A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

Everything hurt. Everything—and he couldn’t move. With effort, he strained against something on top of him, and finally pushed it off, rolling after it onto his stomach. The movement made the pain in his head spike, like someone had driven a knife into his skull, and his stomach rebelled, bile burning in his throat as he choked on it. 

He couldn’t just—he had to move. There was something—

He couldn’t think. There was something he had to do, but—no, there was someone. Someone he had to find. Something he had to find? He tried to call out a name, but his tongue wouldn’t work, and if he made any noise at all he couldn’t hear past the ringing in his ears. The ringing sounded like words, but he couldn’t understand them. 

Every breath was agony as broken ribs jabbed into lungs. His mouth tasted of blood, but he didn’t know if what he coughed up was blood or just more bile. He couldn’t see—it was so dark. He couldn't think, either, past the stabbing pain in his head and the fear that crowded in behind it. Someone was—he had to—where was—

“Curvo?” Was that his voice? It didn’t sound right. Was— “Carni…where…” Who was he looking for? “Nelyo—” Who was Nelyo?

Something else was weighing him down. Somehow he fumbled straps open in the dark, and winced every time something heavy and metal clattered to the stones—but it made it easier to move. Even to breathe. The wind blowing over him was cold, but—

Wait. Wind? Fresh air? He lifted his head, and saw light, faint but clear, somewhere ahead of him. That was it—that was what he had been looking for. Light. 

Somehow, he got to his feet, and staggered toward the light, leaning heavily on the wall of the—the hallway? Tunnel? Didn’t matter, if he could just— 

It felt like it took years, but at last he stumbled out of the dark into blinding light—sunlight on snow. It hurt, like knives stabbing into his eyes, and he covered his face with an arm, falling to his knees. The snow immediately melted into his clothes, so cold it burned, but he couldn’t get up again. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think, couldn’t—

Something creaked, like branches in the wind. A voice said something—low and deep—but he couldn’t understand it. He tried to say something but his tongue wouldn’t work. The pain in his head spiked, and he slumped over into a snowdrift as both the light and the pain faded around him into darkness.

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Daeron could not say what had brought him west of the Ered Luin again. His dreams were strange, smoky and muddled, and he did not understand what they meant—foresight, at least in the way it was given to others, had never been one of his gifts. But it felt right when he turned his feet west again, and when he found the abandoned flet within sight of the joining of the Rivers Gelion and Thalos, that felt right too. He fixed the roof and gathered stores to last him through the winter, and then ventured south to see Tol Galen for himself—he had visited it before, long ago when only the stars lit the world, but had not seen it since Lúthien had come there. He could feel the memory of her all around, even on the banks of the Adurant. The island itself was green and lush, and flowers bloomed even so late in the year. 

He did not go out to it; he did not think he could bear to try to find her grave. 

There were vanishingly few others to be found in Ossiriand. Once the woods had been filled with music and laughter, for the Green Elves had been a merry people, fearless and free. No one had been fearless or entirely free in many years, but the stillness was unsettling. Daeron did not know what had been happening in Beleriand since he had left it; he had avoided others in Eriador beyond the mountains for the most part. He had heard of the success of Beren’s quest with Lúthien’s aid, and he had heard something of the great battle in which the High King of the Noldor had been slain, among so many others, but very little more. 

He knew that Lúthien had been here in Ossiriand, and that she was dead, only because the trees still lamented her. 

Then he returned to his flet and composed some laments of his own. He did not sing them, but played his flute to the wind, and watched the river flow by. Autumn waned—his least favorite time of year, always when he felt the most melancholy and unwilling to get up in the morning—the leaves turning brown, and as the days grew shorter and the nights longer, fell things crept through the trees. The leaguer of the Noldor had broken indeed, for orcs to come so far south in such numbers. Daeron was skilled at hiding himself, though, and none who passed near his flet ever so much as glanced up. 

Winter came, bringing sharp winds and fewer orcs. Then, one unusually bright afternoon, movement by the river caught his eye. Daeron watched an Ent wade across the water, and wondered what could have happened to rouse one of them in the dead of winter, when Ents usually drowsed alongside the trees they tended. As the Ent drew nearer, Daeron realized that he knew this one—it was Finglas, who Daeron had once known well when he spent the autumn in Neldoreth, when they had sung together as the leaves fell around them, and again in spring when the world awoke again to birdsong and snow melt. 

He swung down the tree he had been climbing, so that when Finglas approached they could speak eye to eye. “Hail, Finglas, well met!” Daeron called. His voice was hoarse, and cracked a little, for he had not spoken aloud—let alone to another person—in so long. “What brings you east of the Gelion at this time of year?”

“Is that young Daeron?” Finglas replied. He lengthened his stride, and when he came closer Daeron saw that he was not alone. He had someone in his large, long-fingered hands, bloodied and unmoving, wrapped in a tattered cloak. “I am glad to see you here,” Finglas said as he stopped before the tree. His deep green eyes were full of grief and worry. “A fell wind blows from the north, I fear.”

“Who is this?” Daeron asked, looking down at the figure in Finglas’ hands. He saw matted silver hair, but could see nothing of the person’s face.

“I do not know—perhaps you can answer better. I found him in the snow, stumbled out of Menegroth after a part of the caves fell in. There was fighting there, some days ago now—there was no one left, when I found him, and so I came seeking Elves here across the river. I have given him what Ent-draughts that I could, though I hardly dared to stop long enough to make them, but he is sorely wounded, and beyond an Ent’s skill to heal.”

