodgings?" the second chimed in, scurrying around to the other side and peering up under the elf's hood.
He was missing a front tooth, which gave him a slight lisp, but his eyes were just as sharp.
"We've got the best stable in the city! Oats sweet as southern honey, hay soft as feathers, and well water as much as you please!" the second one continued.
"And feather beds at the inn!" the first would not be outdone, spreading an oily grin. "The River Breeze, m'lord! You won't find finer ale from here to Winterfell itself! And the meat there melts on your tongue - I swear by the Old Gods and the New!"
Aerindir drew the reins lightly, bringing Patches to a full stop. The mare snorted, grateful for the rest after the long day. He calmly surveyed the boys. There was no threat in their pushiness - only the hungry enterprise of street touts accustomed to snatching at any chance to earn a few coppers.
"This inn..." the elf's voice came quiet and melodic, sharply at odds with the rough speech of the street. "Is it close to the port?"
The lads exchanged glances, delighted that the wealthy-looking client had not driven them off with kicks, as highborn lords typically did.
"Five minutes' walk at an easy pace!" the gap-toothed one exclaimed, breaking into a wide grin. "The windows look right out at the masts! Step onto the balcony in the morning and your nose'll be in the rigging! Best spot for captains and merchants! Everyone stays there!"
This was precisely what Aerindir sought. He needed to be near the port and the ships, so that with the first light of dawn he could begin his search at once.
"Lead on" he said shortly, in a voice that brooked no argument.
The bolder lad immediately seized Patches' reins close to the bit, his whole manner radiating eagerness and readiness to serve. He exclaimed that the elf would not regret his choice for a moment.
Aerindir did not dismount. He remained in the saddle, sitting straight and still, letting the boy lead the horse through the evening throng. From the height of the saddle he watched this mortal world in silence.
They moved through market rows already closing for the night. Shopkeepers cleared away their goods, draping rough canvas over the stalls. Faces of passersby drifted past - weary after the workday, merry with anticipation of drink, or sour from failed dealings. On doorsteps women scrubbed laundry in wooden tubs, and craftsmen locked their workshops with heavy padlocks. Life here pulsed with vigor - rough, bustling, and human. People rushed desperately to live, as though somewhere deep down they knew how little fate had allotted them.
Aerindir felt like a rock in a swift current. He was among people, but he did not belong to their world. His gaze, sliding over signboards and faces, was that of a wanderer who had seen and lost too much to be surprised by anything.
"Nearly there, m'lord!" the lad called over his shoulder, rounding the corner of a large building from which rose a rumble of voices and the smell of fried onion and garlic. "There it is - the River Breeze! Best inn in the lower city!"
Ahead, beyond the rooftops, the black silhouettes of masts were indeed visible against the darkening sky. Aerindir gave a barely perceptible nod. The first step toward the ships had been taken.
* * *
They halted before a large, two-story building. Above the entrance, swinging on rusty chains that groaned in the wind, hung a wooden sign bearing a crudely painted boat dancing on waves. In faded red letters it read: THE RIVER BREEZE.
Aerindir slipped from the saddle lightly, as though the ground itself had risen to meet him. He took his purse from the saddlebag and for a moment let his fingers linger on the coins.
Vilar had loved to talk. About roads, about people, about the price of oats and stabling, and about what they charged for a night's lodging at every inn from Windton to King's Landing. At the time Aerindir had thought the merchant was simply chattering to pass the miles; now that chatter proved more useful than many a map.
Two coppers for a stall. Another if you want the horse properly looked after.
He drew several coins from the purse and held them out to the lads.
"This is for the work" he said, placing the money in the grimy palm of the elder tout. "And this" he added, setting another copper on top, "is for the horse and her care."
He caught the eye of the boy holding the reins.
"Her name is Patches" Aerindir said, looking the lad straight in the eye. "She has come a long way and has earned her rest. Tell the stablehand to use the curry comb gently. The water and oats must be fresh and of good quality."
He tilted his head slightly, and his voice dropped lower - but only grew colder for it.
"My sight is keener than you can imagine. If at dawn I see the shadow of ill treatment in her eyes... you will wish you had never touched those reins."
His words hung in the cold evening air, and the boy went visibly pale.
"N-not to worry, m'lord!" he nodded hastily, stuffing the coins away. "She'll be treated like a queen! I'll see to it myself - won't even sleep!"
Aerindir took the saddlebags of provisions from the horse, slung them over his shoulder along with the bow and quiver, and made for the inn's entrance. The moment he crossed the threshold, a wave of warmth, noise, and smells engulfed him, as though he had stepped straight into a boiling cauldron.
Inside it was close and hot. It smelled of roasting meat, sour ale, garlic, and wet wool - the smell of any port establishment where sweat and money mix faster than water and salt.
The place was crowded. At long tables sat sailors with faces weathered red by salt and wind. They shouted over one another and slammed mugs on the tabletops, as though trying to drown out the sound of the sea itself. In a corner, grim soldiers in worn leather jackets threw dice with fervor. The clatter of the cubes on wood was punctuated by hoarse curses or muttered oaths.
Farther along, by the wall, prosperous merchants in good coats spoke in low voices, heads bent close together. Their fingers moved swiftly above the table, as though counting invisible coins, and wary glances swept the hall from time to time in search of unwanted ears. Serving girls with heavy trays wove between the tables, dodging crude jokes and drunken embraces with practiced ease.
