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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Kinslayer. The word echoed through his mind, like a curse. He kept staring at his hands, wondering whose blood had covered them, wondering if he had known those he went to kill. 

He didn’t want it to be true. But what reason would Daeron have to lie about it?

He could not imagine what would drive him to kill anything that wasn’t—that wasn’t an orc, in a battle, or an animal, on a hunt. 

Daeron was afraid of him. Lossenol didn’t think Daeron was very afraid for himself, but he hadn’t missed the way he had tried at first to discourage Eluréd and Elurín from speaking to him or including him in their games. Daeron always said it was because Lossenol was injured and needed to rest—but now the real reason was clear. 

What sort of monsters were the Noldor, that they would harm children?

What sort of monster was he?

He tried to focus on the names Daeron had invoked—Finwë, Silmaril, Fëanor. Valinor. Trees. He felt as though he should know them. He thought he at least recognized Morgoth Bauglir—he was the Enemy, the one who commanded the orcs and the balrogs and the dragons. 

He knew about orcs and balrogs—the latter filled him with a sort of horrible dread that he couldn’t quite understand.

Across the room Daeron was speaking to the twins, telling some sort of story that made them giggle. There was so much Lossenol didn’t know, but he was certain that protecting the twins was the most important thing—he didn’t know how he knew that, but it felt like something he had known all his life. It made him wonder if there were other children that his heart remembered even if his mind couldn’t, but when he tried to think more about it the pain in his head just got worse and worse. 

Eventually, he must have fallen asleep. The next thing he knew he was waking to a terrible wailing sound. When he tried to sit up, Daeron said, “It’s only the wind.”

“The wind?” he repeated. Beside him Eluréd and Elurín were curled up together, fast asleep. Daeron was awake, wrapped in blankets and leaning against the wall by the hearth. The fire had burned low, and his face was mostly in shadow, but for the starlit glimmer of his eyes. 

“Only the wind,” he said quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

He lay back down, but sleep would not return. Instead there was just a gnawing, aching loneliness that welled up in him and made his eyes burn with tears. The wind howled, and he could feel the flet shifting and flexing around and under him. He felt cold and small and he hated it—hated feeling so helpless, hated knowing that he was entirely reliant on someone else just to stay alive, that if something happened he would need to trust Daeron to protect him. Daeron who hated and feared him.

After a while he managed to swallow past the lump in his throat and find his voice. “Is there anything I could do that—that would let you trust me? That—that would make you believe I won’t hurt you? Or the children?”

Daeron didn’t answer for a long time. Lossenol thought he might have fallen asleep. Then he said, “I do trust that—as you are now. I do not trust that your priorities will not change quickly and drastically when you recover enough to remember.”

“I owe you my life,” Lossenol said, keeping his gaze on the shadowy ceiling. “That must count for something.”

“Many things should, but have been proven not to,” Daeron said. “You cannot make any promises right now that either of us can trust you to keep.”

“What if I never remember who I am?” Lossenol asked. “What if—what if it’s all just gone?”

“You don’t know—”

“What if I don’t want to remember who I am? I don’t—I don’t want to be who you—who you think I have been.”

“Whether you remember it or not, there is no changing the past.”

“But I can’t be tied to it if I don’t—”

“I am not going to debate the nature of one’s very self with you right now,” Daeron said. “You can make your future whatever you want—but whether you remember it or not, your past and your deeds have shaped you, and will continue to do so. Do not look to me for purpose or absolution—I cannot give you either.”

He didn’t think that was what he wanted, but he didn’t have the words for what he did want.

He fell asleep after a while, in spite of the howling wind. The storm did not abate by morning, and the sounds made everyone uneasy all day. Daeron finished carving small flutes for Eluréd and Elurín, and began to teach them how to play. Lossenol wasn’t sure if it was mere distraction or not, but both boys listened intently as Daeron explained how to hold the flutes and where to place their fingers, and the names of the different notes. When Daeron played, the music seemed to harmonize effortlessly with the howling wind, turning it all into something haunting and almost beautiful. 

By the next day the storm had passed, and Daeron disappeared sometime in the morning. He had still checked Lossenol’s various wounds with brisk and gentle efficiency, and made sure that he ate, and helped him start getting up and moving around so he could begin to rebuild his strength—and Lossenol didn’t understand why. When he returned it was empty-handed. Rather than going hunting or fishing, he had spoken to the Ents, who had somehow learned something of what was happening west of the River Gelion. When Eluréd asked how they knew, Daeron only shrugged. “I am sure Finglas would tell me if I asked, but I am also sure it would have taken the rest of the day at least, and I was already half-frozen.” He sat down by the fire with a sigh, and smiled when Elurín handed him a blanket. “Thank you!”

“Did you learn what happened to our parents? Or baby Elwing?” asked Elurín.

“No, I’m sorry. I think some escaped Doriath, and might be making their way down Sirion, but where they will go in the end or even if that is true, I can’t say. It sounds as though the Sons of Fëanor,” he added, glancing at Lossenol, “have indeed returned to Amon Ereb, and are holding the lands north and east of the Amdram against the Enemy in the north, though I imagine the storms this winter are helping them a great deal. The dwarves of Belegost have been making some sorties down the mountains, which sounds like good news—the dwarf road through the mountains is the quickest and easiest way over the Ered Luin.”

“But can we not go to the River Sirion, if that’s where everyone else is?” asked Eluréd. 

Daeron shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. Maybe the Noldor and the dwarves can keep most orcs at bay, but we’ve already had some come through these woods over these last weeks, and it will only be worse elsewhere. Whatever pockets of resistance remain, Beleriand is nearly overrun. Those who remain must go west to the coast or east over the mountains, and we are much too far to try for the Sea. It will be safer in Eriador, at least for a little while.”

“Someday, maybe?” asked Elurín.

Daeron hesitated. He was very good at hiding what he felt, Lossenol thought, but that brief silence spoke volumes. “I don’t know,” Daeron said finally, choosing honesty over false reassurance. “I’m sorry—the world is growing very dark very quickly, and it has not been given to me to glimpse the future. All I can say for sure is that we are safe here, for now, and come springtime I hope that we can make it across the mountains. I had friends among the dwarves, once upon a time, and if we meet any perhaps they will remember my name and give us safe passage.” Eluréd and Elurín looked at each other. “What’s wrong?”

“It was dwarves that—that Ada went with our grandfather to fight, when they tried to steal the Nau—the Naugla—the big necklace with the Silmaril,” said Elurín. “Grandmother was very sad. That was when we went to Doriath.”

Daeron leaned back against the wall. “I have missed a great deal since I went away,” he murmured. “And Finglas did say something to me of dwarves…well—we’ll see what happens, I suppose. It is still the fastest and safest way to cross the mountains.” Then he frowned. “That necklace, Elurín—did you mean the Nauglamír?”

“Yes!” said Elurín, brightening. “That’s what it was called!”

“That belonged to Finrod Felagund. How in the world did it come to—never mind.” Daeron sighed. “Felagund is no more, and Nargothrond is likely fallen—I suppose it doesn’t much matter now how the Nauglamír came to Doriath.”

“Did you know him? Finrod Felagund?” Lossenol asked. 

“Yes.” Daeron didn’t look at him. “He was Elu Thingol’s nephew, through his mother, Eärwen of Alqualondë, and also a Prince of the Noldor, of Finwë’s line. From what I have heard—and I do not know if it is true, for I have heard only the most scattered and confused of rumors—he died aiding Beren and Lúthien in their quest.” 

There was Alqualondë again—as dark a name as Doriath now, even if Daeron would not or could not share the details of what had happened there. Lossenol looked away. 

“It was very pretty. The Nauglamír,” said Elurín, pronouncing the name carefully. “But Ada does not like to wear it.” He paused. “Did not like to wear it.” Daeron held out his arms upon hearing the correction, and both twins scrambled over to curl up on his lap. Though Daeron was always kind, this was the most openly affectionate Lossenol had yet seen him be. 

He turned away, and picked up one of the socks Daeron had shown him how to darn, because he needed something to do with his hands—to be sure he could still use his hands in such a way, Daeron had added. That grief—for Doriath and everyone who had once lived there—wasn’t one he could share, even if he wasn’t part of the reason they had to grieve in the first place. 

The days continued to drag on. Lossenol couldn’t remember any other winters, of course, but this one felt very long. He got stronger, little by little. Daeron sang songs of healing, and he paced around the small room once he could walk, slowly increasing how many minutes he could stay on his feet. In between he played games with the twins, and discovered that he was better than Daeron at braiding their hair, and slept a lot. His head still ached more often than not, but by the time Daeron came inside one day to announce that the Ents had departed and the sun felt almost warm, even that was improving.

“Does that mean we’re leaving?” Eluréd asked.

“Not yet, but soon,” said Daeron. “I do not want to be sleeping out in the open when it’s still so cold—not to mention we need to wait for the passes to clear of any snow—though the consequence of waiting for that to improve is to end up sleeping in mud. Either way, the journey north is unlikely to be pleasant, but we’ll manage.”

Lossenol had been trying not to ask too many questions, since Daeron couldn’t answer most of them and didn’t seem to want to answer the rest, but now he ventured, “And—how far from here to…”

“Amon Ereb? Many miles, but—”

“I thought we were going east, not west!” Eluréd protested. 

“We are,” Daeron said, “but—”

“But Lossenol has to come with us, too!”

Daeron knelt so he could look the twins in the face. “Lossenol has his own people who are doubtless looking for him,” he said. “They will be able to help him better than we can.”

“No, there’s no one looking for him,” said Eluréd, in a tone that sent a shiver down Lossenol’s spine. “There’s no one looking for any of us. That’s why we were all supposed to come here. Fladrif said he could feel it on the wind, that this place was where he was supposed to bring us. And Finglas brought Lossenol here too—because we all had to find each other!”

Before masking it, Daeron looked as unsettled as Lossenol felt. “How do you know that, Eluréd?” he asked. 

“I just do,” Eluréd said. 

