Heavy fog swirled around the small boat as it moved noiselessly across the Bay, the silent crew plying their oars through the dark, glassy waters. They'd been paid to carry him back to Dol Amroth and no questions asked.
That was well, for he already had so many questions to ask of himself.
Hawk turned his head, the hood cast over his dark hair damp with mist. Already the isle of Tol Lochul was vanishing behind him, and something in his heart clenched. It was not the last time he would see it, he told himself, nor those who dwelled there, all asleep in the cold hours before the dawn.
Like a thief, he had stolen away, leaving a brief note by way of explanation and taking only a traveler's rucksack and his gear. His hand rested on the hilt of the sword on his hip, but he drew no comfort from it as a warrior might; as Eduwiges or Nethrida did before each battle. They would be able to protect the others despite his absence.
He was not a true warrior, after all. He didn't know what he was...and all the hours he had recently spent honing his body and his skills, or staring out over the sea, had not yielded him any answers. His memory had begun to return steadily but even then he felt like a piece of a wooden puzzle jammed by a petulant child into a slot that could barely contain him. Nor could he explain this feeling to the others, not when each had their burdens. The silence had grown deafening these last few weeks as all worked to quiet their own fears and prepare for the trials ahead. There was healing to be done, and bonds to renew. Addiela, Calidis, Xanderian ...Finchley.
Even if they could not - or would not - tell him their secrets, he had to do something. It was eating away at them all, and he could see how much pain Finch was in, all while she smiled and tried to be strong for the others, Xanderian especially. His Elf Lady had died...but then, so had he.
Maybe he was still dead. The Drowned Prince, Mans had called him. Perhaps that was why he felt like a ghost, a stranger haunting the halls, wanting to belong again. Instead he'd watched, and listened. Quiet conversations in the night, hushed planning over the map table. Comings and goings in which he had no part. Because he was still a ghost, and none of them needed the added worry of putting too much strain on him.
The scrape of the prow along the wet sand announced their arrival on the shore, though it was still so wreathed in fog that he hadn't even realised they were nearing the beach. Hawk disembarked and threw the small pouch of coin to the ferryman before turning and drawing his cloak more tightly around himself.
His steps took him first to the hidden cove where he had been discovered months before. He would leave a message for Aradil, the Avorrim scout, just in case his companions should seek for him there. Hawk picked up a bit of broken shale and scratched the sigils into the rock above the tide line, adding a drawing of a seagull for his signature. A flash of memory broke over him, then: when his so-called father in Bree-land had arranged for his kidnapping and he'd been tied to a tree out in the ruins, he'd carved that same bird into the bark, a final goodbye (or so he'd thought) to a certain someone. She'd been in pursuit, Xanderian at her side, and eventually they had rescued him. It was odd that his life seemed to keep repeating itself.
Hawk hefted his rucksack and began the walk up the winding path. He'd need a horse from the city stables...and then his journey would truly begin. Like a thief, like a ghost, he would melt into the night and seek out answers, since it seemed like all he could do. The dagger which had housed Mans' fell spirit had come from Angmar; Finch's brand, alike and yet different from his own, had been the mark of that place. The souls of the damned could be found there, he'd been told.
How fitting, then, that it should be his destination.