The appearance of the tall figure in the old sheepskin cloak, golden hair beneath the hood, drew the attention of the nearest tables for an instant. Conversations dipped and several heads turned, but interest faded as quickly as it had flared. In a port, people were accustomed to strangers - some arrive, others vanish, and almost no one stays for long. The noise returned, laughter rolled across the hall again, and mugs crashed down on tables.
Aerindir approached the counter. The innkeeper, a stout man with a face red from sweat and luxuriant mustaches resembling walrus tusks, was wiping a mug with a dirty rag - smearing the grime more than removing it.
"What'll it be?" he grunted, raking the guest with a shrewd glance. "Room for the night? Hot supper? A girl for company? Got new ones, brought up from the south - young."
"I need a room for one night" the elf's voice cut through the din like a clear note. "Quiet, if such a thing is possible in this place. And supper: meat, bread, and wine."
The innkeeper grunted, eyeing the strange guest.
"Can't promise quiet, but the corner room on the second floor is less crowded. Farther from the noise."
"That will do" Aerindir nodded. "And one more thing..."
"I need hot water" the elf said quietly. "And a large vessel for washing. What will that cost?"
The innkeeper squinted, peering at the face beneath the hood.
"First time in Barrowton, ser?" he asked with a faintly greedy smirk, sensing a foreigner. "Heating water's a chore. All together, that'll be two silver stags."
"Very well."
Aerindir calmly drew the coins from his purse and laid them on the counter.
"It'll be done, m'lord" the innkeeper assured him, hastily sweeping up the silver with thick fingers. "I'll have the servants haul a tub to your room straightaway and set the kettles boiling in the kitchen. Shall supper be brought up to the room as well, or will you eat down here in the hall?"
"Here" Aerindir decided after a pause.
He needed to listen. In the taverns of port cities, news travels faster than the wind. Sailors boast of distant voyages, captains curse the prices, dockworkers rail against their masters, and between mugs of ale one can hear more truth than in the halls of lords.
He chose a small table in the far corner of the hall, in shadow and well away from the rowdy companies of sailors and the cold drafts from the door. Before long a wooden bowl of mutton stew landed before him with a dull slap, thick steam rising from it. Chunks of meat and soft vegetables floated in a rich broth, and beside it on the table they set slices of rye bread with a crunchy crust and a jug of passable wine.
Aerindir ate slowly, keeping his hood up and savoring the moment. The food was coarse and greasy, but hot - which after days of hardtack and dried meat felt almost like a feast. He had just broken off a piece of bread when the bench opposite creaked under someone's weight. Aerindir did not raise his head or pause his meal, but beneath the table his hand shifted to his belt, closer to the sword hilt.
"Lonely, handsome?"
The voice was a woman's, low, with that practiced huskiness that in places like these was mistaken for a particular kind of charm. Aerindir looked up and saw a girl sitting across from him. She was young, perhaps twenty, with chestnut hair tumbling in disheveled curls over her shoulders. Her cheap scarlet dress stood out brightly even in the hall's half-light, and the lacing at her chest was loosened boldly, baring pale skin thickly dusted with freckles.
She smiled, leaning on the table with her chin propped on one palm - and in that smile was everything at once: the rehearsed vivacity of a tavern girl, the weariness of a long evening, and the cautious hope of a generous client.
"A man like you..." she reached out coquettishly, trying to touch his sleeve, but he drew back almost imperceptibly. "All alone on a night like this. Maybe you need some company? I know how to warm a frozen traveler. And I don't charge much. Just forty coppers for the night."
From beneath the deep hood, grey eyes looked at her - attentive and far too calm for the patrons she was used to. They met her brown eyes, bright and faintly mocking.
"I thank you for the offer" he said, polite and remote. "But I seek a different sort of company this evening. All I need is food and sleep."
The girl did not retreat. She leaned closer still. The cloying sweetness of cheap perfume struck his nostrils.
"Oh, come now" she purred, idly tracing a finger along the table's edge. "All men say that at first. And then..." She gave a playful smile. "Where are you from, golden hair? The south? Or maybe even Essos?"
"From far away" the elf answered evasively, returning to his meal.
"Don't be so gloomy" she placed her hand on his wrist and began stroking the skin softly. "One night. I'll make you happy. I promise. Or..." her voice dropped to a whisper, "...I could even do it for free, if you'll just smile at me. You have an incredibly beautiful face."
Aerindir carefully but firmly freed his hand from her grip.
"You are kind" he said more gently, and in his voice there was genuine gratitude for the attention, mercenary though it was. "But my answer remains the same. Find yourself another client tonight. Over there sit merchants with heavy purses."
The girl sighed and tossed her chestnut curls back. Disappointment flickered in her eyes for only an instant, but no offense lingered - refusals were part of the work.
"Pity" she drawled, rising reluctantly from the bench. "If you change your mind, handsome, I'll be here till midnight. Ask for Dacey - everyone in this place knows me."
She left, swaying her hips, heading for the merchants' table where greedy glances and coarse jests already awaited her.
* * *
Aerindir finished his supper alone, listening to snatches of conversation around him. People spoke of salt prices, of a storm off Cape Kraken, or of a recent brawl between dockhands on the wharf - but no one spoke of the Sunset Sea, and no one mentioned lands to the west. When he had eaten, he rose and climbed the creaking wooden staircase.
