Disclaimer: All of Arda belong to Professor J. R. R. Tolkien.

.

For the first time in years beyond count, he fears for the ship.

Silver sails strain against the wind, near to bursting; hallowed timbers groan in anguish. The light of the Jewel has gone wild, shattering into a million whirling shards to every direction. About the mast the very Ilmen twists and roils, bent by gigantic unseen hands. Varda's stars shudder, spinning away, and for a while he loses sight of North.

This is not the end of Arda, he tells himself, not yet. Steady, steady. Take the ropes, let down the sail. Grip the wheel and don't let go. It is not the stars, but only the deck beneath his feet that is heaving and swaying. There--the Valacirca still hangs fiery and proud above the void. He fixes his gaze to it, and retakes his bearings. Though the shape of the world changes, and doom falls swift upon the Land of Gift, he will keep his course.

For a flash, the swan prow slices the clouds asunder, and he catches a glimpse of black waters, mountainous waves crested with lightning. But the shadows grow apace, the darkness thickens, piling about the ship's sides, and he no longer sees sea or land. Not the mighty fleets that for many nights have choked the horizon with their forest of masts, their banners black and gold. Not the towers that for an age have reflected his radiance with countless lamps.

"Ilúvatar, Thy will...Thy will be done..." he murmurs into the wind. Then his voice falters, heavy with unshed tears.

Elros's people, his own kin, whom he himself once led to this isle, fairest of all mortal lands. Year after year he has poured his light down upon their harbours and fields and cities, watching them come to wisdom, to splendour, to folly, to ruin. Even unto the end he has sought his son in the features of the kings' faces, but their eyes--their eyes have long been unrecognizable. Alas that he could never walk among them, never speak to them of all he has seen and learned! How is it that they have fallen to this?

A sudden turbulence wrenches the ship, almost knocking him off his feet. Gritting his teeth, the Mariner leans hard upon the wheel, and once more Vingilot's prow straightens against the roaring gale. Though grief surges within him like the black tide that surrounds the heavens, he will not let it eclipse the flame upon his brow, nor weaken the strength of his hands. When the day comes he will return to Elwing, and upon the shore they will weep for their child's children. But now he will keep his course, as well as he can make it out. For the clouds will break eventually, the storm end, and when it does, the survivors, if any, will have need of him.