“Maybe I can help,” Daeron said, wishing he had given more of his thought long ago to healing. He was capable, and where his knowledge failed the power of his songs often made up for it, but it had already been days—if this person’s wounds were as bad as they seemed at first glance, it was a miracle he was still alive at all. “I have been staying in a flet nearby—can you bear him just a little farther?”

“Lead on, young Daeron.”

The flet was just low enough that Finglas could easily lift the elf in his hands onto the narrow balcony that wrapped around its walls. It was with some difficulty that Daeron dragged him inside, where he stirred the banked fire back to life. Then he went back to the doorway. “Where are you headed now?” he asked. 

“I think I will linger here for a time,” said Finglas after a moment of slow, steady thought. “I am weary—I had to make haste, coming so far, and I was not the only Ent in Region this winter. I will see if others come this way too—and in spring I will pass over the mountains. Fangorn has passed into the east already, and the Entwives left Beleriand long ago. Alas for Neldoreth, for Region, for the pine woods of Dorthonion! A fell wind blows from the north, and the Enemy’s power only grows. There is naught the Ents can do now to stop it. We can only hope to outrun it. I would advise you to do the same, young Daeron.”

“Perhaps, come spring,” said Daeron, heart sinking. He had not intended to return there, but if Doriath had fallen, even Doriath… “What has become of Melian, Finglas? What of the Girdle? How did enemies come even into Menegroth?”

“Did you not know? Melian departed some years ago, after Elu Thingol was slain in his halls—a nasty business. Dwarves and gems and greed, it seemed to me. I know no more than that, only that Dior Eluchíl came with his little family from Ossiriand afterward. What has become of them this winter, I cannot say.”

Elu Thingol, slain. Daeron’s legs gave out and he slid to the floor, leaning hard against the jamb. Thingol dead, Lúthien dead, Melian gone—everyone gone, it seemed. He couldn’t imagine it. Could not comprehend a world in which Thingol and Melian were not, in which the woods of Neldoreth and Region were as silent and empty as those around him. Where the Esgalduin ran red with the blood of his people. 

He should never have left. It wouldn’t have made anything better, but at least he would have been there. He would have at least died with them, and not been left so utterly alone. For a few minutes he thought he might die anyway as despair flooded through him, colder than ice, could almost feel his spirit trying to loosen itself from his body, to leave this terrible, freezing, empty place.

But he roused himself, remembering that he was not alone—but he would be if he did not act. “Thank you,” he said to Finglas, “for telling me. I hadn’t known.”

“Ah, I am sorry, young Daeron. If you have need of help, only call for me,” Finglas told him. “I will not be far.”

“Thank you, I’ll remember.” Daeron closed the door against the cold, and went to heat water and pull out bandages and a needle and thread. He swallowed down the tears, put thoughts of grief out of his mind, and focused instead on the songs he would need, and on the figure lying in front of his hearth. 

He pulled the cloak away, finding an unfamiliar face under a tangle of matted silver hair. Bits of armor still clung to him, one or two on his legs, another on his arm. He was covered in blood, but how much was his own was impossible to say. Daeron pressed his fingers to a wrist and felt a pulse, thready but there. He heated the water and carefully cleaned away what he could, finding bruises and cuts—all things he would expect to find on someone caught in a cave-in. There was another wound near his shoulder that looked as though it had come from a blade, and a jagged cut from his hairline down to his cheekbone, crossing his left eye, and Daeron couldn’t tell whether it came from a falling stone or a sword. It probably didn’t matter. More concerning were the other blows he found to the head. Those needed to be his first focus, along with the broken ribs and injured lungs. 

Daeron was not a skilled enough healer for this. Hopefully the sheer power he wielded in his songs would suffice, but…

He took a deep breath, laid a hand over the stranger’s forehead and the other over his chest just above his heart, and began to sing. He lost himself in it, and when he opened his eyes he’d sung himself hoarse, and evening was coming on. The fire had burned low, and the stranger’s breathing had gotten less labored, and when Daeron felt for his pulse he found it steady and strong. His skin was no longer ice cold, either. Daeron peered at his face; the bruises were still there, but the swelling had gone down, and the fractures to the skull had mostly knit back together, though he would be fragile and weak for some time yet. The worst of the danger, Daeron thought, was past. 

Who this person was, though, remained a mystery. Daeron carefully peeled his clothes off of him, unwilling to cut them away because he had no extra clothes to spare—or at least none that would fit the stranger, who was both taller and broader than he was. As he cataloged other more minor injuries and wiped away the blood and grime, he came upon a small pendant around the stranger’s neck, gleaming gold in the firelight. When Daeron lifted it up he found a small golden eight-pointed star, no bigger than his thumbnail. 

He had seen that star before—emblazoned upon banners at the Mereth Aderthad, long ago before the lies had been uncovered, when the Sindar had been wary of the Noldor but not yet mistrustful. Thingol had bidden him to be watchful, to learn all he could of these strange would-be allies, and Daeron remembered still all that he had seen and heard. He remembered Maglor with his mighty voice and ready smile, and Maedhros with his scars and watchful eyes. Their brothers had remained in the east, and Daeron had never seen any of them, though he had heard of them. He’d learned quite a lot of them, in fact, for he had befriended Maglor with ease—he had thought, then, that theirs would be a lasting friendship, had been so happy to meet someone who lived and breathed music the way he did, who thought so similarly, who was as uninterested in competition as he was—and Maglor had been quite happy to speak of his absent brothers. Both he and Maedhros had so obviously loved one another, and that love had equally obviously extended to their five younger brothers too. Daeron had, as a result, heard all about the silver-haired hunter Celegorm with his great hound—the same Celegorm who had broken the siege of the Falas, and instilled fear into every orc that laid eyes on him.