“I do, too,” added Elurín.

Daeron breathed a sigh. “Well—Lossenol will come with us as far as the River Ascar and the Sarn Athrad. We’ll see what we see there, I suppose. Amon Ereb is closer than that, as the crow flies,” he added, glancing toward Lossenol, “a little ways south of here, and some miles west, but there is no other good place to cross the Gelion, certainly not on foot.”

“If I were one of the Fëanorians,” Lossenol said, “I’d send patrols to the Sarn Athrad anyway—if it’s that important, it needs to be protected.”

“I have also had that thought.”

“Lossenol has to come with us wherever we go,” Elurín insisted. He left Daeron to run over to Lossenol, wrapping his arms around his neck. “It’s important.”

“We’ll see what happens,” Lossenol said. It might be that there was no way to cross the Gelion at all, these days. It might be that the Fëanorians did not hold Amon Ereb—it might be that they found that orcs had overrun all the world and there was no safe place to go even east of the mountains. 

Whatever happened—if he had been as terrible as Daeron had said, Lossenol did not think he wanted to return to the west. He did not want to remember who he was. What he wanted was what the twins wanted—to stay with them. The only thing he could be certain of was that Eluréd and Elurín needed to be protected, and that was something he could do once he was strong enough, once he got his hands on new weapons, since it seemed he had lost all of his. It was his fault they had no one else. There was no making up for it—but he could at least see that they didn’t lose anything else. 

He didn’t say any of that out loud. Words were too hard still, trying to get them from his mind to his tongue. He just hugged Elurín instead, and then Eluréd when he came to join his brother. Daeron watched them with an unreadable expression before he got up to fetch more firewood. 

They left when most of the snow had melted, and Daeron was confident that Lossenol could make the journey to the Ascar. It would be slow going, because they had to move carefully and because Lossenol himself was slow, but once they started moving he found himself improving rapidly—he felt at home in the woods. He knew how to move through the trees unseen and unheard and he knew what they could forage for food this early in the year, and how to find animal tracks for hunting, and how to find a good place in the evening to make camp. Daeron let him try his bow, aiming at a tree stump when they stopped for an afternoon. It was frustrating to try to adjust to only having one eye, but it wasn’t impossible. He could do it, given enough time and practice—he could feel himself getting stronger, no longer helpless, no longer trapped by weather and weakness and pain. 

“Be careful,” Daeron said after a few days. They had made their camp hidden in a still-bare thicket that was still heavy enough to hide them, and Daeron had sung several songs that pulled the shadows in to hide them even further. Eluréd and Elurín were asleep, curled up in between them underneath both blankets and cloaks. “Does your head hurt?”

“Only a little, just now,” said Lossenol. “It didn’t hurt at all today.”

“You shouldn’t try to do too much too soon.”

“I know.” Lossenol glanced over at him, but it was hard to see through the shadows. “But you can’t really care whether or not I—”

“I worked very hard to keep you alive,” Daeron bit out, voice unusually hard, “and I would thank you for not throwing that effort all to the wind.”

“I’m not trying to,” Lossenol said. “I might not know much, but I know—know what it means that you—saved my life.” Speaking had been getting a little easier too, as his mind felt clearer out in the fresh and open air. He was tired, though, and that made it harder to think.

“Well—all right, then.” 

As they moved north they kept fairly close to the River Gelion. It flowed along south, and on its other side the lands opened up into plains rather than the woods of Ossiriand—though those were growing thinner too, with the trees more spaced out and less underbrush. It made both Daeron and Lossenol uneasy. Lossenol kept looking for signs of movement across the river—horsemen, perhaps Noldor on patrol—but never saw anything. On the eastern side he found tracks—heavy ones, familiar ones, and he knew them for orc tracks in the same way he knew without being taught how to use Daeron’s bow. “They’re fresh,” he said, as Daeron stepped up beside him. “A few days, at most.”

“We need to hurry,” Daeron said, and called to Eluréd and Elurín. 

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They came to the River Ascar, where it flowed into the Gelion, and found the lands empty and quiet. North of the Ascar the forests fell away—but not in a natural sort of way. There were signs of fires both old and new, and other kinds of destruction wrought by fighting and just by the passage of orcs and other fell creatures. The stillness made Daeron uneasy. 

Fording the Ascar was uneventful. It was a much smaller river than the Gelion; its current was not strong, and it was fairly shallow. Daeron and Lossenol carried the twins, and then Daeron turned back to frown at the water. “Is that—”

“Gold,” Lossenol said, also turning to look back. He set Eluréd down and splashed back into the river, heedless of the cold, and bent down to pick something up. It was a bracelet, wrought of gold in the shape of leaves and vines. 

When Lossenol handed it to him, Daeron nearly dropped it. He recognized it. “This—this was Queen Melian’s.” She had had many such pieces, some dwarf-made, others crafted by the goldsmiths of Doriath. “What is it doing here?”

“There’s more, scattered along the riverbed,” said Lossenol. “If it is from Doriath, isn’t it yours by right? Yours and…” He glanced at Eluréd and Elurín, who had come to peer curiously at the bracelet. 

“We don’t have time,” Daeron said. It was getting late already; evening still came early, and he felt horribly exposed. “And what would we do with any of it?” He gave the bracelet to Eluréd. It had been Melian’s, and it should go to her grandchildren. “We need to find a place to camp for tonight. And then tomorrow…” He looked at Lossenol, who was not very good at hiding his thoughts. He did not want to part from them, and Daeron feared that there would be a long and difficult argument about it before it was decided one way or the other—because he was growing increasingly reluctant to part from Lossenol, too. The world was so dangerous, and traveling alone with two young children…

Sudden noise from the north had Daeron and Lossenol spinning. Daeron’s heart leaped into his throat. “Daeron, your bow—” Lossenol began.

“Yes—” Daeron slipped the bow and quiver from his shoulder and handed them to Lossenol, who even one-eyed and not at his best was a better shot than he was. Then he grabbed for Eluréd and Elurín. “Come on!”

They ran, following the Ascar east, upstream—but they were too late. The orcs had spotted them, and gave chase. Lossenol paused once or twice to shoot at them, but there were too many and he did not have enough arrows. Daeron looked desperately for some place to cross the river again or to hide, or—

An arrow hit the ground near his feet and he nearly stumbled. “Daeron!” cried one of the twins.

“Run! Go! Don’t stop!” 

“There!” Lossenol caught up and grabbed one of the twins. “Those trees—” 

Daeron picked up the other twin and followed after Lossenol. More arrows flew past them, and once they reached the trees he heard several thud into the wood. “Up, up!” he said, lifting his twin into the branches of the nearest tree. “Fast as you can!”

“You next,” Lossenol said once the twins were in the tree, clambering up the branches like squirrels. “I can—”

The orcs caught up. Daeron had a knife, but he was no fighter. Lossenol was, but Daeron couldn't see what he was doing. He tried to run, maybe to lead the orcs away from Eluréd and Elurín, but something struck him in the back and he fell, hard. The ground was muddy, and he slipped in the leaves as he tried to get up—and then hands were on him, rough and strong and inescapable. Daeron opened his mouth and screamed, and the hands released him, but others took their place before he could do more than scramble halfway to his feet. When he tried to open his mouth again something was shoved into it, and his arms were yanked behind his back and tied with rough cords. Panic surged, and he kicked and twisted, everything falling out of his mind except the desperate animal need to get away—but he wasn't strong enough. He was just slung over someone’s shoulder, rough armor digging into his ribs, and then all of the orcs were running again, churning up the mud beneath them, jeering and snarling at each other as they went. 

It felt like hours before the orcs finally halted. It was hard to breathe, and Daeron could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness as he was dumped unceremoniously onto the ground. His legs were taken and bound, and the cords around his arms were tightened. He couldn’t feel his fingers. Everything felt bruised. 

A hand gripped his hair, and Daeron opened his eyes to see an orc leering down at him. “He don’t seem all that special,” he was saying. “What are we going to all this trouble for, then? What are we doing with him?”

The answer came as a low growl: “We’re taking him back to the Dark Lord—you heard what they called him, didn’t you?”

“What’s his name got to do with anything?”

“The name Daeron has got a mighty large bounty on it,” said the orc that Daeron couldn’t see. His blood ran cold, and without thinking he tried to pull away, squirming helplessly in the mud.

The thought had never crossed his mind that the Enemy would take an interest in him—that he might have a price on his head, that he would be worth anything to Angband. What did that mean—

“—even higher than that horse lord, that other singer, Maglor. The Lord will be mighty pleased when we bring this one back to him. Best to keep him in one piece, lads. Like as not we’ll get the first chance at some real fun back home.”

Daeron made a pathetic noise, muffled through the gag, and all the orcs around him laughed. He closed his eyes as he was flung back onto the ground, landing hard enough to wrench something in his shoulder, which he couldn’t even try to relieve because of the way his arms were tied. Fear made breathing even more difficult, and he could feel tears burning behind his eyes. A part of him did not want to give the orcs the satisfaction of seeing him cry, but what did it matter really?

It was tempting, sometimes, to let his spirit fly from his body far away to the Halls of Mandos in the west. Daeron wondered if he could manage it now—if he could just let himself go before he ever came within sight of the gates of Angband. Let them do what they wanted with his body; as long as they didn’t have him, it didn’t matter.

He also wondered if he could escape, somehow, to get back to Eluréd and Elurín. But when he twisted his wrists he found it impossible, and when he opened his eyes he found orcs all around him, arguing with one another and paying him no heed—but that would change in an instant if he tried to move. They had been ordered to keep him in one piece, but there was an awful lot they could do to him that would keep to that directive. 

The tears escaped, and Daeron squeezed his eyes shut again. The only truly clear thought in his head was that he wanted to go home—that he wanted to wake up in his own bed to find that none of this had ever happened, that Doriath was still Eglador and the stars were still the only thing in the sky, and both of his parents were alive and there to assure him that everything would be all right. 