The room proved small but clean, which he had not expected of a port-side inn. The floor was wooden, the walls whitewashed with lime. A plain linen curtain hung over the narrow window. The innkeeper had kept his word: in the middle of the room stood a large wooden tub, steam rising from the hot water and filling the space with humid warmth. Beside it on a stool lay a cake of grey soap smelling of ash and fat, and a rough towel.
Aerindir slid the bolt on the door and pulled it several times to test its strength. Then he went to the window, threw open the shutters, and breathed the night air, smelling of salt, cold, and freshness. Somewhere below, rigging creaked and sailors called to one another. He closed the window and only then allowed himself to exhale. The saddlebags dropped heavily to the floor.
He unfastened the buckles of his belt, removed the sword, and laid the weapon at the head of the bed, setting the bow and quiver beside it. At last he pulled off the filthy sheepskin cloak, which over the long days of travel had become thoroughly saturated with the smells of horse, smoke, and road dust.
He removed his armor slowly, layer by layer: first the plate pauldrons, then the bracers, greaves, and scaled cuirass. After them the mithril mail flowed off like a soft silver stream. He laid the gear carefully on the table, took a clean rag, and began wiping the metal, removing road dust and the thin film of moisture. Even here, in a grimy inn at the edge of an unknown world, a warrior of the Noldor could not allow his arms to gather filth. Discipline was what kept the mind in order and served as a reminder of who he truly was. When the armor was done, he stripped off the sweat-soaked undergarments and at last lowered himself into the hot water.
The heat drew the pain from tired muscles, slowly dissolving the tension of recent days and sleepless nights. Aerindir closed his eyes, resting his head against the rim of the wooden tub, while the water gradually darkened to a cloudy grey. It washed away the road dust, the grime of foreign lands, the salt of sweat, and the weariness of the journey - everything that had clung to him since the moment he had awoken on that cold shore.
He washed for a long time and thoroughly, rinsing his hair and working the tangles from the golden strands with his fingers. He scrubbed his skin until it flushed from the heat, trying to strip away layer after layer of everything dirty and foreign that had stuck to him over these days.
When he finally rose from the tub, his body felt light and renewed, though somewhere deep inside a dull ache of loss, loneliness, and uncertainty still lingered. He dried himself with the rough towel and blew out several candles on the table before lying down. The mattress was stuffed with stiff, prickly straw, but the sheets were fresh. Aerindir stretched out to his full length and allowed his body to relax completely.
Sleep came at once, without dreams or nightmares. On this night he was not an elf lost in an alien world. He was merely a weary traveler who had found temporary shelter beneath a stranger's roof.
* * *
Sunlight was already threading into the room in thin golden beams, and for the first time in a long while Aerindir woke of his own accord, without alarm or sudden movement. Sleep simply ended, the way a candle gutters quietly out, leaving behind a rested body and a clear mind. He rose from the bed and splashed cold water from the jug over his face, instantly banishing the last vestiges of sleep.
Then he dressed in his gear with practiced habit. First the clothing, over which the mail settled softly, answering on his shoulders with its familiar silver weight. After it came the pieces of armor - he fastened them one by one with the calm, honed motions that come only after long years of a warrior's service. The sword took its place at his belt, and finally, with obvious reluctance, he threw on the grimy sheepskin cloak once more, hiding the cold gleam of metal beneath its rough cloth.
Descending the staircase, he entered the inn's common room. The morning River Breeze was a stark contrast to the evening's. Where the night before there had been noise, laughter, and the reek of spilled ale, the hall now seemed quiet, drowsy, and nearly empty. A serving girl with a sleepy face and tangled hair silently set before him a bowl of hot porridge, a slab of bread, and a pair of boiled eggs.
Having finished breakfast and left a couple of coppers on the table, he pulled up his hood and stepped into the fresh air. Barrowton had long since woken, and Aerindir set off purposefully toward the port. The closer he drew to the water, the thicker the crowd became and the sharper the smells: salt and iodine, rotting seaweed and fresh fish, molten tar for caulking and wood shavings. It was the scent of any port in any world, whether Middle-earth or this strange continent.
The waterfront hummed like a disturbed hive, yet beneath the chaotic noise a certain order could be felt. Dockhands, stripped to the waist despite the cool morning breeze, rolled enormous barrels up creaking gangplanks. Fishermen in dirty jackets sat on the wet boards of the wharf mending nets with focused concentration, while carpenters hammered in steady rhythm, caulking the bottoms of overturned boats with oakum and tar.
Aerindir stopped, surveying the port. His eyes - which had once beheld the white-winged swan ships of Alqualondë, gleaming beneath the light of the Trees - now studied the local vessels, which seemed to him crude and heavy. They were ungainly, broad-beamed craft with high sides and blunt, rounded bows. They possessed none of the grace of elven ships, none of the lightness with which the vessels of the Teleri had glided over the waves like swans across a lake.
But there was strength. These ships were built to break waves, to push through storms, to endure the wind, and to bear heavy cargo.
They will serve. If the keel is sound and the sails whole, they can endure the voyage.
He began searching for captains. They were easy to spot - by their straight, confident bearing and their voices, which carried above the port's din. By the looks of their crews: respect, fear, or submission. Soon he noticed a suitable vessel: a broad, two-masted cog with weathered but intact sails that looked far more seaworthy than most of the fishing tubs at the wharf. On the stern, arms folded across his chest, stood a stocky man with a beard braided into two stiff plaits. He was bellowing at sailors struggling with a thick hawser at a bollard.
"Pull, you rat-spawned wretches!" he roared in a voice that could have drowned out a storm. "Break your backs, not the rope! Drop it one more time and I'll throw you overboard myself!"