Dior Eluchíl—with a name like that, he had to be Lúthien’s son—had come from Ossiriand to Doriath. Lúthien was no more, and Thingol had been slain—for jewels and greed, Finglas had said. What jewel would cause such bloodshed but the Silmaril that Beren and Lúthien had brought out of Angband against all odds? What reason would the Sons of Fëanor have to draw their swords against Doriath but their Oath?

Daeron took the necklace and tucked it away, and then continued his work. If he was right in his guess—and he thought that he was—then it was too late now to change his mind. He couldn’t just toss him out into the snow to die—that would make him a kinslayer, no better than the one lying so still before him.

As he wound bandages around and over Celegorm’s wounded eye—Daeron feared he would lose sight in it permanently if he hadn’t already, but did not have the knowledge or skill to fix it—he wondered whether any of his brothers had survived, and whether they were looking for him. He wondered if they had gotten the Silmaril—but something told him they had not. Still, what would happen if they tracked Finglas, somehow, here to Ossiriand? If they accused Daeron of—he didn’t even know what. He did not hold a Silmaril, but what might they think, finding him with their brother so badly wounded, he who had no real reason to see any of them as anything but his enemies?

What would Celegorm do, when he woke and found himself far from anything familiar, and in the care of a stranger?

Well, hopefully nothing—he wouldn’t be able to do much for some time. Daeron was not entirely confident that he could convince Celegorm that he meant him no harm, but at least he’d have a chance to try. And if in the end Celegorm or his brothers decided not to believe him—well, it would only end in his death, and that was no longer a source of horror. Who was left to miss him?

Daeron drank water and took stock of his supplies, and fell asleep listening to the wind howl through the branches of the tree just outside. 

Celegorm stirred in the morning, with a low moan and a shudder as he fought to open his one good eye. Daeron managed to help him drink a few sips of water before he slipped back into unconsciousness. Daeron ate a small breakfast, wondering how he would stretch what supplies he had gathered now that there were two of them—and one in dire need of food to regain his strength—and then sang again, more songs of healing, of strength and an easing of pain. Celegorm’s color looked better afterward, Daeron thought, though he was still very pale. He shivered as Daeron drew the blankets up over him again. 

Then Daeron hard Finglas calling to him from outside. He wrapped himself in his cloak and stepped out onto the small balcony of the flet, and found Finglas approaching with another Ent—another Ent who had not come east alone. This one had two children on his shoulders, bundled up against the cold and, blessedly, unharmed. “Young Daeron, it is a very lucky thing indeed that you are here,” Finglas told him.

“It seems so,” said Daeron, as the other Ent—introduced as Fladrif—lifted first one child and then the other up onto the flet with him. “Do you also come from Doriath?”

“Yes,” said Fladrif with a sigh. His deep green eyes were pools of weariness and sorrow. “The snows there are stained with red, and smoke drifts from the gates of Menegroth. All are fled—where, I cannot say. Some have gone south, perhaps, toward the Sea. Others may come east—who can guess?”

“Not me, certainly,” Daeron sighed. He knelt so he could look the children in the face. “My name is Daeron,” he said. “What are yours?”

They exchanged a glance, and then one said, “I am Eluréd, and my brother is Elurín. Are you the Daeron that made the runes and was our grandmother’s friend?”

Daeron swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “Yes, I did make runes,” he said. “Was your grandmother Lúthien?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, I’m glad indeed to meet you—though I wish it were under better circumstances. Come inside, out of the cold.”

Inside, he stoked the fire and checked on Celegorm, finding him still deeply asleep. Then he turned his attention to the children, helping them to remove their cloaks and coats. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked as he helped one of them unwind a scarf from around his neck. 

They exchanged another look. “We don’t know,” said the one that had spoken before. “There was—there was fighting, and Nana told us to run, but we were caught by—”

“We don’t know who,” said the other. “We got away, but it was dark and snowing, and cold.”

“Then Fladrif found us, and said he would bring us east. He said there would be other elves who would take care of us, but you are the only one we have seen.”

“I have seen no one else here in Ossiriand either,” said Daeron. “They have all fled, either west to the havens by the Sea, or east over the Ered Luin. As for us, we’ll have to remain where we are until the spring.” He took their packs and peered inside, finding changes of clothes and a surprising amount of lembas, carefully wrapped in leaves to keep it fresh. They would all still be tightening their belts before the snows melted, but between his stores, the lembas, and what he thought he could hunt or gather in the coming months, Daeron thought they would all at least survive until then. 

Now that the could see their faces clearly, Daeron found that the twins were identical—and that they took after Lúthien so strongly that it took his breath away. It was like looking back in time to his own childhood when he and Lúthien had played together under the stars. He also realized something else. “I’m afraid I’ll have to apologize now for all of the times I’m going to mistake one of you for the other,” he said. 

Both boys giggled, and some of the tension in the air faded way. “That’s all right,” said the one who had been speaking all along—Eluréd. “Only Nana and Ada can ever tell us apart.”

“I’m sure I’ll learn eventually,” said Daeron. 

“Who is that?” asked Elurín, pointing to Celegorm. 