After a while the orcs lifted him up again, and carried him farther. They stopped as dawn neared, and Daeron found himself tossed to the ground again, like he was no more than a piece of baggage. This time his head struck something hard, and when he cried out the orcs laughed. Then one came over with a flask, and yanked Daeron up by the hair. “We take this out, you keep quiet,” he said, gesturing at the gag in his mouth, “or you’ll never make another sound again. Yeah?” Daeron nodded as best he could. The orc pulled the dirty rag out of his mouth, and before Daeron could do more than cough once he replaced it with the flask, pouring something bitter and burning down his throat. Daeron gagged and struggled, but it was swallow or inhale. Most of it spilled down his chin and chest, and when the orc was satisfied he stuffed the rag back into his mouth. 

Whatever was in the flask, it spread warmth from his stomach outward. Daeron did not feel stronger or more alert, but the hunger pangs he had been ignoring before abated. It wasn’t poison, whatever they had given him—it was surely nothing good, but it would keep him alive.

He didn’t listen to the orcs, who spoke mostly in their own language. But after a while one came over to kick at him, laughing when Daeron cried out. Others came to join in the fun—yanking on his hair, pinching his skin, landing blows that would leave terrible bruises but which did not break anything. They knew exactly where the line was and how close they could come to it without crossing over. Daeron wept and would have begged, if he could have spoken, even knowing it would just spur them on. This was a mere taste of what Angband would do to him, and the terror that clawed its way up his throat was a visceral, almost physical thing that hurt even more than the orcs’ fists. 

It went on like that—moving, stopping, intermittent beatings. It might have been days or weeks—it felt like years.

After one particularly vicious beating, they left him almost entirely unattended near the edge of the camp. There was no concern of his trying to escape—even if they untied him he wouldn’t be able to move. Daeron tried to breathe through his nose, but couldn’t—he was weeping too hard and his ribs were bruised and his lungs felt bruised. He was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. If he could just fall into it and then simply never wake…

The tone of the noise around him changed. He struggled to open his eyes—and when he did he thought he must be dreaming, as a familiar face leaned over him, framed by soft brown hair. “Mmph!” Daeron tried to speak, but couldn’t do more than moan through the gag.

“Hello, Daeron,” said Menelas, who had once been Daeron’s playmate and friend, with whom he had climbed trees and run through the starlit woods, who had always been ready to laugh, who had been the first to hear Daeron’s beginning, faltering attempts at music and to encourage him to keep practicing—who had been on an errand to Dorthonion when the Dagor Bragollach had broken out, and then presumed dead when all the lands burned to ash and nothing was heard of him afterward. He looked almost entirely unharmed now, but for a strange, glassy look in his eyes. “It’s all right,” Menelas said, his soft and lilting voice kind and so familiar that a new wave of tears burned Daeron’s eyes.

This couldn’t be real. But when he looked past Menelas he saw the orcs—and he saw Men, all armed, as was Menelas, all clad in the dark armor used by the servants of Angband. Daeron didn’t understand it. Menelas could not be there—he could not be alive still, when the Bragollach was years ago and things had only gotten worse since. Not unless—

“I am going to take this out, but you mustn’t scream,” Menelas said as he reached for the gag. 

Once the gag was out of his mouth Daeron coughed, and tried to speak. “Men—Menelas, what—how—”

“Shh.” Menelas held up a flask. Daeron flinched way at first, but it was water, cool and sweet. “There’s no use struggling, you know. It will go better for you if you do not try to fight.”

“Fight what?” Daeron asked. “Menelas—”

“It’s only a matter of time before my Lord’s victory is complete,” Menelas said, and a chill swept down Daeron’s spine. “And he will remember those who served him faithfully, Daeron. He is far more generous than the Powers of the West—”

“Menelas, do you hear yourself?” 

Menelas smiled at him, and it was a terrible smile, flat, as though he were not speaking his own thoughts but only repeating a script—and yet at the same time he seemed to really believe it. “You’ll see,” he said. “Here, drink. Do not fear anymore—the orcs will not harm you again, not if you do as you are bid.”

Daeron had no choice but to do as he was told. Menelas did not untie him, though the Men who had arrived with him put themselves between them and the orcs, a promise of both protection and imprisonment. He let his head drop back onto the ground, staring up at the sky. They were near to the mountains, now—steep slopes rose up at their backs, and the woods were thicker here, offering protection and hiding both to those trying to escape the orcs, and to the orcs themselves. 

He tried not to think of Eluréd and Elurín. Such thoughts were dangerous—he spared himself only a few seconds to hope, desperately, that Lossenol had not been killed and that he could get them to safety. Even if he took them to Amon Ereb, it had to be better than what the orcs would do. Then he tried to put them out of his thoughts entirely. Menelas likely did not have the skill to pry into his mind, but they might meet others who could. Even before he had been beaten senseless, Daeron had not been at his best. He was not strong enough for this—to withstand whatever Morgoth himself might do. He would either be tossed to the orcs for them to have some real fun, or he would end up like Menelas, or maybe something worse. If he was lucky, he would just be killed. But he would keep the twins secret—he had to, whatever else happened.

If he was going to die, Daeron thought, he would rather die out in the open—not in the dark pits of Angband. He wanted the last thing he saw to be the sky. The stars, if he could, but even just the clean blue of day would be something.

The day wore on. Menelas brought him food, but Daeron refused to eat. Menelas asked about his companions—about the children that the orcs had seen in his company—but Daeron refused to answer, only relieved that none of the questions suggested that Menelas had any idea who those children really were. Finally, Menelas said, “You must eat, Daeron, or we will have to force you. You cannot come before our Lord’s throne fainting from hunger.”

“I will not come before it at all,” Daeron said.

“Yes, you will. Please do not be foolish.”

Daeron didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze on the little patches of clouds and sky that he could see through the tree branches overhead. He was cold and everything hurt and one of his oldest friends had been taken and subjugated and enthralled. His eyes burned again, and when he tried to blink the tears away they just fell. 

Then movement up the mountainside caught his attention. After a few seconds he saw it again—a brief glimpse of silver hair catching the sunshine before the figure disappeared into the tree-shadows. Daeron’s breath caught.

Menelas had left him alone; now he returned. “Daeron,” he said, a note of urgency in his voice now, “you must eat something. We are moving soon. Do not make this harder than it must be, please. For the sake of our ancient friendship, I wish to help you.”

A horrible feeling of bitterness welled up in his breast. For so many years he had been entirely alone—and now he was reunited with an old friend only for it to be worse than if he had really been dead. “I mourned you,” he whispered. 

“I know. I’m sorry. But we can—”

“If our ancient friendship means so much, untie me.”

“You know I cannot do that.”

Daeron turned his head so he could look into Menelas’ eyes. “Menelas,” he said, reaching out with what little power remained in him. “Hear me. Come back to yourself. Please.” For a moment the glassy-eyed look flickered, and Daeron glimpsed his real friend, drowning in a deep well of horror and pain and fear-unending, a spirit in tatters and yearning for release—any kind of release—but unable to reach for it. He had been kneeling over Daeron; now he fell entirely to his knees with a soft gasp, bowing his head. 

And then the moment passed, and Menelas looked up again, wrong-eyed and calm once more. He said nothing at first, and just picked up the rag again. Daeron pulled away but didn’t have the strength to fight it when he was gagged—far more securely this time, with the rag not just stuffed into his mouth but tied around his head. “Do not do that again,” Menelas said finally, and something about those words in his soft voice was more horrible than anything else Daeron had yet endured. Then he sat back and made a gesture, and an orc approached. Daeron looked past him and saw that the camp was being packed up; they were moving on, and soon they would leave the mountains behind and cross into the Anfauglith—and then to Angband. He did not dare turn to look for another glimpse of silver hair, or to really let himself believe it had been more than his imagination. 

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A blade caught Lossenol across his ribs as he tried to twist out of the way—not deep, but ugly and painful—and it took him only a second to take in the situation and then to let himself fall to the ground, going limp. It meant he could not stop them from hauling Daeron away—but two against at least a dozen was never going to turn out well, and he made himself keep still, even when an iron-shot foot slammed into his back. A few orcs lingered, arguing under the tree where Eluréd and Elurín had taken shelter, but in the end decided that a pair of children weren’t worth the effort. 

Once it was quiet, Lossenol could hear both Eluréd and Elurín weeping. He made himself stay still until he was absolutely sure the orcs were gone, and then he rolled over, unable to suppress a groan. 

“Lossenol!”

“I’m here.” He put a hand to his side and grimaced when it came away bloody. The wound hurt, but he didn’t think it was poisoned. Orc poisons worked very fast—another thing he knew without knowing how he knew. When he looked around he saw one dead orc and signs of a fierce struggle—his own and Daeron’s—and a clear trail leading away. Dread rose up and threatened to crowd out every other thought, and he forced it down, forced himself to breathe, to get to his feet, leaning against the tree. His back hurt, too. 

They had taken Daeron alive. That meant that he could get him back. He let that thought settle in his mind, and felt suddenly much calmer, felt more clear-headed than he had in months. He could do this. 

“Can you climb down?” he called up to the twins. “I can’t come get you, and we need to move.”

Two tear-stained faces peered back down at him. “They took Daeron,” Elurín said.

“I know, and we can’t—can’t get him back until you come down.”

This had them both scrambling down the tree. Lossenol caught first Elurín, and then Eluréd, and then he opened the pack that Daeron had dropped and the orcs had, luckily, not taken, to pull out a roll of bandages. They were old and stained, but clean. “Help me with these, please?” he asked, pulling up his shirt. “Just wrap them around—not too tight—just like that.”

“Do you need stitches?” Elurín asked as he and Eluréd tied off the bandages.

“It looks worse than it is,” said Lossenol. “I’ll have a nasty scar once it heals, but I’ve already got a collection of those, so one more doesn’t much matter.” He wiped his hands on his already-ruined shirt as best he could, and then hugged both of the twins close. “You’re all right? You’re not hurt?”

“No,” said Eluréd. “But Daeron…”

“I know. I’m going to get him back, but that means I’m going to have to leave you—so we have to catch up to them and then find a place for you two to hide.”