Aerindir approached the gangplank leading to the deck and, waiting for a lull in the torrent of abuse, called out in a calm, clear voice.
"Good day, Captain."
The man turned, his tirade cut short mid-word. His face was weather-beaten, and across it ran a massive scar from the left temple to the right corner of his mouth. He measured the tall stranger with a careful look - the swift, precise appraisal of a veteran seaman who in an instant decides whether the person before him is a warrior, a merchant, or serious trouble.
"If you're looking for work, lad, you're far too clean for a sailor" he grunted, spitting over the side. "And if you're a passenger, there's no room. Hold's packed with timber to the beams. Sailing for Seagard in a day and a half."
"I am not looking for work" Aerindir answered calmly, stepping closer to the gangplank. "I am looking for a ship. And a captain with the courage for a long voyage. A very long one."
The captain grunted and wiped his hands on his filthy trousers.
"Courage I've got plenty of" he said with a crooked smirk, baring yellowish teeth. "I've sailed to Ibben and back, through the Shivering Sea, where icebergs are the size of castles. Survived a storm off Bear Island when the waves ran higher than the masts." He jabbed a thick thumb into his own chest. "For thirty silver I'll take you to Seagard. You'll sleep where there's room, but you'll get there."
Aerindir slowly shook his head, not breaking his gaze.
"I do not need Seagard" he said quietly.
He took another step closer and lowered his voice so that only the captain could hear, though every word was distinct.
"I need to go west."
The captain froze and slowly tilted his head to one side, as though trying to decide whether he had misheard amid the port's racket.
"Where?" he asked, his voice hollow.
"West" Aerindir repeated firmly, looking the sailor straight in the eye. "Across the Sunset Sea. To where the sun goes down and lands lie beyond the horizon."
A heavy silence fell between them at once, and the voices on deck went still. One of the sailors stopped hauling on the rope and stared at the stranger; another gave a low whistle through his teeth. The captain was no longer looking at him as a client, but as a madman.
"You drunk this early, lad?" he asked after a long pause, his voice gone hard. "Or did you crack your skull on a rock? Maybe you went overboard and the sea washed out your brains?"
"I am sober" the elf answered calmly. "I need to cross the Sunset Sea. I am looking for someone who will carry me to the other shore."
The captain stared at him as though at a lunatic.
"There is no 'other shore,' you fool" he snapped, and real anger entered his voice. "That's the edge of the world. An abyss where the water falls away. Monsters that swallow ships whole, the way a whale swallows a minnow."
"Legends often lie" Aerindir countered calmly, not dropping his gaze. "There is land there."
"There is land?" The captain laughed angrily, and the laugh was more bark than mirth. "I know the sea, lad! Thirty years I've sailed it! I've seen storms that turn boys grey overnight. Seen waves snap ships like children snap twigs!" He jabbed a finger toward the western horizon. "But the Sunset Sea isn't just a storm. It's death. There's no land there."
Aerindir calmly reached for the purse at his belt.
"I can pay" he said quietly.
"Put it away" the captain snarled, turning his back. "Fill my hold with diamonds the size of your fist, I don't care. Dead men have no use for gold, and we'd all drown on the first day. Find another fool, madman."
On deck, work had come to a complete stop. The sailors, having overheard the talk of the Sunset Sea, stared at the elf with a strange mixture of fear and hostility. Someone spat quietly over the side. Two exchanged glances and muttered to each other.
"Leave" the captain said, no longer looking at him. He seized a rope and hauled on it, making clear the conversation was over. "And don't go talking like that around here, unless you want to be taken for a lunatic."
Aerindir slowly clenched his fist.
"I thank you for your honesty" he said coldly, turning away.
He descended the gangplank and strode off along the creaking boards of the wharf. He could feel the stares at his back: heavy, clinging, full of unease and superstitious dread. The first refusal. Categorical, founded not on bargaining or greed, but on a primal terror of the unknown.
This will be harder than I thought. Money is powerless here against an ancient fear.
* * *
His next target was a tall schooner with a narrow hull painted dark green. The vessel looked fast, as though built to cut the wave. On deck stood a tall woman, nearly Aerindir's own height. She wore men's trousers, a leather vest, and a broad belt, all well worn by salt and wind. A weathered face and tanned skin framed hard brown eyes. Her hair was cropped short, and at her hip hung a short sword in a scuffed scabbard.
Aerindir climbed the gangplank, ignoring the whistles from the crew. The boards creaked softly underfoot.
"Are you the captain of this vessel?" he asked, approaching.
The woman looked him over from head to toe - slowly, appraisingly. Open curiosity showed in her gaze.
"To you I'm Captain Ellara, handsome" she answered in a low, slightly husky voice, crossing her arms. "What are you after?"
"I wish to hire you" the elf said calmly. "Your ship looks the fastest in this port."
"That it is. Only the dolphins are quicker" she nodded with self-satisfaction, patting the wooden rail. "Where do you need to go? Lannisport? Braavos? Pentos? Lys? Name the city, and I'll get you there in fine fashion."
"My way lies west" Aerindir said evenly.
The smile vanished from her face so quickly it might have been wiped off. She exhaled heavily, rolling her eyes skyward and rubbing the bridge of her nose with a weary hand.
"Again..." she breathed, with obvious irritation. "You're the third madman this year to ask me to sail into the Sunset Sea. What is it you've all lost out there, good sers? Ancient dragon gold? Islands of eternal youth?"