“I…I don’t know,” Daeron said. It wasn’t even entirely a lie—he had a guess, but he could be wrong, even if he didn’t think he was. “Finglas brought him here, just as Fladrif brought you.”

Eluréd looked at him with eyes that did not belong in such a young child’s face, eyes that made Daeron suddenly understand what a burden it was to be a child of Melian’s line. He had never seen it in Lúthien, for they had grown up together in happier years, and when she had spoken of what she knew or had seen, later, he had been too frightened of what he had glimpsed to listen. “Were you waiting for us?” Eluréd asked. 

“Maybe,” said Daeron. “I was waiting for something—I did not know what. Come sit by the fire.” The moment passed and Eluréd’s eyes were again those of a child—a frightened and weary child, who had seen too much even without the burdens of his blood. Daeron got both boys settled, and wrapped a blanket around their shoulders before he put more water on to heat for tea.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked one of the twins, pointing to Celegorm. 

“He’s very badly hurt. I think a part of Menegroth caved in, and he was caught in it.”

“Can you heal him?”

“I’m trying.”

Once the water was on, Daeron went to check on Celegorm again. He stirred when Daeron touched him, mumbling something in slurred Quenya. Daeron thought that he heard the word for mother, but he couldn’t quite be sure. He had learned the language from Finrod and Galadriel, long before Thingol had instituted the Ban, but he hadn’t given it much thought in many years, and it was hard to make out any words, let alone parse their meaning.

He didn’t know what he was doing. Daeron rubbed a hand over his face and swallowed a sigh. All he could do was try to keep them all alive until spring, and then get at least Eluréd and Elurín east of the Ered Luin, into the hands of those who could care for them far better than he, and away from any notice of the Enemy—or the rest of the Sons of Fëanor. Daeron had no idea what they might attempt in their efforts to get the Silmaril. They had not balked at another kinslaying—he saw no reason why they would hesitate to take hostages. He couldn’t let that happen. 

Of course, that depended on Celegorm, and what he chose to do when he recovered. They might have to fly east sooner than springtime—perhaps they might go south instead and take shelter on Tol Galen, though Daeron flinched away from such a thought. It felt—he didn’t know what it felt like, except that he didn’t think he could do it except at utmost need.

There were too many questions that he could not answer, and too many choices he did not know how to make. He was so tired.

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Everything hurt. The light was flickering and dim but it pierced through his closed eyes like a knife. A voice was singing, very softly. That didn’t hurt—that sounded right…until he realized the voice was wrong. It wasn’t—

Whose voice was he listening for? He couldn’t…

The singing stopped, and a hand rested on his forehead. “Shh, it’s all right,” said the voice. It sounded slightly hoarse, as though the singing had been going on for a long time. “You’re safe. Just rest.”

“Where—where is…” He couldn’t remember what he needed to ask. There was something he needed to be doing. There was someone he needed to…

“Here. Drink—it’s willow bark, so it tastes awful, but you’ll feel better for it.” The rim of a cup was pressed to his lips, and he opened his mouth without thinking. It was awful, bitter but in a way that he recognized. After a few sips that cup was replaced with another, this one full of cold water. That both felt and tasted much better in his mouth and down his throat, washing away the lingering aftertaste of the willow bark and soothing an ache he hadn’t even noticed before, because everything else hurt so much worse. 

“Please,” he rasped when the second cup was lifted away. “Where—Curvo—?”

“Go to sleep,” said the voice, as a hand stroked over his hair. 

“No, I n-need to—” He tried to open his eyes, but only one would work, and he had to shut it again when the pain in his head grew worse, sharp like he’d been stabbed through the eye. He thought he made a noise, small and pathetic, before giving up and letting his head drop back onto the furs beneath him. He needed…he wanted…someone. Someone important, he just couldn’t think—

“Sleep,” said the voice, and then it started singing again. 

When next he woke the light was the same. There was still a fire; he could hear it crackling gently very close by, could feel the heat of it on his face. There were other voices, too—children’s voices—in addition to the singer from before, though they were not singing now, only talking quietly. When he opened his eyes—his eye, for only one would work still—he found everything a little clearer. His head still hurt terribly, but it was no longer blinding. He blinked slowly, looking toward the fire, and then to the figure sitting by it, slender and dark-haired. He was carving something, and though he had dark circles under his eyes he was smiling, small and soft, as he answered a question that one of the children had asked him. It sounded like there were two, but he couldn’t see them from where he lay. 

“Look, Daeron,” one said suddenly, “he’s awake!”

The dark-haired figure—Daeron—looked up, smile vanishing. He set his carving aside and came to kneel by the makeshift bed. “Good morning,” he said, speaking quietly. “How are you feeling?”

“Hurts,” he whispered, and winced at the hoarse wreck that was his voice. 

“I imagine so. You are very badly wounded.”

“Where…am I?”

“Ossiriand.” Daeron paused, as though waiting for a reaction, but he had none. The name was familiar, but he did not know where it was, or where he had heard of it. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I…” He had an impression of—screams, blood, falling stones. Something hard striking him—or many things? Someone snarling something into his ear, though he couldn’t remember the words. Cold. None of it meant anything. “I don’t…who—who are…?”

“My name is Daeron.” Daeron paused, again as though waiting for a response. A faint frown creased his brow, and he asked, “Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Daeron,” he whispered, searching his face. “Should it?”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him, Daeron,” said one of the children. 

“I don’t,” Daeron replied without looking away, “but my name was once widely known. Can you tell me your name?” he asked then. 