“But what if they catch you, too?” Elurín cried.

“They won’t,” said Lossenol. “I’m—look, I don’t know who I am but I know what I’m good at.” He tilted their chins up so he could meet their gazes. “I need you both to trust me, all right? I promise, I’m going to rescue Daeron, and then I’m going to get all of us over the mountains to some place safe, where the orcs will never find us.”

“We trust you,” they chorused without hesitation, in spite of the fear. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Now we have to move fast.” Two children were never going to be able to catch up with the orcs, but they would have the advantage of moving in daylight too, when the orcs needed to stop and hide from the sun. If Lossenol could find a safe place to leave them, hidden and out of the way, he could make up the difference on his own, and—

Well, he’d need to find them first, and then figure out a plan. This would all be easier if he were not still recovering from that winter’s injuries, on top of this new one. 

Before they left, he went to the orc’s body. He needed weapons, having only Daeron’s bow. The orc carried an ugly knife that Lossenol didn’t like the look of, but hooked to his belt anyway, and a sword that was badly made and already notched that he left behind. “Come on,” he said to the twins, and took their hands. 

They went as quickly as they could—quicker than Lossenol had expected—but had to stop frequently for the twins to rest and catch their breath—and for him, too. His back ached where the orc had kicked him, and his side burned with every breath. At least the trail wasn’t hard to follow, and the orcs did not seem to be in a great hurry. They also did not go straight north—they went east, toward the mountains, where the lands were still wooded and there was more shelter. It made sense, and it also meant they were going more slowly than they might have over open ground. Over the next few days, Lossenol left Eluréd and Elurín hidden in a tree or in a thicket or bramble in the mornings, and went ahead, coming back for them in the afternoons when he had a better sense of where to go and what shortcuts might be taken. In this way he finally caught up and was able to count the orcs and even to get close enough to hear some of what they said—though he understood very little, since for the most part they spoke in their own language. 

He also saw what they did to Daeron—beatings, mostly, keeping him bound and bruised and weak enough that he couldn’t even think about escaping or fighting back. That they hadn’t done anything worse was both encouraging and frightening. It meant they wanted him alive—and it meant they had plans for when they brought him to Angband. 

If Lossenol didn’t stage a rescue before they left the woodlands, Daeron would be lost forever.

He also saw when the Men arrived—and with them an Elf. Lossenol frowned as he watched the Elf kneel beside Daeron, speaking to him and treating him with what, at a distance, looked like gentle kindness. It couldn’t be, though—not judging by the way that Daeron recoiled. 

Lossenol watched for another day, trying desperately to think of something—anything—and then made himself pause and look around. He had climbed a steep slope above the orcs’ camp, and several times he’d feared that he would be caught when bits of earth had dislodged under his feet and gone sliding down. When he pressed his hands to the earth he could feel the instability. It wouldn’t take much to cause a landslide. 

He just needed a way to trigger it, and a way to get Daeron out of the way beforehand. His mind raced as he carefully moved through the trees. In short order he had a plan more or less cobbled together. It was rough and it was risky, but he was almost certain it would work. He slipped away to find Eluréd and Elurín, and led them even higher up the mountain, to where he’d found a small cave tucked among some rocks, hidden from view until one came right up to it, where the ground was firmer, and they would be out of danger. Then he told them the plan, because he couldn’t trigger the landslide himself—but a sturdy limb he cut from a nearby tree and a teetering boulder would do the trick. 

“When I whistle, use this to get that rock rolling,” he told them, shoving the end of the stick under the boulder he’d chosen. “You just have to push it down—both of you at once should be strong enough. But not before the whistle! All right? And once it’s moving, run as fast as you can back to the cave. Don’t look back, all right? We don’t want you to come tumbling down the mountain.”

“But what about you?” Eluréd asked.

“By the time you hear me whistle, I’ll have Daeron and we’ll be out of the way,” Lossenol said. 

“How will we know it’s your whistle?”

“You’ll know—it’ll be loud, otherwise I’d show you now.” Lossenol crouched in front of them. “It might take me some time to get Daeron back up here afterward. The orcs have not been kind to him, and it will be a hard climb. When we do get close, I’ll whistle again, this time like a lark.” He demonstrated this for them. “Can you whistle that back to me?” He had them each do it three times until he was satisfied that they would remember how. “Good. Only answer when you hear that whistle—even if you hear our voices, wait for the whistle. That’s important. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Eluréd.

Elurín threw his arms around Lossenol. “Please be careful!”

“I’ll be as careful as I can. I promise.”

By the time he got back to where he could see the camp, they were starting to prepare to move on. No time to waste. Carefully, Lossenol crept around to the side of the campsite where packs and supplies had been tossed into a haphazard pile, right up against some brambles. No one was watching it—they had no one on watch at all, in fact, thinking themselves entirely isolated and safe. More fools them, Lossenol thought as he pulled up his hood and moved very carefully through the bushes until he could rifle through the bags without being seen, ignoring the thorns that scratched his skin and caught on his clothes. Across the campsite, Daeron lay unmoving; the Elf stood nearby speaking with one of the Men. The orcs were fighting about something—the air was full of snarls and curses. 

Finally, Lossenol discovered a flask. When he opened it the sharp smell of alcohol greeted him. He quickly poured it over the bag and then pulled out his own flint to strike some sparks. That was a risk—someone might hear—but the orcs were loud enough that no one noticed, and when the flames caught Lossenol slipped back into the underbrush. It took only a moment for someone to notice the fire as it started to smoke. Lossenol grabbed a branch and threw it away into the woods; it hit a tree with a loud crack! and he hurried away around to the other side of the camp as several orcs ran to investigate the noise. Everyone else scrambled to put out the fire. 

Well, everyone but the Elf. He had gone to kneel beside Daeron, very still and silent. Lossenol held his breath as he crept ever closer, trying to see if Daeron was awake—he had to be alive, or else they wouldn’t bother guarding him, wouldn’t bother binding him. There was no way to grab him and just run, not with someone right there to trip him up. 

The obvious thing to do was to kill the Elf—he was working with the Enemy, he was holding Daeron captive. Lossenol was already a kinslayer, and this would be far more justified than Doriath. He found, though, that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not remembering the look Daeron had given him after that word had first been spoken aloud between them. 

Daeron finally moved, struggling to sit up. He was gagged and bound so tightly that he could barely do more than lift his head. The Elf rose to his feet, turned toward the fire but did not leave Daeron’s side. That made things harder. Lossenol crept forward, moving slowly. The Elf was called forward to help with something—they all spoke the language of the orcs and Lossenol didn’t know what was said—and that gave him his chance. He darted out of the bushes and shoved the Elf from behind, so he crashed into the nearest Men and tripped up an orc, who fell into another, until half the camp was on the ground or trying not to fall. Then Lossenol hauled Daeron up and over his shoulder, and ran, whistling loud and sharply as he went. Instead of moving to the side he went straight up the mountain, knowing they would be pursued. After a minute or so the ground started to shake, and only then did Lossenol slow down. He looked back to see a fight breaking out between orcs who had their bows out and others who clearly didn’t want them to shoot, while the rest gave chase. The Elf stood very still in the midst of the camp, watchful and somehow far more frightening than even the biggest of the orcs. 

Then the shaking worsened, and Lossenol caught a glimpse of the orcs faltering in their pursuit just before he threw himself and Daeron to the base of the biggest and closest tree. Daeron cried out, eyes wide and very frightened—they only got wider when he saw Lossenol’s face. Lossenol pulled the gag free, and Daeron choked out, “Loss—”

“Hang on.” Lossenol rolled over to cover Daeron with his own body as the first boulders went tumbling past, followed by a great mass of earth—rocks, soil, trees and broken branches, as though someone had scooped away a chunk of the mountain itself. Over the din he couldn’t hear what was happening below, but he hoped the enemy was too slow to escape. The tree shuddered as the landslide hit and parted around it; they were showered with dirt and small stones and twigs, but the worst of it passed by on either side.

It seemed like hours passed before the shaking stopped, and it grew quiet. Lossenol carefully raised himself up to look around; a small shower of pine needles and dirt fell from his shoulders with the movement. He saw no sign of the orcs—or of anyone or anything else. After listening hard for a minute, he pulled out the knife he’d taken from the dead orc, and set about cutting Daeron’s bonds. Daeron made a strangled sort of noise before biting his lip as blood flowed back down his arms and legs. “How bad did they hurt you?” Lossenol asked.

“What? No, the—the twins—”

“They’re fine. Who do you think started the landslide?”

“You had them—” Daeron’s voice rose in pitch, but he couldn’t finish the sentence before he started coughing. 

“They’re fine,” Lossenol repeated. “By now they’re well hidden, and waiting for us. Is anything broken?” He ran his hands over Daeron’s limbs, and felt for his ribs. Daeron flinched away, clearly biting back sounds of pain, but nothing seemed broken. It was hard to tell what was dirt and what was bruising, though.

“I’m—no—I don’t—” Daeron sucked in a breath, and struggled to his knees, and then to his feet, looking down the slope. Lossenol rose to catch him when he swayed. “Menelas—”

“Who?”

“He…” Daeron stared down the hillside, at the swath of earth and stone and trees that now covered the campsite. There was no sign of anyone else; nothing moved, and it was very quiet. “He was my friend,” he whispered hoarsely.

“He knows who you are,” said Lossenol. “If he’s not buried under that—” He gestured toward the debris— “he’ll be taking word of you back to—to Angband, won’t he?”

“He…” Daeron closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Then we need to move. Now. Can you walk, do you think?”

“I have to, don’t I?” Daeron turned to him, and his gaze dropped to Lossenol’s chest. “You’re bleeding—”

“Am I?” Lossenol glanced down. “No, that’s old. I’m fine. Come on.” They were near the edge of the debris field, but had to move carefully to get free of it entirely without causing another miniature slide. Lossenol kept hold of Daeron, who moved stiffly, teeth gritted and eyes bright with tears that he didn’t let fall. Once they were on solid ground, he breathed a sigh, and glanced around. In the distance, down the hill, he heard something that sounded like tree branches breaking. “Come on,” he said, reaching for Daeron’s hand. 

