The docks had always been a place of wonder to the boy. Some of his earliest memories had been of running ahead with his mother to watch for the bright sail that heralded his return.
His father was not a young man. Lornion had been sailing for more than twenty five summers by the time he met Lornadir's mother.
In the time before that he had seen two daughters and a son grow up and marry, and himself made a widower, his wife falling victim to a savage winter fever that swept the small coastal village they lived in. In the years following he moved from port to port, until one year he wintered in the city of Linhir. And there he met Elwen.
Elwen had soothed his storm-wracked soul, and from that day Lornion had found the pull of land more eagerly before, which was only made stronger by the birth of his youngest child. Some five years past Lornion had swapped rudder and sail for plough and shears, selling his share in his fishing vessel and settling into a small farm a short distance from Linhir, tenant of a local lord.
A child Lornadir was no longer. At the cusp of manhood, the first wisps of hair threatening to darken his lip, the boy of twelve kicked his heels rather than bound as he had in years past visiting the docks to await his father’s return.
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"Now you're to show respect to those I introduce you to, boy." Lornion spoke to his son, even as his eyes roamed far over the assembled forest of masts and bows scattered about the docks of Linhir.
“It’s respect that you built trust from, and trust is important when you put out to sea.”
It was a short journey from the town, the man had insisted on walking rather than taking the family's cart. He wanted longer to speak with his son.
"Once you are out of sight of land, a squall hits you, you have nothing but one another, you've got to have your utmost trust in one another, are you listening?"
"The sea takes those who aren't watching one another father."
Lornadir spoke the words dutifully, one of many phrases his father had uttered when pestered for tales of adventure.
All the boy had wanted for so long was to follow his father into the vast blue. The expectation of departure, the adventures upon the sea, the excitement upon his return with a hold full of fish. For so long he had pestered his father and mother, imploring them that he would soon be old enough to join the fleet of vessels that sailed out for days, sometimes weeks to work their trade along the islands of the estuary and beyond along the coast of Harondor.
But watching his father lament once he had sailed his last journey, hearing him rising to anger with greater ease. Seeing the toll a life upon the ocean had taken upon his body, Lornadir no longer felt the pull of the great blue. Even the notion of seeing the world, the great monsters of the seas and new lands had faded a little in him. He did not know where he should be, but he increasingly felt that whatever he sought would not be found in his father's footsteps.
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The docks were still a place of wonder, despite his misgivings. Several ships had moored in the space of a day, and the wharves were heaving with men carrying great sacks, crates stacked upon carts pulled by sweating mules. A dozen accents and languages cursing and hollering with mixed anger, urgency and glee assaulted the ears as the scents of spices mixed with sea water and great cargos of fish set at the nostrils. Lornadir’s eyes went wide as he gazed upon a caged bird, all plume and bright shine squawk in protest as it was manhandled off of a ship and was nearly run down by several armoured marines. Vessels of war occasionally stopped in the port, although more often sailed on to Pelargir, and these men were from one such craft.
Historically the duty of defending the ships and shores of Gondor had fallen to the Princes of Dol Amroth and their fabled Knights. However in recent years the Corsairs of Umbar had pressed close, even raiding villages within several days' ride of Linhir. That had both fascinated and horrified Lornadir, and he begged his father for stories of pirate kings and treasures stolen. But Lornion had simply huffed and waved a hand.
"Corsairs are rats, Lornadir” He spoke with a stern tone. “But they've no taste for fish, they were of no bother to us."
He would always insist he never worried about the sleep war galleys from Harad and Umbar, but an edge to his tone spoke of a fear all the same. Yet as the raids increased, so had the need for ships patrolling Gondor's waters, and so armoured men among the traders and fisherfolk were a common enough sight these days.
"Lornadir!" His father barked, most likely for the third of fourth time.
"Father?"
Nodding in satisfaction, the man grimaced and spoke, meaty arm thrown over the shoulders of a younger but equally grizzled sailor who stood amidst a dozen or so barrels of tightly packed fish.