He opened his mouth, but found no answer waiting on his tongue. He closed his mouth again, and tried to think, but it was so hard. He had a name—he had to have a name, everyone had a name. But when he tried to think of it he found that he could remember nothing—not who he was, not where he had come from, nothing of a childhood or parents or family, nor friends nor— 

“All right, it’s all right,” Daeron said, and he realized only then that it was suddenly very hard to breathe. “You were struck in the head, and it might be that the memories are slow to return. It’s all right.” Daeron’s hand rested on his cheek, and he turned into it without thinking. That gesture felt familiar, though Daeron was a stranger. Someone had cared for him like this once—maybe? “Drink a little more willow bark, and then some broth, and then sleep. You were sorely wounded, and you need to rest and recover your strength.”

“But—how…?”

“A cave-in,” Daeron said after a moment. “That is what I was told—I was not there. I do not expect you to remember Finglas, who brought you here—I think you will likely never remember what exactly happened to injure you.” His thumb stroked over his cheekbone once, and then he withdrew his hand to fetch a cup of the bitter willow bark tea. The broth was better, rich and warm, but by the time it was gone he couldn’t stay awake any longer.

So it went. He woke, ate or drank, tried to remember his name and failed, and slept again. It was impossible to count the days. 

Eventually, he could stay awake for a few hours at a time. Eventually he could even sit up, if Daeron helped him, and to see properly just where he was. It was a small room, all made of wood; the flet, as Daeron called it, was larger, but he had erected partitions to close off most of the rest—easier to keep a smaller space warm, he said. It was high in a tree, though that was impossible to tell at a glance; the windows were all shuttered against the cold, and according to Daeron it snowed more days than it didn’t. 

The children proved to be a pair of twins, with dark hair and soft grey eyes that seemed to see sometimes more than they should. It was one of them who said one afternoon as Daeron replaced some bandages, “If you cannot remember your name, should we not give you one?”

Daeron’s hands froze, but just for a second before he finished wrapping the bandages and secured them. He reached up to take the ones from around his face—that covered his eye. “It is no small thing to give someone a name,” Daeron said. 

“We need to call him something,” the child said. 

“He’s right,” he said, watching Daeron as he examined the tender and swollen skin around his eye. It was still too swollen to even try opening, but Daeron had already warned him that he might have lost sight in it entirely. Daeron was, he’d said, a powerful singer, but less knowledgeable a healer. “What have you been—been calling me?” It was still hard to speak, sometimes—he couldn’t always think of the right words, and his tongue felt clumsy in his mouth, but if he went slowly he could manage all right.

“The stranger, or just him,” said the other child. “It’s confusing, because we’re all hims.”

“Well, I don’t know your names either,” he said. Again, Daeron froze—but again only for a moment. 

“Eluréd and Elurín,” said the child, pointing to himself and to his brother. “But it’s all right if you get us confused. Everyone does.”

“I think I’ll leave the bandages off,” Daeron said after a moment. “But don’t poke at it. I think I am rested enough to sing more healing over you, if you would like.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not if I sing you to sleep first.”

“But we have to give him a name first!” Elurín protested.

“Have you already thought of one?” Daeron asked them. He sounded very serious. “Names are important, not to be given lightly.”

“We’ve been thinking about it,” said Eluréd.

“What’s the name?” he asked, before Daeron could discourage them further. Mostly he was curious—but he also wanted to have one, and it made something warm unfurl in his chest, to know that these children who hardly knew him cared enough to think of one for him. 

“Lossenol,” they chorused. 

“Snowy dream,” Daeron murmured. “That is what this all feels like, isn’t it?” He looked up from gathering the discarded bandages. “It’s your choice,” he said, “to take the name or leave it.”

“I think I like it,” he—Lossenol—said. “It’s far better than not having a name at all.”

“Then Lossenol you’ll be,” said Daeron. “At least until you recall your right name. Do you need to lie down?”

Lossenol thought about it, and said, “I don’t think so.” He didn’t want to lie down—he wanted to be awake, even if there wasn’t really anything to do. He felt a little dizzy, and his head constantly ached—but that was nothing new. At least it wasn’t bad enough just then to make him nauseas.

“Then I’m going to see if I can wash your hair. It’s a mess, and it must be getting uncomfortable.”

It was, and when Lossenol reached up he found spots of crusted blood and matted hair. He grimaced at the feeling under his fingers. “You might as well just—just—just cut it off,” he said, fumbling for the word cut.

“I’ll wash it first, and then we’ll see,” said Daeron. “Eluréd, or Elurín, can one of you fill this up with snow? At least we aren’t lacking for water to melt.”

“Are you going to go fishing in that pond you told us about?” Eluréd asked as Elurín took a pot to the door. A burst of cold air flowed in when he opened it, and he was very quick to scoop up the snow and shut it again. 

“Maybe,” said Daeron. “Thank you,” he added as he took the pot full of snow and set it over the flames. “I need to wait for a clear day, and those are few and far between this winter it seems. Would you like to hear a story?” 

“Yes please!” chorused the twins. 

The story Daeron told was a silly one, about badgers and hedgehogs fighting over the best place to dig a burrow. By the time he finished the snow had melted and the water had heated enough for washing. He spoke brightly and briskly as he worked the dirt and grime out of Lossenol’s hair, but his hands were very gentle around the lingering bruises and still-healing cuts along Lossenol’s scalp, and he stopped often to make sure he wasn’t causing any pain. As he worked he told other stories, and taught the twins some songs, simple rhymes to help them learn their numbers or the names of plants, or of the stars. It all felt new to Lossenol, too, though he knew the numbers and the plants, and recognized the stars. Maybe he had learned them in different ways.