Daeron’s grip was tight. Neither of them spoke as they moved through the wood, going more slowly than they needed to, but as fast as Daeron was able. Lossenol made sure they left no trail to follow, and when Daeron stumbled for the third time he stopped and, ignoring Daeron’s protests, hoisted him onto his back. Whether or not any orcs had survived, he didn’t want to take any chances. 

Eventually, though, he had to stop before he fell over himself. It was very late by then; there was no moon, and clouds obscured the stars. It was also very cold, especially as they got higher up the mountain, and Daeron couldn’t seem to stop shivering. Lossenol wrapped his cloak around them both, and tucked Daeron up against his chest, arms and legs around him to try to share as much warmth as he could. Daeron slept, dragged down by exhaustion, but Lossenol only dozed, waking at the slightest noise or shift in the wind. 

Dawn came, and he roused Daeron. “Sorry,” he whispered as Daeron whimpered, his body gone stiff after a few hours unmoving. “We need to keep going. Eluréd and Elurín are waiting.” Daeron nodded, and though he hissed through clenched teeth when he got to his feet, he said nothing, and followed after Lossenol without complaint. It got even colder as they went; the wind picked up, sharp and smelling of snow as it swept down the mountainside.

Finally, after several more hours, they drew near to the cave where Lossenol had left the twins. He whistled the lark’s song, and after a minute heard an answer. “It’s us,” he called then, and both Eluréd and Elurín ran out to meet them. Daeron grunted when Eluréd threw his arms around his waist, and would have fallen if Lossenol hadn’t caught him. “Careful,” Lossenol said. “Let’s get inside, out of the wind. The landslide was perfect.”

“Daeron, what happened do you?” Elurín asked, looking wide-eyed at how battered and dirty Daeron was, covered in mud and bruises with his hair all in a tangle. 

“I’m all right,” Daeron said. He stumbled into the cave and sank to the ground, and immediately both twins latched onto him, in tears of mingled fear and relief. 

Lossenol set about starting a fire, and then carefully pried the twins off. “Can you go fetch water from the stream we found?” he asked them. “I don’t know about Daeron, but I’m filthy, and want to wash off.”

The twins took the pot and the water skins and ran off to fill them. It was very close by, so Lossenol didn’t do more than move to the cave’s entrance to watch for their return. As soon as the twins were out of sight Daeron seemed to crumple, slumping against the wall and curling into himself. “Do you want me to make willow bark tea first?” Lossenol asked.

“No,” Daeron sighed. “There isn’t enough left—”

“We can find more. I’m sure there are willows somewhere on the other side of the mountains.”

Daeron closed his eyes. “You should—”

“I’m not leaving you,” Lossenol said. “Especially not now.”

“You’ll regret it,” Daeron said quietly. “Someday.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You’ll wake up one day and remember who you really are, and then—”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Daeron didn’t answer for several minutes. Then, as Eluréd and Elurín came into view, carrying the pot full of water very carefully, he admitted very softly, “No, I don’t.”

“Then it’s settled,” Lossenol said, and stepped out of the cave to help the twins with the water. 

The rest of the day was spent getting clean and getting rest. Lossenol brewed some willow bark in spite of Daeron’s protests. Daeron drank it, cleaned himself as best he could with the twins’ help, and let Lossenol comb as much of the dirt and grime out of his hair as was possible. 

Now that they were all together again and safe, Eluréd and Elurín cheered up swiftly—but they did not leave Daeron’s side for more than a few minutes at a time, and when they fell asleep it was tucked up against him. Daeron looked at them with an expression Lossenol couldn’t decipher before he sighed and looked up. His face had escaped most of the beatings, which had been a relief to discover—Lossenol was very familiar with the effects of head injuries, and was glad Daeron didn’t seem to be suffering from any of them. 

“What I meant earlier,” Daeron said, sounding a little more like himself, “wasn’t—it’s not that I think you’ll regret staying with us. It’s that—that you’ll regret leaving your own kin behind. That you’ll regret not even trying to find a way to remember. Maybe you won’t ever wake up with those memories returned, but maybe you will, and…”

Lossenol shrugged. “They probably think I’m dead, anyway,” he said, “if any of them are alive themselves. Isn’t it my own choice to make—my life, my mind, my body?”

“It’s the sort of choice that shouldn't be made without knowing all the facts,” Daeron said, “but…of course, that’s the problem.”

“Is there anything about me you know, that you haven’t told me?”

Daeron didn’t answer right away. He looked at Lossenol in that way that seemed as though his dark eyes saw far more than what lay on the surface. “There’s something—there’s some shadow that lies over you,” he said finally. “I don’t know what it is, but it frightens me.”

“Frightens you how?”

“I don’t think it makes you a threat—not to us. But it’s…I don’t know. It brings to mind Melian’s Girdle—the parts of it we were always warned to stay away from in the north, where her power met Gorthaur’s, and made the forest a terrible and strange place. It’s not—it’s not frightening exactly like that, but it’s strange. I don’t know what it means. Someone among the Noldor might—a real healer, with more knowledge and skill than me.”

“I still don’t want to know—and that makes me want to know even less.”

Daeron sighed. “It’s your choice. But when we come upon others in Eriador—we’ll need to tell them something. There is no hiding that you are a Noldo from the West, but we can’t risk it being known that you were likely a follower of Fëanor’s sons—or that you do not remember. I doubt anyone will care much if you say you do not wish to speak of your past, but there should be something—maybe say that you followed Finrod, or perhaps Aegnor or Angrod. A follower of Elu Thingol’s kinsmen will be received better.”

“So. Lie.”

“Do you have a better idea? Does it matter, if it’s only to strangers who we most likely will not spend more than a few days or weeks among?”

“What of you, or the twins?”

“If we find people that I have known before—I hope we can find Laegrim who once lived near Tol Galen, who knew Lúthien when she lived there—then giving them a false name would be pointless. But if we meet strangers, I will no longer use the name Daeron. Eluréd and Elurín will need new names, too—it cannot get back to Angband that Dior’s sons still live.”

“Or you.”

“Or me.” Daeron looked away, strands of hair falling forward to partly obscure his face. “There’s…there is a price on my head. I didn’t know that, before.”

“Why?”

“I was once a very mighty singer—or at the least I had that reputation. I suppose it shouldn’t be so surprising. I just…I’m no warrior. I have sung songs of hiding and protection, but by their nature I would not have expected word of that to get back to Angband. I don’t know.” His voice shook slightly. “There are some who have been taken to Angband and escaped, and remained themselves. If I was ever strong enough for such a feat, I am no longer. If you hadn’t…”

A chill went down Lossenol’s spine at the thought of Daeron turning into something like what his friend Menelas had become. “They won’t have you, Daeron. Go to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“You still need rest, too.”

“Not as much as you do right now.”

Daeron made a small sound that might have been laughter, except it was bitter and exhausted. “What a pair we make.” But he lay down, careful not to jostle the twins, and closed his eyes.

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Daeron woke with a start, expecting to find an orc leaning over him, expecting cold, more pain, more—

There was none of that. It was late morning, and he lay bundled up in blankets in a small cave. Outside birds were singing. Or no—not birds. He tried to sit up, but found it nearly impossible to move. His entire body felt like one massive bruise, and it was only with effort that he even rolled over onto his side. From there, he could see Lossenol sitting just outside in the sunshine, teaching Eluréd and Elurín bird calls. Closer at hand a fire was burning low and warm. Daeron closed his eyes. He didn’t fall asleep again, but his thoughts drifted, weary and slow. There was something comforting in hearing Elurín giggle when Eluréd fumbled a sequence of notes, and the quiet rumble of Lossenol’s voice—such a contrast to the harsh laughter of the orcs. And the soft tones of Menelas. Daeron opened his eyes again as a few tears escaped, slipping over the bridge of his nose to soak into the blanket underneath him. He could not allow himself to dwell on such things. Menelas was gone—if he was not dead he was still far out of reach, and there was nothing Daeron could do now but mourn for him all over again. But not yet—it wasn’t safe.

They could not linger, but Lossenol refused to even consider moving until Daeron was able to get to his feet without help. Daeron wanted to argue, but it was hard when even the smallest of movements hurt. Lossenol disappeared several times a day to scout down the mountain, and every time he returned with assurances that they were alone. One night it snowed, just a light dusting, and Daeron woke shivering even tucked under all their blankets and cloaks, all four of them huddled together in the back of the small cave far out of the wind. 

As soon as Daeron could get up and move around without having to lean on something, though, he insisted they leave. It still hurt, and they couldn’t go very fast, but at least they were moving—going back south, picking their way through the mountain slopes rather than trying to find flat ground or a road. After some days they finally drew near the passes, where they would need to descend from the hills and cross the mountains through the dwarf roads. Passing out into the open filled Daeron with dread, but as far as any of them could tell it was all quiet. 

“All right,” Lossenol said as the road finally came into view, and they prepared to leave the shelter of the trees, “everyone remember not to use real names if we meet anyone else—except me, I suppose, since my name’s brand new anyway. Eluréd is Pínfileg and Elurín is Pínamrent. What about you, Daeron?” Lossenol had come up with Eluréd and Elurín’s names over the last few days, since he had been teaching them the tongues of birds whenever they stopped to rest—and because their singing voices were, Lossenol said, as lovely as those of songbirds. Daeron was just glad he had chosen sparrows and larks, rather than nightingales. 

He sighed. In the past he had used his father’s name, Caladorn, when he felt he needed to, but that seemed too dangerous now. “Oh, I don’t know. Torrandir, I suppose—I’ve been wandering the forests for years now. It’s as good a name as any.”