Aerindir went still. The third?
The thought struck like lightning. Could the sea have spared someone else from his company? Hope - wild and sharp - gripped his heart.
"Who were those two?" he asked quickly, taking a step toward her, and urgency sounded in his voice now. "Did they look like me? Tall, with fair or perhaps dark hair?"
Ellara raised a surprised eyebrow, but immediately snorted in dismissal.
"Fair and dark hair? The first one barely had any hair left. A decrepit old man - some cracked maester who kept muttering about stars and charts. And the second..." She smirked. "A fat merchant from Lannisport. Gambled away everything he had and decided he'd rather vanish at sea than fall into the hands of his creditors. Fear must have knocked the sense right out of him."
The fire in the elf's eyes died as swiftly as it had kindled. His shoulders dropped slightly. His face became calm and unreadable once more. Foolish to have hoped. Here there was only him... and this world's madmen.
"And what's it to you?" Ellara squinted suspiciously, noting the change in his face. "Looking for someone?"
"Only the shadow of a hope" he answered dully, looking away.
The captain studied him for a time, as though trying to puzzle out what manner of man stood before her.
"So what have you lost out there?" she pressed. "Why do you want to go west?"
"My home is there" Aerindir answered simply, meeting her eyes again. "And I must return to it."
Ellara burst out laughing - a loud, sharp, hoarse laugh like the cawing of a crow on a masthead.
"Home?" she repeated, wiping a tear. "At the bottom of the sea, among the fish and the drowned? Listen. I'm bound for Oldtown in two days with a cargo of salt fish, and from there I turn straight east. I can drop you in Essos for a fair price. It's warm year-round there, the wine is sweet as honey, and the whores in Lys know such tricks in bed you'll forget your name and all your ancestors. But west? No. Don't even ask."
Aerindir was silent for only an instant, and the decision came of its own accord.
"I will give you every coin of gold I have" he said quietly. In his gaze was a heavy, grim resolve. "And when we reach the shore, take my armor and my sword. You will find nothing of greater worth in this world."
"Even if you promised me the Iron Throne and all the gold of Casterly Rock" she cut him off, her face going hard, "the Sunset Sea has storms the likes of which you've never seen. Fools and dreamers sail that way... and never come back."
The captain folded her arms firmly, making it plain the conversation was done.
"If you need to go south or east, come see me later. But if you mention the west one more time..." She nodded toward the gangplank. "Best step off my ship right now."
Aerindir merely nodded, turned, and walked silently down the gangplank. The day dragged on agonizingly, and when the sun passed its zenith it began its slow descent toward the west, as if mocking him with its motion - pointing the way he could not yet follow.
The elf went from ship to ship, but the answer everywhere was the same. Sometimes he received a polite refusal, but far more often it was followed by laughter - from scornful to nearly hysterical. The only constant was the superstitious fear, which people did not even try to hide behind their jests.
At one point he descended yet another gangplank, as he had done many times already, and heard the voice of a young sailor with an intelligent face. The lad sat on a thick bollard, a torn shirt clamped between his knees, industriously patching it with a heavy needle.
"You might want to wait, ser" he advised, not raising his head from his work. "Ships from Oldtown might call soon, or from Lannisport, or even the Free Cities. The captains there are seasoned men. One of them might take the risk... for a good price."
Aerindir nodded wearily, feeling hope drain slowly through his fingers like water.
"I thank you for the kind advice" he answered quietly, and began to step away.
At that very moment the weather, clear and almost warm until then, suddenly showed its northern temper. A sharp, gusting blast of wind swept in off the river and struck Aerindir full force, hurling dust and small debris up from the planks of the wharf. The elf did not react in time, and the hood of his cloak - which he had not lowered all morning - was torn from his head and flung back.
His golden hair instantly flew up and spilled across his shoulders in a long, shimmering cascade, streaming in the wind and baring his face. And his ears. The upswept, pointed ears of the Eldar.
The sailor on the bollard dropped his needle; the shirt fell to the boards with a soft slap. The lad rose slowly to his feet and stared at Aerindir with eyes wide.
"Your ears..." the sailor breathed, pointing a trembling finger at the elf. "What is that? You... what are you?"
Aerindir reacted instantly: with a sharp motion he seized the hood and pulled it back over his head, jerking the fabric so hard it groaned at the seams.
"It is a mark of fire" he said harshly, taking a step toward the sailor, his voice colder than steel. "Flame disfigured me when I was still a child."
"But they're... they're pointed..." The lad stumbled, backing away until his heels hit the edge of the dock.
"It is simply a deformity" Aerindir repeated, taking one more step forward. A cold spark flared in his grey eyes, and the sailor involuntarily hunched his shoulders beneath that heavy gaze. "And you would do well not to talk about it. Do you understand me?"
The lad nodded hastily, his face gone noticeably pale with fright.
"I understand! I won't say a word! A burn... yes, of course, just a burn!" he babbled, raising his hands defensively. "I won't tell a soul, I swear by all the gods!"
"Good" the elf said curtly, stepping back. "Then put it from your mind."
He did not linger. Turning, he walked swiftly away from the water into the maze of port-side alleys, where the wind no longer tore so fiercely at the cloaks of the few passersby. But even ten paces on, he could still feel the sailor's stare on his back.
The secret held. But only by a miracle. Next time I may not be so fortunate. In a city full of superstitious people, afraid of all they do not understand, an elf is not a wonder or a curiosity. It is a target.