Daeron was able to get his hair clean, and then to comb out almost all of the tangles, and only cut off a few inches from the ends when they proved to be hopeless and tattered. Then he braided Lossenol’s hair, quickly and simply. “There,” he said. “That must feel much better.”

“Thank you,” Lossenol said. He toyed with the end of the braid, a little startled to find his hair was silver-grey, rather than dark like Daeron’s or the twins’. 

Daeron’s smile slipped. “You needn’t thank me,” he said, and turned away before Lossenol could say anything else. 

He was feeling tired by then, though, and all his various aches and pains were worsening. It was a relief to lie down, with the fire warm on his face, and…

“Lossenol?” Daeron was suddenly leaning over him, and the light peeking through the window shutters was dimmer than it had been a moment ago. “There you are,” Daeron said as Lossenol blinked at him. “Your mind was wandering; were you dreaming?”

“I…don’t think so?”

“Hm.” Daeron peered into his face, his dark eyes seeming to see straight through him. Lossenol wasn’t sure what he could possibly find—there was nothing to see—but whatever it was he didn’t seem to like it. “Here; I’ve made dinner.” He helped Lossenol sit up and then put a bowl of thick stew into his hands. “I hope everyone likes stewed things, because that’s the easiest meal I can make with what supplies we have,” Daeron said.

“Could be worse,” Lossenol said, and then tried to think of how he knew that. The attempt just made his head throb. It felt like there was a joke about someone else’s cooking just on the tip of his tongue, only he didn’t know whose. His own? Maybe—he suspected that he could make something edible at least, but he didn’t know if he was really good at it. But he thought it was probably someone else, someone he used to tease all the time…almost he could hear someone telling him, laughing, to shut up and eat his food. But the memory was so faint that he couldn’t be sure it was real, or if he just wanted it to be. 

“It could, but it will also get rather tedious,” said Daeron. He glanced toward the windows, though there was nothing to see. It was hard to guess what he was thinking of.

“If you go fishing you can cook that differently,” said Eluréd.

“You really want fish, don’t you?” Daeron replied, with a smile to show he was teasing. “I’ll try, if the weather clears and if I can be sure there are no enemies making their way over the Gelion.”

“Is that likely?” Lossenol asked. 

“I don’t know. I was able to avoid roving bands of orcs earlier this year, when I was wandering through Ossiriand alone, but I have not seen any since the weather turned cold. I—” Daeron paused as though listening. Then Lossenol heard it too—a strange call, like a horn. “That is Finglas, I think.” Daeron set his dinner aside and went to slip outside, wrapping himself in his cloak as he went. 

“Finglas is…an Ent?” Lossenol said to the twins. The call had sounded familiar, and the word Ent felt as though it went with it—so at least he remembered some things, even if he didn’t know how or why.

“Yes,” said Eluréd. “The one that brought you here, I think. It was Fladrif who found us in Doriath. Do you still not remember?”

“No, I don’t…remember…anything.”

When Daeron returned his expression was grim. “I spoke too soon. Orcs are moving just west of the Gelion,” he said. “I need to renew the enchantments I had set around this flet; it will take most of the night. The healing songs will have to wait.”

“How are you going to do that?” Elurín asked.

“Music.” Daeron shed his cloak and picked up a flute. “Do not try to interrupt me unless it’s very important.”

“Like if the orcs come here?” Eluréd asked as Elurín shrank against his side.

“I’ll be able to tell if they get close,” Daeron said. “Don’t worry—they’ll pass us by and never know we’re here, especially once I have finished tonight. Try to get some sleep.”

“How can we sleep if you’re going to be singing all night?” Lossenol asked.

“I won’t be loud, and I flatter myself that my music isn’t that terrible to listen to.” Daeron sat down by the door and put his flute to his lips. The song was haunting, and Lossenol immediately felt a change in the air, as Daeron gathered his power and put it forth through the music. It made the hair on Lossenol's arms stand up, and he shivered. The music itself wasn’t familiar but the power held within it was, somehow. 

Why did it make him want to cry?

He lay back down with a sigh, and then opened his good eye when the twins joined him, curling up on either side. “Are you all right?” he asked them. 

“Yes,” said Elurín, but he buried his face in the blanket covering Lossenol’s chest as he spoke. 

“No,” said Eluréd at the same time, also burying his face in the blanket. 

Lossenol sighed, and rested a hand on each of their backs. “Don’t worry,” he said, glancing toward Daeron, who sat shrouded in shadows across the room. There was something almost frightening about him, in the way he so effortlessly put forth so much power. Lossenol found himself thinking that he would not like to face down Daeron in a fight, even if he were uninjured and armed. “I think we might be in one of the—safe—safest—places in the world right now,” he said. 

He fell asleep to the haunting sounds of Daeron’s flute. His dreams were full of smoke and noise, confusing and disorienting, and when he woke in the morning he couldn’t remember at first where he was or why. It came back after a minute. The twins were still asleep on either side of him, and another blanket had been drawn up over the three of them. When Lossenol turned his head he found Daeron asleep nearby, still holding his flute in one hand, and with what looked like tear tracks on his cheeks. 