The names turned out not to be needed. The mountain passes were quiet, which made Daeron just as nervous as he would have been had they been full of other travelers. There were signs of recent fighting on the western slopes, but when Lossenol paused to try to read those signs, he said that the orcs had been driven back west. He took the time to show Eluréd and Elurín how to read a little of what he could in the footprints and scuff marks on the stone. It meant very little to Daeron, who had always relied on luck more than tracking when he attempted to hunt, and knew nothing at all of battle or how to read the aftermath. The twins were sharp-eyed and quick to learn, and Daeron could almost see the skilled and fierce hunters they might one day grow into.

After only a day or so, the land sloped down again, and they found themselves, at last, through the mountains and in Eriador. Free of the narrow paths and the towering and sheer cliffs on either side, with the Ered Luin between him and Beleriand, Daeron felt like he could breathe again. “Where to now?” Lossenol asked.

“I’m not entirely sure.” Daeron looked around. They were high enough still that the land stretched out before them, an unbroken forest as far as the eye could see. The road disappeared into it, and led, Daeron had been told once, all the way to the distant Misty Mountains and the way to the great dwarf city of Khazad-dûm. He did not want to go that far, but… “I had hoped to find some Elves who once lived in Ossiriand who might be lingering near the mountains,” he said. “There used to be a village some days’ walk north of here—but when I was last there they were speaking of moving on, going back east to rejoin Lenwë’s people, and I don’t know if they will still be there.”

“It’s a place to go, anyway,” said Lossenol, “and even if we find it empty, we might find it a good place to stay a while.”

“Yes, maybe.”

“What would we find if we followed the road?” asked Eluréd, slipping his hand into Daeron’s as they made their way down the mountain. 

“Some small kingdoms of Men—the land opens up a little, with downs and good pastureland and some small rivers, and many Men settled there rather than continuing west as the Edain did. I have not gone that way in some time, though, and I do not know what sort of welcome we would receive if we went there now.”

By then Daeron’s various hurts were mostly healed—the bruises had been bad, but they were still only bruises—and he could keep up with Lossenol and the twins with relative ease. The soreness remained, and fear still dogged his heels, though, and his dreams were dark and terrible—all full of people he had once known, their faces now distorted and frightening, all of them reaching out to him with too-long fingers and promises of horror in the dark. They left him tired and jumpy, flinching at sudden movements and sometimes snapping at the twins or at Lossenol. 

The third time he answered too sharply, Daeron watched Elurín’s eyes fill with tears and felt like a monster; he dropped to his knees and held out his arms. “Oh, I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Elurín, I didn’t mean it.” Elurín threw his arms around Daeron, burying his face in his shoulder. 

“Let’s stop here today,” Lossenol said after a moment. He glanced around, and dropped the pack onto the ground beside Daeron before pulling out the bow. “I’m going to see if I can get lucky.”

“Be careful,” Daeron said.

“Of course.”

Once Lossenol was gone, Daeron rubbed Elurín’s back and let him go. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m not upset with either of you, I promise.”

“Why are you upset?” Elurín asked, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

So many reasons. “I’m tired,” Daeron said, “and afraid, and worried—worried that we won’t be able to find Medlinel and her people, mostly.”

“Who is Medlinel?”

“Her brother was Denethor, a king of the Laegrim long ago. He died, and they took no king thereafter, but Medlinel was once a student of your grandmother Melian, and she is very wise and a leader among them, and I’m sure she knows far better than I do how best to take care of you—”

“What does that mean?” Eluréd demanded. 

Oh no. Daeron closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn’t meant to let that slip—he really was tired. “I just—”

“You aren’t going to leave us!” Elurín cried. 

“Elurín—”

“Daeron, you can’t!”

“I’m not! No one’s going anywhere—I misspoke, I’m sorry.” Daeron got to his feet, wincing. “Come on, we need to get a fire started so we can cook whatever Lossenol brings back. Which one of you can tell me the Quenya word for fire?” The Quenya lessons had started as a way to pass the time as they traveled, now that they could let their guard down a little. It also let Daeron practice his own rusty Quenya, which made Lossenol laugh every time he mispronounced a word. Now, however, the twins only answered his questions half-heartedly, and once the fire was started and their little camp made, they climbed onto his lap and refused to move even when Lossenol returned with a couple of small rabbits. 

“What’s the matter?” Lossenol asked as he sat down to skin and clean the game. 

“Daeron wants to leave us,” Eluréd said without lifting his face from Daeron’s shirt. Lossenol looked up sharply. 

“I don’t,” Daeron said.

Like the twins, Lossenol didn’t seem to believe him. “Is that why you want to find the Laegrim?”

It had been, but it wasn’t anymore. “It’s—I—”

“Daeron—”

“I’m not going to argue about it right now,” Daeron snapped. Lossenol closed his mouth and returned to preparing the rabbits. Eluréd and Elurín also fell silent, and clung to him even tighter as though afraid he would get up and disappear then and there. Daeron rubbed their backs and wondered how he had become someone who would be missed if he disappeared. He wondered what Lúthien would say if she could see him then, and quickly pushed that thought away. 

Even when the food was ready the twins were reluctant to let go, but after they ate Daeron was able to get out the flutes and distract them for a while with a music lesson. Lossenol disappeared into the woods again, only returning in the veining when Daeron was preparing to sing up enchantments to keep them hidden so they could all sleep without needing to keep watch. 

After Eluréd and Elurín fell asleep, Lossenol said, “When were you going to share your plans to leave?”

“I wasn’t, because I have none.” Daeron turned his flute over in his hands without looking up. “That was—before the orcs, I did mean to—to find Medlinel and her people and leave the twins with them. I still want to find her if we can, but not for that. Though it would probably be the wisest course—”

“You were going to just—leave them with strangers?”

“They wouldn’t have been strangers. They were born in Ossiriand, and—”

“And left it when they were very small. Daeron—”

“I don’t know the first thing about raising children,” Daeron said sharply, struggling to keep his voice low. “And—and there is a price on my head, Lossenol. It doesn’t matter how far away get get—”

“It does matter,” said Lossenol. “Where do I fall into these plans of yours?”

“I told you, it isn’t my plan any longer—”

“You just said you think it would be wiser.”

“It would be. I just—” Daeron dropped his flute and covered his face. “I hadn’t thought about it,” he said into his palms. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve been guessing ever since Finglas brought you to me. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I already told you I’m not going back to the Fëanorians. What would you expect me to do if you just slipped away? What were you planning to do when you left? Where would you go?”

“I don’t know,” Daeron said, though the answer was probably that he would have disappeared into the deepest woods of Eriador, found a quiet spot where no one would ever find him, and just let himself fade away. “I just—they deserve to be safe and cared for by people who know how, and—”

“Don’t they deserve not to lose anyone else?” Lossenol asked softly. “You and I have both chosen to walk away from our own lives. They haven’t. They’ve lost everything, Daeron, and they almost lost you once already.”

“They’d forget soon enough—”

“No, they wouldn’t. But say you’re right. Say it would be better for this Medlinel to take them in, whoever she is. Why does it have to be you or her? Why could you not stay too?”

“Besides the fact that there is a price on my head?”

“You said this was your plan before you ever knew about that.”

Daeron lowered his hands to his lap. He was so tired, and his head ached, and he wanted to go home—back to a home that had not existed since long before he had left Doriath for the last time. “I am not welcome among Medlinel’s people,” Daeron said after a moment. “Many of them used to come and go from Doriath—when it was Eglador still, before the Girdle—and they knew Lúthien. They must have known her also when she and Beren lived on Tol Galen in Ossiriand. I—the role I played in Lúthien’s tale—I made so many mistakes, and they have not forgotten. I’ve traded with them once or twice—well, once I threw myself upon their charity, during a bad winter—but only when I had to, and they made their feelings quite clear then. They were kind but not welcoming. Not to me.”

“You think their opinion won’t change when you turn up with Eluréd and Elurín?”

“Medlinel knew me of old in Eglador, when she came to learn all that Melian would teach her. I was still young then, and she thought me foolish and frivolous, and now she thinks me foolish and treacherous—she’s probably right, at least that I’m foolish. And—” Daeron broke off.

“And?”

He shook his head. “I just—if we don’t find her then all of this is pointless anyway. I know Eluréd and Elurín believe we four were meant to find one another, but I cannot help but feel that it will end badly, sooner or later. As I said, my plan when we left the flet was to bring the twins to Medlinel if I could, and to leave them in safety. You, I thought, would part with us at the Sarn Athrad. That is not what I want, now, but—there is still a price on my head, and for all we know there is one on yours too—your people have not only been kinslayers, you have fought bravely for centuries in the north—and—and is it not better to endure a little heartache now than suffer much worse heartbreak in the future?”

“I thought you were not given to foresight.”

“I’m not, usually, but…” There was still a war raging on the other side of the mountains, even if where they sat all was quiet and peaceful, with crickets in the bushes and spring’s new growth beginning to adorn the tree branches overhead. The future remained dark, hope dwindling a little more with each passing year. And, someday, Lossenol might learn that Daeron had not been honest with him about what he knew or guessed. Maybe Lossenol did not want to know—but if he ever did remember, Daeron did not think Celegorm would be forgiving.

Lossenol sighed and tossed a stick onto the fire. In the flickering light the scars on his face stood out, and his good eye glinted with ancient Treelight. “Say you’re right about the rest,” he said after a moment. “Say this all ends terribly, someday. You’re probably right. Doesn’t that just mean we should hold onto what we have now for as long as we can?”

“The Shadow is growing,” Daeron whispered. “It will someday reach beyond the mountains, maybe even beyond the Misty Mountains—”

“I don’t know about you, but if and when that happens I intend to go down fighting.”

“I’m no fighter.”

“There’s a reason the Enemy’s put a price on your head. I think you’re not nearly as diminished as you say you are. I think you could sing down the mountains if you tried.”

Daeron didn’t know what to do with that kind of confidence, that kind of faith. “I think I am a better judge of my own strength than you,” he said. 

Lossenol shrugged. “All I know is—you don’t argue when someone tells you something the way those two do sometimes. With that look in their eyes. When they say the four of us were meant to find one another, I don’t think it’s meant to be only for a season or two.”