* * *
The sun had vanished below the horizon. Aerindir wandered the streets of Barrowton for a long time without purpose. The hope that had burned so brightly in him that morning was now slowly dying, turning to cold ash. No one would sail west. Their fear was too ancient - it lived in old tales and sea legends used to frighten boys, and such fear could not be bought with gold.
His feet carried him, out of habit, to the stable by the inn. He wanted to see the only creature in this city that did not think him a madman or a demon. Inside, the stable held the warm, thick smell of a living stall - hay, oats, and dung. Patches greeted him with a soft, friendly whinny and at once stretched her muzzle toward his palm, nudging it with her nose in search of a treat.
"Goheno nin... Forgive me" he whispered, running his long fingers through her thick mane. "Today my hands are as empty as the hearts of the people in this city. I will not find the way here. Their souls are tightly bound by fear."
The mare snorted softly, as though she understood his sorrow, and rubbed her warm muzzle against his shoulder. Aerindir pressed his forehead to her neck and closed his eyes, feeling the living warmth of her body and the steady rhythm of her breathing. From the sleeve of his old cloak came the smell of damp sheepskin, road grime, and stale sweat.
The elf grimaced and drew back involuntarily - the odor was alien and unpleasant to him. He had worn the sheepskin only as camouflage, to avoid standing out too starkly in the crowds of men, but now it weighed on him, a reminder of weakness. The garment was uncomfortable, restricted his movement, and looked absurd on a warrior of his lineage.
"Time for a change" he said aloud, with resolve.
Aerindir left the stable and made for the market square, where evening lights were already burning everywhere. Their flickering glow set shadows dancing in strange patterns across the walls of buildings.
He headed for the row of shops selling clothing and traveling gear that had not yet closed for the night. The merchant - a small man with quick hands and sharp, penetrating eyes - bounded over to him the moment the elf ducked under the canvas awning hung with bolts of cloth.
"What would the gentleman like?" he chirped, sensing the smell of coin in the purse the way a rat senses cheese. "Northern furs, sheep's wool, or traveling cloaks? Or perhaps the gentleman is interested in silk from Pentos itself, for a fair lady of his heart?"
"I need to replace this" Aerindir said, gesturing with distaste at his old, worn cloak. "Find me something warm for northern winds... but worthy of a man of standing. Comfortable in the saddle and free for the sword, so as not to hinder my movements."
"Oh, the gentleman has taste! And understanding!" The merchant beamed, rubbing his hands.
He dove into a pile of neatly folded garments and produced a long black woolen cloak, richly trimmed at the top with russet fox fur.
"Behold this beauty! Northern cut and heavy wool from the finest sheep! Even the strongest storm won't get through. The lining here is wolf fur - it'll warm you at the very Wall itself - and it'll sit on you like a lord of Winterfell. Yet it won't hinder you in the saddle or the fight."
Aerindir took the cloak in his hands. The cloth was dense, yet light. It fell softly into his palms - incomparably better than his old sheepskin.
"Good, indeed" he acknowledged calmly.
He removed the sheepskin cloak and threw the new one over his armor. The fabric settled on his shoulders exactly, as though it had been tailored for him. His arms moved freely. The black wool and bright russet fur set off the elf's beauty, lending his figure the austere grandeur of a warrior. While the merchant continued his fussy offers of more goods, Aerindir's gaze fell on a counter displaying small wares - leather belts, gloves, bracelets, and buckles. Among them he noticed wide leather headbands.
He immediately recalled the gust of wind that had torn away his hood, and the superstitious fear in the sailor's eyes. He needed something to hide his ears from prying looks. His gaze settled on a broad strip of dark leather with simple tooling along the edges.
"May I try this?" he asked the merchant.
"Of course, of course! Warriors buy those often. Keeps the hair out of your face, holds firm even in a fight."
Aerindir took the band and approached a small mirror of dull bronze. He put it on slowly, carefully easing it down over his forehead. The wide strip of leather pressed the upper part of his ears flat against his head, securely concealing their pointed tips while leaving the lobes exposed. From the side it looked natural - many men wore headbands in just the same way.
The bronze mirror was cloudy and dark, and the face in it seemed slightly unfamiliar. Golden hair, held back by the leather band, fell to his shoulders, framing his face, while the new black cloak with its russet fur collar made his figure considerably sterner. From the mirror gazed a stranger: not an elf, and not a simple wanderer, but rather a southern lord or a knight of high birth at the royal court. Aerindir tilted his head slightly, studying the reflection.
"This is what I need" he said quietly at last.
He counted out ten silver stags, set them on the counter, and nodded toward his old sheepskin cloak, which lay in a shapeless grey heap on the dirty boards.
"That cloak you may keep for yourself, or give it to those who need it more" he said in parting.
Aerindir turned and stepped out from under the awning into the cool night air.
* * *
The noise of the crowd fell behind. Aerindir was making his way into Craftsmen's Lane - the city's heart, the part of Barrowton that never slept but never knew a holiday either. The air here was different - not like the air near the water. Heavy, dry, and hot, it smelled of things the elf knew all too well from the besieged fortresses of Beleriand: searing iron, coal dust, and singed leather.
And here the music was its own. The rhythmic beat of hammers on anvils rolled down the narrow lane, echoing from smithy to smithy like the strokes of an enormous heart. Aerindir walked slowly, listening. To elven hearing each blow was a word in the conversation of metal and fire. There, to the left, behind a wooden fence, horseshoes were being forged - a quick, light, slightly uneven rhythm that betrayed an apprentice's hand. Farther in the depths of a courtyard someone was laboriously straightening a bent cartwheel rim. And to the right...