It occurred to Lossenol that he did not know anything about Daeron—only that he was very kind, a terrifyingly powerful singer, could make decent stew, and seemed to be taking in stride the fact that he had had a pair of children and a half-dead stranger dropped into his lap in the middle of winter. What was he doing out there, alone in the empty woods? 

Lossenol fell back asleep before Daeron woke, and when he woke again he thought vaguely that he’d had questions, but he couldn’t now remember what they were.

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Daeron didn’t know what to do. 

He had two children to worry about—Lúthien’s children! Her grandsons!—and a half-dead son of Fëanor who did not even remember his own name to nurse back to health. Daeron had not expected that. Before Celegorm—or Lossenol, as they were calling him now—had woken, Daeron had been scrambling to think of ways to convince him to leave himself and the twins alive. 

Now? Now he sat near the fire and watched Eluréd and Elurín curled up to sleep on either side of Celegorm Fëanorion, in spite of the warnings he had tried to give them to be wary—that the wounded stranger was a Noldo, that he had probably been among those who had attacked Menegroth, that he was dangerous. Elurín had just looked at him with eyes that should have had no place in the face of a six-year-old child and said, “Not to us.” And that was, apparently, that. It wasn't as though he could keep them in separate rooms—the flet wasn’t big enough, not if he wanted to keep them all from freezing to death.

If only he knew more of what had happened after his own departure from Doriath. Lúthien might have gone to Nargothrond, he thought, following Beren’s footsteps, and Celegorm had been there then—what might have passed between them if she had gone there, he couldn’t begin to guess. Celegorm had once had a hound that had followed him from Valinor—where was that hound now? Where were his brothers? If they were somehow able to track him down, would Daeron be able to convince them that he had saved Celegorm, that it was not his doing that he had lost all knowledge of who he was? Before they had attacked Doriath, Daeron would have been confident that he could—that Maglor, at least, would listen to him. They had fallen so quickly into friendship at the Mereth Aderthad, and surely Maglor would remember it as well as he did. 

The Mereth Aderthad was a very long time ago, now. The world had changed, and not for the better—so had Daeron. He had no confidence in his ability to convince anyone of anything, now—least of all Maglor with all the rest of his brothers behind him, the blood of Doriath staining their swords. 

What happened when Celegorm woke with his memories starting to return, or having returned all at once? What happened when he proved himself to be his father’s son, full of fire and rage—vengeful, perhaps, with Dior’s sons trapped there with him?

Daeron kept trying to think of what he knew about Celegorm, but it was very little, primarily just a brother’s fond description thanks to Maglor in their talks by the Pools of Ivrin. It had been Celegorm who led the Noldor to the Falas to break the siege there, when they had first come to Middle-earth—and that was no small thing, especially to Daeron, whose parents had been trapped there. His mother had not survived, but it had been Celegorm’s actions that saved his father’s life, even if it hadn’t made much of a difference in the end. Celegorm had ruled Himlad until the Bragollach, alongside his brother Curufin, and afterward of course they had found refuge in Nargothrond. And then Daeron had left Beleriand, and he did not even know whether Nargothrond still stood. He rather doubted it—he seemed to remember hearing some jumbled tale of a dragon—but couldn’t be certain. 

Tossing Celegorm out into the snow was out of the question. Daeron supposed he could try to find a way to recover the lost memories—but the mind was a fragile thing, and it was just as likely that he would make things worse rather than better. He could tell Celegorm who he thought he was, but he didn’t know enough to answer all of the questions that would arise. 

There was also, small though it was, a chance that Daeron was wrong. Any one of the Fëanorians’ followers might wear a pendant with that star. Silver hair was unusual but that did not mean no one else among the Noldor had it. Sometimes he mumbled names in his sleep, asking for Curvo or Cáno, perhaps Nelyo. Daeron did not know those names, but Curvo was very close to Curufin, the brother whose name was always paired with Celegorm’s. 

Even if he couldn’t be certain, it was better to go forward as though he was—to be as cautious as was possible while they were stuck in such close quarters. He could be kind, but he did not need to share more of himself than absolutely necessary—he did not need to make friends. As soon as he was well enough, perhaps come spring, Celegorm could make his way back west to wherever his brothers might be. Perhaps the Ents would be able to find out more, if Daeron asked them. Perhaps other Elves or even Men, might make their way to Ossiriand with news.

Perhaps it would all end in disaster. 

No, that wasn’t helpful. Daeron had to protect Eluréd and Elurín—he had to get them to safety, and he thought the Ents had the right of it. Beleriand was too dangerous, and the Enemy had not yet set his sights farther than the Ered Luin. If Daeron could get Lúthien’s grandchildren into Eriador, they would be safe. There would be other Elves there, perhaps still some who had lived in Ossiriand, who had been there when Beren and Lúthien had lived upon Tol Galen—surely they would take them in, raise the boys far better than Daeron could ever hope to.

He just had to get them through this winter first—a winter full of snowstorms and harsh winds that would have made travel impossible even if he had been alone. 

The days dragged on. On the rare clear days Daeron ventured out, sometimes, to see if he could hunt something or to try his hand at ice fishing in the pond nearby. The fishing was more successful than the hunting, but he disliked fishing even on warm summer days, and he hated to leave Celegorm alone with the twins, even though nothing ever happened.

Well, nothing but Eluréd and Elurín growing ever more fond of both of them. For his part, Celegorm—Lossenol, Daeron needed to remember to call him—seemed fond of them in turn. If he was impatient with his own slow recovery, he was very patient with the children. He could tell them apart, too, somehow, never once mistaking one for the other. Daeron was getting better at it, as he got to know them, but Lossenol had had no trouble from the start.