It was the same look Lúthien had had in her eyes when she had told Daeron she intended to leave Doriath, to go after Beren. He hadn’t listened, then—fear had ruled him, for her and for them all. Now he looked at Eluréd and Elurín, curled up together under a blanket, and felt that same fear. It twisted around his heart and lungs like vines, constricting, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. But he had learned from his mistakes—he knew better now than to disregard such foresight, even if it was mingled with the desires and fears of lost children. 

Children who love you, a little voice in the back of his mind that sounded a little like Menelas—the real Menelas, the friend of his fondest memories—pointed out. 

He knew what he wanted—but just because they all wanted the same thing didn’t mean it was possible, or that it was wise. His grip on life had been tenuous for years, even before Finglas had turned his entire world upside down in just a few words, even before the orcs had revealed just how much Morgoth himself desired his capture. Having a reason to cling to life wasn’t always enough—especially not when it might be better, safer for everyone, if he stopped trying.

He just didn’t know how to explain that to Lossenol. It wasn’t even that Daeron didn’t trust him, because he did—or he would as long as his memories remained lost and the Oath slept. It was just—he was so full of life, even after such terrible injuries and the loss of everything he had known. What could he understand of fading, really? 

He would have to find a way to explain sooner or later, but for now he just shook his head again. “I don’t want to leave them, and I’m not going to. I just don’t know anymore whether what I want to do is the same as what I should. But—even aside from all of that, there is another reason I want to seek out Medlinel, if we can.”

“What is it?”

“I know you say you do not want to recover your memory—but I’m afraid that it isn’t only lost because you were injured. If there is something else at work—like that shadow I told you about before, I mean—she might be able to tell what it is, and if it poses some other danger to you that I cannot see. Maybe she’ll be able to help.”

“If she will not welcome you, she certainly won’t welcome me. I don’t want a stranger looking into my mind, anyway.”

“I was a stranger when I first did it,” Daeron pointed out.

“And I was half dead,” Lossenol retorted.

“And if I told you she was someone you could trust?”

Lossenol tossed another stick onto the fire, and then pushed his hair out of his face. “Nothing you’ve said of her suggests she’s someone I can trust.”

“Just because she doesn’t like me doesn’t mean she’s not trustworthy. She is a healer. She learned from Melian herself.”

“Well, like you said—all of this only means anything if we find her in the first place. You should go to—to sleep.”

“So should you,” Daeron said as he reached for his blanket. “Your words are slurring.” Lossenol grimaced, but didn’t argue. They were all tired. 

That night, Daeron’s dreams were full of starlit memories of Eglador, of old friends and of his parents, when they had all been so happy—even him. He woke in the morning with tears on his face and a heavy feeling in his limbs that took a very long time to shake off. 

The village he remembered visiting once or twice in recent years was not tucked up against the mountains, but farther east. The woods were thick and wild, and there were few landmarks to go by, but at last they came to the banks of a familiar river. “I think this called the Lhûn,” Daeron said. “The village I want to find shouldn’t be far now.”

“I haven’t seen any signs of people, Elves or Men,” Lossenol said. “I think your friends might have moved on.”

“It’s more likely than not,” said Daeron, “but I still want to find it. And if we go a little farther north and east, across the river, we’ll come to some hills, and beyond them a wide lake—though if that has a name, I haven’t heard it.”

They followed the river’s course north, and soon came to the site of the village. It was, as Daeron had expected but not as he had hoped, empty. There were no signs that the Elves who had built it left in a hurry; nothing of great value had been left behind, and there was no evidence of a fight or of any kind of disaster. The houses all still stood, both in the trees and on the ground. “When last I came this way, a handful of years ago, Medlinel said they were thinking of returning east past the Misty Mountains,” Daeron said, “to rejoin her father’s people.”

“Do you want to follow?” Lossenol asked.

“No. Not yet, anyway. Let’s take advantage of solid walls and roofs for a while.”

“Not a flet,” said Lossenol as Eluréd and Elurín ran off to explore. “If trouble comes we can retreat to one, but I don’t want to always be having to climb things.”

They found a small house with two bedrooms that still had mattresses on the bed frames, though they needed to be patched and refilled—probably why they had been left behind in the first place. There were other pieces of furniture—things too big to travel with—and that made it even easier to settle in. It wasn’t until they had actually finished fixing up the house and the mattresses that Daeron realized he and Lossenol had just agreed to share a bed. 

That in itself didn’t mean much. They’d been living out of each other’s pockets and sleeping next to one another for months now—but it felt different, now that they had a choice. “What’s wrong?” Lossenol asked as he tossed their blankets onto the bed. 

“You know this doesn’t mean…” Daeron gestured at the bed, feeling his cheeks grow warm. “It’s…”

Lossenol looked amused. “You’re very pretty, Daeron, but I’m afraid all I want to do in this bed is sleep, if it’s all the same to you.”

Daeron’s face felt burning hot. “I—well. Good.”

“It just makes sense to share—we’ve only got so many blankets, and in winter it will be warmer.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I’m not going to try to ravish you in the middle of the night or something, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Before Daeron could answer, Eluréd asked, poking his head through the door, “What’s ravish?”

“Sweet stars above,” Daeron groaned, burying his face in his hands. 

“A root vegetable,” Lossenol said at the same time. 

“What are you going to do with a root vegetable in the middle of the night?”

“Nothing—that’s what I was saying.”

“Radish,” Daeron said into his palms. “That’s the root vegetable, Eluréd—a radish.”

“So what’s a—”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Daeron said firmly, turning to usher Eluréd out of the bedroom. Lossenol’s laughter followed them. “Come on. I need to sing up a Girdle, and I might as well start teaching you two how to do it. Where’s Elurín?”

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It was easy to settle into a routine once they found the empty village. Daeron’s enchanted Girdle wouldn’t keep anyone out, like Melian’s of old, but it would let him know, at least, when someone was approaching. Still, it was nice to be able to sleep through the night without fear, and with sturdy walls and a roof over their heads—and in a real bed, however odd Daeron seemed to feel about sharing it. 

Daeron found old gardens, which had some vegetables growing from seeds dropped or left behind—though no radishes, which Lossenol pretended to be more disappointed about than he really was just to see Daeron roll his eyes while the twins giggled. Lossenol hunted and foraged and wished for a sword and a better knife than the one he’d stolen off the dead orc. “You said there are Men living not far from here?” he asked Daeron one afternoon. 

“Well, relatively close, I suppose. South of here, near the dwarf road, and farther east. Why?”

“Do you think they’d trade with Elves?”

“Oh, certainly. I’ve traded with them before, and I’m sure the Laegrim did too,” Daeron said. He sat cross-legged in the sunshine, mending Elurín’s cloak. “A few songs for a place to sleep and some food—that sort of thing, at least for me. I don’t know what we have to trade, though. Except more songs—but I’m not in much of a state to sing anything particularly useful to anyone else.”

“Well, nothing right now—but in the future we might. I want proper weapons. How about that lake you were talking about—is that closer, are there people living there?”

“It is much closer than the kingdoms by the downs, and there might be settlements, but it’s been some time since I ventured there.”

“How long were you wandering around alone?”

Daeron shrugged. “I never counted the years. I left Doriath when Lúthien did, but I don’t know when she came back, or when she settled in Ossiriand, or—or when she died.” He kept his gaze on his needle and thread. “A few decades, at least,” he said finally, after apparently doing some silent calculations. “Almost all of that time I was alone. I did not want to be among other people, and only sought them out when I needed to. These last few months have been the longest I’ve spent with anyone in years.”

Lossenol sat down beside him. Eluréd and Elurín were playing a game nearby—something with sticks and pebbles and a lot of giggling. “Why?” he asked. “Why leave Doriath in the first place?”

“I was trying to follow Lúthien. I got turned around in the Girdle and—she went west, and I stumbled out of Region in the east. There wasn’t really anything keeping me there, so…I just started walking and didn’t look back.”

“You had no other friends? No family?”

Daeron paused in his stitching. “I had friends,” he said softly. “Mablung, Beleg—others besides. But I had withdrawn from them long before I left, and I doubt I was missed.”

“But your family—”

“Dead. Long ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Spring brought flowers and birdsong, and the days grew ever longer and warmer. By day Eluréd and Elurín were as happy as Lossenol thought two young children could be, full of insatiable curiosity, with questions about everything from the birds they found nesting in the trees to the stories behind the constellations that Daeron pointed out to them in the evenings. At night though, now that they were not weary from travel, they were often plagued by nightmares, and even if Lossenol had wanted to ravish Daeron in the middle of the night it would have been impossible, with the twins crawling under the blankets with them more nights than not. 

For all that they were well on their way to actually building a life, though, it still felt like Daeron was determined to remain mostly a stranger. He kept himself at arm’s length—or tried to, with less and less success as time went on—even from the twins, though it was obvious to Lossenol that he loved them just as much as they loved him. 

It didn’t make any sense. If you loved someone, you kept them close. If you loved someone you didn’t try to separate yourselves or send them away, not unless there was absolutely no other choice. Lossenol felt that deep in his bones, where an ache of guilt over choosing to turn his back on his own past also resided. He didn’t need Daeron to tell him that leaving his past behind meant leaving people he cared about—only it was hard to feel that bad about it when he didn’t remember them, when a part of him was certain that they were all dead. It was harder still to feel bad about it when he had three other people that he also cared about, more and more every day, who were right there, who needed him as much as he needed them.

He still didn’t understand why Daeron was trying to keep himself so separate. 

Daeron started singing healing songs again, once they were settled. Lossenol’s headaches abated almost entirely after a few months, and as spring marched on toward summer his troubles with speaking mostly went away too except when he was tired.

Sometimes he still got lost, though—lost in his own head, losing time, sometimes wandering away. He never went far before he either came back to himself or Daeron caught him, but it was alarming every time. “You always go west, have you noticed?” Daeron asked one summer afternoon after Lossenol had come out of it by walking into a low-hanging tree branch, smacking himself in the face and discovering he knew a lot of colorful words in several Mannish languages, none of which he could teach Eluréd and Elurín yet.