He stopped. From the wide-open gates of a stone-built smithy, lit by the crimson glow of the forge, came a different sound. Clean, powerful, and almost singing - the way a hammer sounds when it falls on good, noble steel in the hands of a steady and confident master. The walls of the smithy were hung with finished wares: rows of straight swords, and beside them the gleam of serviceable mail shirts, plain helms, and bundles of spearheads. The work was human and lacked the unearthly lightness and grace that distinguished the creations of the Noldor, but the honesty of the craft could be felt. These things were made not for beauty, but for service. In them was strength, reliability, and long life.
Aerindir adjusted his new black cloak, which concealed the mithril armor beneath. Then he touched the band on his head, checking that it covered his ears securely, and, satisfied that all was in place, stepped inside. At the center, lit only by the crimson breath of the forge, worked a giant. He was a bald man of great height, a full head taller than most men Aerindir had seen in this world. His torso, bare to the waist and gleaming with sweat and soot, resembled the trunk of an old oak. Old burns and pale scars covered his skin - the memory of many years spent with fire and steel.
He did not raise his head when the guest entered - or pretended not to notice. His entire being was focused on the glowing strip of metal lying on the anvil. The steel shone orange, and each blow of the hammer tore a shower of sparks from it.
With another precise, powerful strike a spray of golden sparks flew in all directions, and metal hissed furiously. The smith turned the piece in his tongs and brought the heavy tool down on the glowing steel once more. Aerindir found himself admiring the work - he too had once stood at a forge, when the masters of the House of Fëanor had taught him to listen to metal and to understand fire. Thanks to that experience he saw what would surely have escaped the eye of an ordinary man: in this rough, mortal craftsman lived a genuine spirit of creation.
"Good evening, master" the elf said, raising his voice to carry above the roar of the flame and the ring of the hammer.
The smith did not turn. His arm with the heavy hammer - a tool worthy of Aulë himself - did not waver, continuing to fall on the same point of the glowing bar. Aerindir took a step closer, entering the bright circle of the forge's light.
"Your hand is steady and your eye is true" he said, louder now, striving to be heard above the ring of steel. "You have a feel for the metal and know the moment when fire must yield to the hammer."
His only answer was another clash of steel on steel and the heavy, measured breathing of a working man. The elf smiled faintly and added:
"You are not much for conversation, master. Forgive me if I am keeping you from your work."
"And he won't tell you a thing, m'lord. Shout yourself hoarse or whisper in his ear - it makes no difference."
The voice came from the depths of the smithy, from the shadows behind the brightly burning forge. Aerindir turned and saw a girl of perhaps seventeen - or a little older - who had emerged from the gloom. She wore a rough leather apron over a plain grey dress, and her face and hands were smeared with soot and coal dust. She wiped her palms on a dirty rag, studying the visitor with open curiosity.
"Why does he not speak?" the elf asked, with genuine surprise.
"Because he's mute, m'lord" she answered simply, taking her place beside the giant and with a practiced motion handing him a heavy bucket of water for quenching. "Ironborn. They raided our coast on their longships nine years ago. Uncle was young and hot-headed then... he was a soldier on a trading vessel. He dared insult their captain. They cut out his tongue, then simply threw him on the shore."
The girl spoke of it with perfect calm, as though describing the usual wind or rain. The cruelty of this world had long since become the ordinary backdrop of her life.
"I'm his niece" she added, passing the smith a heavier hammer. "I help with the orders. I speak for him with customers, count the coins, and keep the records."
She looked at the visitor closely.
"What were you after, m'lord? A horse shod? Armor mended? Or perhaps a sword commissioned?"
Aerindir shook his head. His gaze swept the counter, piled with an assortment of weapons.
"I am looking for a dagger" he said quietly. "My old one... was lost at sea in a storm."
Memory helpfully supplied the picture: the howling storm, the black abyss of waves, the deck slippery with foam. His faithful dagger, forged still in Beleriand, had gone into the deep along with the sea creature when the steel drove into its eye. Aerindir was accustomed to always feeling a weapon at his belt. In the press of close combat a long sword often became useless.
The heat of the forge beneath his cloak was growing nearly unbearable; the elf threw back the folds, letting the forge's shimmering air rush in. He walked to a wooden rack where, among crude butcher's cleavers and heavy fighting knives, a blade lay on a scrap of worn red cloth. Aerindir picked it up, feeling the pleasing weight: long - nearly a forearm's length - narrow, with a predatory point. The hilt was plain, unadorned, merely wrapped in black leather with a cross-laced grip. The dark steel bore the faint traces of repeated folding.
The elf slowly weighed the dagger on his open palm. The balance was forward of center - ideal for a precise thrust into the gaps of armor. He tossed it, the blade flashing briefly in the crimson light, caught it easily in a reverse grip, and made a quick lunge at empty air. The steel whistled.
"A good dagger" he nodded approvingly. "Simple, but there is real strength in this excellent forging."
"Uncle's work" the girl said with undisguised pride, glancing at the smith's broad back. "He spent many days on it. The steel came from an old anchor."
At that moment the rhythmic beat of the hammer abruptly ceased.