When Daeron returned one afternoon after several hours of fishing with two reasonably large fish that he’d caught just when he had been ready to give up, he found Eluréd and Elurín drawing on one of the walls with charcoal. He had been teaching them both his cirth and the Noldor’s tengwar, but they had abandoned that practice in favor of silly drawings. Lossenol was asleep, frowning slightly, and did not stir when Daeron came in. 

“Daeron?” Elurín came to throw his arms around Daeron’s neck as he sat down to get ready to cook the fish.

“Yes?”

“What happens when spring comes?”

“All of the snow will met, and the flowers will bloom, and—”

“No!” Elurín giggled. “I mean what are we going to do?”

“Oh.” Daeron set the fish aside and turned to wrap an arm around Elurín's waist. “I’m not really sure yet. I want to take you east, over the mountains.”

“Why?”

“I think it will be safer there. Spring will also bring danger—if it is hard for us to travel through this weather, it is also hard for the orcs, and that will change come spring.”

“Do you think anyone else got away? Do you think they’ll go over the mountains, too?”

“I don’t know,” Daeron said. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

“And Lossenol is coming with us, right?”

Daeron looked over at him; his eyes were both still closed, and he seemed to still be sleeping. “I don’t know,” he said after swallowing his first vehement no, of course not! “He is a Noldo, remember, Elurín, and—”

“No, he’s our Lossenol,” said Elurín. “We were all supposed to meet here together, and that means he has to come with us, wherever we go!”

Daeron turned to look at Elurín properly, and found his eyes shining with that disquieting look that suggested that he was not only speaking a child’s desires. “He might not want to,” Daeron said, unsure how to try to discourage these thoughts without being cruel. “When he can remember more, he will surely want to leave and find his own people again.” Which was, of course, also Daeron’s biggest fear. There was no way to hide his intentions to go east of the mountains—if things went wrong he would have to hope that his own ability to hide would keep them safe. He had fallen very far from the height of his power, but at least he knew that he could do that—no one could pierce the shadows he could sing up, except maybe someday Eluréd or Elurín themselves. 

“What if he doesn’t ever remember more?” asked Elurín. 

“He was still at Doriath, you know—”

“We didn't see him there. We don’t know what he did. Maybe he tried to help!”

That was a child’s wishful thinking. Daeron sighed, and carefully pried Elurín’s arms off so he could return to cooking their lunch. “We’ll see what springtime brings.”

When he glanced back toward Lossenol, he found his good eye open, though he couldn't tell how long he had been awake or if he had been listening. Sometimes it seemed that his mind went somewhere far away, or he just became entirely insensible of his surroundings for a while. When their eyes met, Daeron saw something shadowy lurking behind Lossenol’s. He didn’t know if it was the Oath or his Doom or something else, but it frightened him. Daeron looked away, trying to focus on the food and not the future. 

Once he had cooked the fish and given Eluréd and Elurín their portions, Daeron took Lossenol his, and helped him sit up. “What does it mean—that I’m a Noldo?” Lossenol asked, in that slow and halting way of his. 

“Do you not know?”

“N-no…” He made a face, one of frustration; as yet he was too weak to do much about it, but Daeron still felt uneasy. How much or how little would it take to tip frustration into anger? What would he do with that anger? “It feels like—like I should.”

“The Elves are not one unified people; there are many groups and kingdoms with shifting alliances. Your people are the Noldor, and mine are the Sindar.”

“But how do you know…?”

“Your eye tells it. You have seen the Light of Valinor—the Two Trees that are no more. I have known other Noldor—I know what it looks like.”

“But if—what was—what did I do? In—in Doriath?”

Daeron sat back on his heels. Lossenol met his gaze, something desperate in his face, as though he already had an inkling but did not want to be right. “I don’t know what happened there,” Daeron said finally. “I left many years ago. But there are very few Noldor these days who are friends of Doriath—and I believe a Silmaril was there, until this winter.” Lossenol’s expression did not change at the mention of the Silmaril. “Fëanor and his sons once swore a terrible oath—I do not know what exactly it binds them to, except to regain the Silmarils that Fëanor made at any cost. The Enemy—Morgoth, that my people call Bauglir—stole them, when he destroyed the Trees and slew Finwë, Fëanor’s father and the King of the Noldor. I fear one was retrieved, but not by Fëanor’s sons. And so as in Alqualondë they drew their swords upon Doriath.”

“Kinslayers,” Lossenol whispered.

“Yes.”

“You think I’m—”

“I cannot say with certainty what you have or have not done, but what else would have taken you to Doriath? You were not one who came with the children of Finarfin, who were Elu Thingol’s kin—I would have recognized you if that were so.”

“But I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—”

“You don’t know that,” Daeron said. 

“Then why—why are you—”

“Because I am not a kinslayer. When you remember who you are and why you have done what you’ve done—maybe you can explain it to me then too, because I do not understand it either. And when spring comes and you are strong enough, we will part ways. I do not know whether the Sons of Fëanor still hold Himring or Amon Ereb, but I can try to find out for you, and then you can make your way to wherever they are, if you wish.”

He left Lossenol’s side to clean the dishes, trying to ignore the way his hands shook and his heart beat too quickly in his chest. When he turned back he found that Lossenol had eaten his food before lying back down, with his back to the hearth. It was impossible to tell whether he was awake or not. 

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