"This is Halborn, we sailed together aboard the Felastur, Halborn this is my son Lornadir, he needs some real work this coming summer."
Lornadir nodded as Halborn leaned in to grip his arm. The Felastur was the second to last ship his father had sailed upon before he sold his shares in his last, settling a day's ride from the ocean to a few acres of wheat, barley and a small flock.
"A strong lad, but I reckon we could take him for a few moons, put some iron in his back and muscle on those arms." The man spoke with a kindly smile.
"We'll speak terms, and I've always found it easier to do that if my throat isn't as dry as Far Harad..." He let the notion hang with a small grin, looking between father and son.
"Well lad.” Lornion spoke, waving his son away. “You heard him, go to the next warf and fetch us a wine skin while I persuade Halborn here to make a man of you!"
Bobbing his head, Lornadir turned back as his father was taken aboard Halborn's ship, head down as he once more wove between carts, crates and men.
So this was to be it, thought Lornadir. He had been so eager to plough the waves as his father had but now he was so close the salt was already in his nose he could not muster anything but dread. Not fear as such, but the feeling of a fate chosen for him pulling him down as a weight upon a line. He had thought of refusal, insisting as his mother wished upon remaining at the farm. They could only afford to pay a couple of farm hands and he was nearly as adept at the shearing as his father. But Lornion had been firm. Salt water ran through his veins, as it had his father and as it did his elder son, a half-brother Lornadir had only met the once when he stopped in port on his way to Pelargir, ship's belly laden with southern goods. Lornadir would go to sea, and that was the end of it.
The next warf over was packed with excited men, women and children. Lornadir had no further chance to dwell on his fate as he was drawn to the bustle. A large vessel had moored as he arrived, and he'd paid it not much heed between daydreams and his father's growled wisdom. It was a tall ship, great sails and a deep belly. A vessel made for long weeks, even months at sea. At first he thought it some craft of the Steward's navy, but now he could see it was no ship of the line.
A great ramp was laid down, large barrels being slowly eased down one after the other. Along it's high side's smaller sleek boats were fastened. As Lornadir found himself drawing near to the scene he saw they each had fixings for a small mast as well as being put to oars. The ramp was surrounded not only by sailors but merchants, some dressed as finely as the Lords who brought their leisure craft to dock there.
It was loud about the vessel, folk were shouting to be heard over one another. Lornadir even saw several of them waving heavy purses in the faces of the sailors who seemed oblivious as they continued to unload their barrels.
Two great pale lengths of wood were carried down next as he came up alongside a stack of crates and netting. Both pieces seemed to bow near identically, both around five yards in length. His hand ran over the crates idly, gaze still upon the goings on around the ramp until he felt a large smooth stone beneath his palm. He lifted it, wondering if it were some gem from southern mines. It was no stone but a tooth, wide as his wrist and as long as his palm from fingertip to that same wrist. Eyes widened as he gently placed it back atop the crate, glancing back to the ship. It was not some exotic wood they were now settling upon the quayside, but great lengths of bone, surely from some sea-monster. As his mouth hung agape, his gaze fell upon what appeared to be a long spear. This was no weapon of the town guards however, the shaft was thick aged oak rather than the usual thiner ash. A hoop at the butt of metal and another in a thick ring closer to the spearhead. That head was not a leaf shape, but cruel looking, barbs sweeping backwards from the point like a savage caricature of rolling waves. Before Lornadir knew what he was doing he had the thing in his hands, turning it over, feeling it for weight, fascinated by it.
"What are you..." He near purred, imagination flaring at the stories held in wood and metal.
"That my lad?" A voice boomed from above. Leaning over the ship's starboard railing was a weatherbeaten sailor, deeply lined face grinning down at the figure of Lornadir, who clutched the weapon as if he were a child caught with a tool he had been forbidden to touch. This only widened the sailor’s smile.
"That's how we make our money out there..." He gestured westward, past the islands and into the vast openness.
"That my boy is a Whale Iron."
And as if a westerly squall as strong as any his father told of had blown through him, all doubts about his future upon the seas were blown away, his course set.
Lornadir knew where his path lay.