Aerindir felt a heavy, intent gaze upon him and slowly turned his head, meeting the smith's eyes. The giant had stopped working; his hammer rested on the anvil with a dull clunk. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a broad palm, the master stared at the elf without blinking, his entire attention fixed on the armor and the sword at his belt. The giant slowly circled the anvil, each step ringing against the stone floor, until he stood directly before him, looming with his massive frame, radiating the heat of the forge, sweat, and iron.
Aerindir did not retreat. He met the gaze calmly, looking up, though his hand drifted involuntarily toward his weapon's hilt. The smith raised an enormous hand, blackened with ingrained soot, and pointed a thick finger at the armor and the scabbard. Then from his throat came a strange sound, something like a low, guttural hum. He looked at the guest questioningly.
"He's asking..." the girl began uncertainly, translating the master's gestures. "He very much wants to touch your armor, m'lord. And... to see the sword."
Aerindir hesitated for only a fraction of an instant, then gave a short nod. The smith reached out and touched the breastplate with his fingertips, gliding across the cold metal. The master's gaze settled on the chased design - an interlacing of two trees whose branches reached toward one another. The giant's eyes widened, and he began looking from the armor to the elf's face and quickly away again, as though he had guessed that the one before him was no ordinary warrior. At last he pointed to the scabbard, and Aerindir, nodding, slowly and carefully drew the sword.
The steel sang. A clear ring momentarily drowned the roar of the flame as the blade emerged only a third of the way from the sheath. In the smithy's half-darkness the ancient steel of Gondolin hungrily caught the crimson light of the forge, reflecting it in a cold, mirror-bright gleam. The metal was flawless, and the edge appeared impossibly thin and mercilessly sharp. Along the blade's line, Tengwar script emerged, cut with such precision that the smith's gaze was drawn irresistibly to the signs.
The giant's mouth fell open. He extended a hand - slowly, almost reverently - but stopped an inch from the edge, unable to bring himself to touch. Then his gaze fell on the mail visible beneath the armor: its rings were finer than fish scales, thin and nearly invisible. The smith understood at once that no axe in this world could sever them. A guttural sound escaped his throat, and he began gesturing rapidly to his niece, chopping the air with his palm and pointing now at the sky, now at the forge, trying to convey something beyond belief.
The girl swallowed and spoke quietly, looking at Aerindir with entirely different eyes now - with deep respect and unmistakable caution.
"Uncle says... he says he has never in his life seen steel like this. He asks... who you are. And who could have forged such a marvel. This is not the work of a man. Even Valyrian steel looks different."
Aerindir returned the sword to its scabbard with a soft click. The gleam vanished instantly, leaving only the dull glow of the forge and the smell of coal.
"Tell your uncle" he said quietly, glancing for a moment at the fire, "that this blade was forged by masters who lived very far from here and very long ago. In a place where the stars shine brighter and the flame is always pure."
The smith nodded slowly, and though he had not understood the words themselves, their essence was clear to him. With deep solemnity the master pressed his broad palm to his chest and bowed low to his guest.
"How much for the dagger?" Aerindir broke the silence that had settled.
"Thirty silver" the girl answered, still unable to tear her fascinated gaze from him.
"All labor deserves its pay" the elf said, laying coins on the counter and adding several more on top. "This is for the craftsmanship. Honest work of this quality is rare."
He fastened the new dagger at his belt, and the familiar weight at his hip brought a fleeting calm. The girl tucked the money into her apron pocket and smiled with a faintly playful air, as though trying to shake off the strange feeling left by what she had witnessed.
"You're... different" she observed. "A lord, a prince, or perhaps a highborn warrior? What have you lost in our grey city, where there's nothing but fish and ancient barrows?"
Aerindir adjusted the band on his head and answered with courteous detachment.
"I simply seek new paths, and sometimes find treasures where I least expect them. For example... an excellent blade in an ordinary lane."
He smiled at her - enigmatically and with a touch of sadness - then wished them a forge that would never go dark. Turning, the elf stepped out into the cool of the night, and behind him came the smith's low hum, to which the girl responded with only a weary laugh.
"Yes, I know, I know" drifted from the depths of the workshop.
The hammer struck steel once more, and the familiar rhythm of the city's life resumed. Aerindir walked the streets of Barrowton, feeling the new blade's weight at his hip. Now he had a different appearance, a new weapon, and the understanding that in order to find his way home he would first have to survive in this world of men.
* * *
The following morning Aerindir resolved to try his luck once more. The night before, in the inn, he had caught scraps of talk about several large vessels coming up from the south. The news had kindled a fresh, stubborn spark of hope in him, and at dawn the elf set out for the wharves again. As he walked among them, the attitude of the people around him had noticeably shifted: in place of the earlier mockery and sidelong glances he now met respectful nods. The new cloak trimmed with fox fur and the leather headband had done their work. Now the sailors saw before them not a strange wanderer, but a highborn foreigner.
But the moment the conversation touched the Sunset Sea, all deference vanished without a trace - words broke off and faces darkened at once. The reasons were the same: ancient dread of the abyss, where, by their conviction, there was nothing but death. By midday the sun had climbed to its zenith and bathed Barrowton in blinding light, against which Aerindir's hope guttered out for good, leaving only the resolve to seek another way.
He was passing tall stacks of pine planks when a voice suddenly hailed him from the deep, sharp shadow the cargo threw.
"You got nowhere yesterday, and today you have not found your captain either. Do you truly believe fortune will decide to smile on you now, ser... man with the disfigurement?"
Aerindir froze, and his hand went instantly to the sword hilt. He turned slowly.