His face was now scratched up, especially around his good eye, and he lay on the grass beside Daeron, head aching dully. “Does that mean something?” he asked, hearing the words slur a little and hating it. 

“Well. You know what you’ve likely left behind. There is a part of you that remembers, and wants to return.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me again?”

“No, of course not,” Daeron sighed. “But you know what I think about it. And you’ll have nightmares later.”

“I know.” He always did, after he tried to wander off. They were full of both darkness and of blinding light, and words he either couldn’t understand or couldn’t fully remember when he woke. It always felt like he couldn’t breathe afterward, like there was something around his neck trying to choke him. 

They all had nightmares every so often—Daeron tossed and turned almost every night, though he never shared what it was he dreamed of. Lossenol could guess—the bruises had faded, but the memory of the orcs hadn’t. There were also other things in his past that weighed on him that he wouldn’t speak of—like what had actually happened between him and Lúthien—and Lossenol didn’t know yet how far he could pry before Daeron actually lost his temper. 

Daeron leaned over to examine the scrapes and small bruises around Lossenol’s eye. “Well, at least you can still see,” he said. “Do try not to damage this eye—I’m not that skilled a healer.”

“It’s not my fault that tree was there,” Lossenol said, hoping to get a smile. He was disappointed. “I’m—fine.”

“You aren’t,” Daeron said.

“I’m as fine as someone can be who almost—almost died in a cave-in and then got rescued by an Ent and nursed back to health by a grumpy hermit.”

That did get a smile, small and fleeting. “All right, I’ll grant you that. I wish I knew what caused this.”

“The part of me that remembers and wants to return, you said.”

“Yes, but—what wakes it? There does not seem to be any rhyme or reason. I—” Daeron stopped suddenly, lifting his head and turning toward the southeast. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone’s coming,” Daeron said, sounding rather surprised. “I didn’t really think anyone would—where are the twins?”

“Here we are!” Eluréd and Elurín came running up. “What’s wrong with Lossenol?”

“I walked into a tree,” said Lossenol without moving. 

“What did you do that for?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. The tree moved in front of me.”

“That’s silly,” said Eluréd as he sat down on Lossenol’s stomach, making him grunt. “Trees don’t move.”

Lossenol reached up to tickle him. “This one did.”

“Someone’s coming,” Daeron interrupted, getting to his feet, “and if it isn’t someone I know, you mustn’t use your real names. Pínfileg and Pínamrent, all right?”

“And you’re Torrandir,” said Elurín as he wrapped himself around Daeron’s leg. 

“Yes.”

“Can you tell if they’re friendly or not?” Lossenol asked, finally sitting up. He wrapped his arm around Eluréd, keeping him on his lap. 

“Friendly—Elves, anyway,” said Daeron, “and they’re not coming from the west.” As he spoke a trio of figures appeared moving up the overgrown path leading away from the village toward the south, carrying bows and clad in hunting gear. Lossenol got to his feet and picked up Eluréd. Daeron remained unmoving, hand on Elurín’s shoulder. The figures halted upon seeing them, before continuing forward. Once they were close enough that they could all speak without raising their voices Daeron said, “Well met, Medlinel. I thought you had taken your people east.”

“Daeron, is that you?” Medlinel strode forward. So this was who Daeron had wanted to find. She was not a tall woman, but she had a kind of presence about her that made her seem so, dark-haired and stern-faced, with a thin scar tracing from her right temple down to her chin, pale against her dark skin. She glanced at Lossenol and her stern expression turned to a deep frown before she turned back to Daeron. “What are you doing here—who—who are these children?” The way she asked made Lossenol think she already knew the answer, and he tightened his arms around Eluréd without thinking.

“These are Eluréd and Elurín, the sons of Dior Eluchíl,” Daeron said as Elurín moved behind him, and Eluréd turned to hide his face in Lossenol’s shoulder. “The Ent Fladrif brought them out of Doriath this past winter.”

“And him?” Medlinel tilted her head toward Lossenol, not looking at him again.

“This is Lossenol,” Daeron said, and offered no further explanation. “What brings you back here, Medlinel? Were you not going to rejoin your father’s people east of the Misty Mountains?”

“Yes, and my people are still on their way—we left here early this spring, as soon as the ice thawed—but troubling rumors reached us of the goings on in the west, and I wanted to know more. And here you are, it seems, brought to this place in good time to tell me of it all.”

“I can tell you very little,” said Daeron. “I know Doriath has fallen, but little else. Orcs roam Ossiriand, all the way down the Gelion; the Ents believe a remnant of Doriath’s people made their way down Sirion in the west, but I cannot say whether or not that is true.”

“How can Doriath have fallen?” asked one of Medlinel’s companions as the other gasped, covering her mouth in shock at the news. “What of the Girdle?”

“Melian is gone,” said Daeron. “I had hoped to learn more from you, if our paths crossed.”

“It seems we’re all far too ignorant of what goes on west of the Ered Luin,” said Medlinel. “But how did you fall into the company of one of the Golodhrim, Daeron?”

“Chance,” said Daeron, as Lossenol tried not to bristle at being spoken of as though he weren’t standing right there. “He was injured and needed help. I gave it—and it is safer in these days not to travel alone.”

Medlinel looked hard at him, as though trying to read in Daeron’s eyes whatever it was he was not saying. Daeron met her gaze, seemingly entirely calm and at ease. All the doubts and fears that Lossenol knew burdened him were invisible now; he seemed entirely self-assured. Belatedly, Lossenol recognized the look—it was the one he’d worn day in and day out in those early weeks in the flet, when he had been trying to keep them all alive by himself. Only now, after getting a glimpse of what was really happening underneath that mask, did Lossenol recognize it for what it was. Finally, Medlinel said, “I would speak with you privately, Daeron.”

“Of course.” Daeron gestured toward the house they’d been staying in, and then knelt to say something to Elurín before following Medlinel inside. Elurín let go of Daeron only reluctantly, and then turned to latch onto Lossenol instead.

“Come on, songbirds,” said Lossenol, “let’s go see if we can catch some fish, huh?” He didn't want to stay in the company of Medlinel’s companions, who looked at him with wary suspicion, and he wasn’t sure he could speak to them with as much courtesy as Daeron could. They would doubtless follow and watch, but as long as they stayed out of sight Lossenol didn’t much care. His head still hurt a little, but at least fishing didn’t require a lot of thinking.

“Is Daeron going to try to make us go away with them?” Eluréd asked as Lossenol set him down by the riverbank.

“I think he is going to ask you to go,” Lossenol said, “and I think Medlinel might have some strong opinions about it, but no one will make you.”

“Promise?” Elurín asked.

“It’s not my place to make that kind of promise,” said Lossenol. He had thought the matter settled, but that was before Medlinel had arrived, and he didn’t know now what she would say or if she would make Daeron doubt himself again. “But—hey, c’mere.” He knelt down and wrapped an arm around each of the twins. “Listen to me, all right? Daeron wants to keep you safe. That’s why he might ask you to go farther east with Medlinel. Her people knew your grandparents, and they’ve got better clothes, and more weapons, and there’s more of them—you won’t ever be left alone, and they’ll be able to protect you and teach you better than just Daeron and me.”

“But we don’t want to go with them,” Eluréd said.

“I know, and I’m not trying to talk you into it. What I mean is, it’s not because Daeron doesn’t care about you. It’s because he does, very very much.”

“What about you?”

“Of course I care about you, too. If it were only up to me we wouldn’t be talking about this at all. But I also don’t know what I’m doing—I barely know who I am, and—” Lossenol took a breath, and lowered his voice, just in case those other Elves were close enough to be listening. “I don’t remember what I did, but I know I did some very bad things. I might have to pay for it someday, one way or another, and—”

“That’s not fair, if you can’t even remember,” protested Eluréd.

“I still did it, even if I can’t remember it now,” said Lossenol. “Whatever happens, I’m going to do my best to protect you, but that might someday mean we have to part ways. There might be many reasons it will be the best thing, but it will never be because I want to leave you.” He tugged gently on one of Eluréd’s braids. “It’s important that you understand this.”

“We still don’t want to leave you now,” said Eluréd. “We’re not supposed to.”

“Are you saying that because you don’t want to, or for some other reason?”

“Both!” said Eluréd. “We just know it. It’s important.”

“I believe you,” Lossenol said, because Eluréd was looking at him with eyes that seemed to see even more than Daeron’s sometimes did. Elurín, too. Daeron had explained their parentage, once—that their great-grandmother was Melian the Maia, who had forsaken the Blessed Realm for the sake of Elu Thingol. Lossenol supposed he had to have known Maiar himself, once upon a time—he knew what they were anyway, without needing to be told—and the idea of marrying one sent shivers down his spine. Eluréd and Elurín were halfelven, children of Elves and Men—but they were descended of Melian too, and no one could know what that really meant. 

Even Eluréd and Elurín couldn’t know what the future held—not for sure. All that was certain was that the world was a dangerous place, and growing ever darker. A part of Lossenol was determined to make up at least in part for the terrible things he’d done by keeping them safe. The rest of him just wanted to keep them safe because they were children, and because he did care about them, whatever blood flowed in their veins. It was true that he didn’t really know what he was doing, but it felt familiar—teaching them to do things, teasing them, loving them. He’d loved someone else like this once. Something told him, though, that he’d lost whoever it was—another reason he didn't want his memories back. He didn’t want to feel the full force of that grief. It was easier if it just stayed quiet, tucked down in the very depths of his heart where it only ached a little bit, instead of rising up like the tide to drown him.

“Come on,” he said, getting to his feet. “Let’s see if we can’t catch some fish.”

Daeron came to join them some time later, after they’d caught several large fish that would feed all seven of them that night. “Medlinel is willing to try to help you regain your memories,” he said to Lossenol, crouching down next to him as Eluréd and Elurín went to clean their hands in the river. “Or at least to find out what’s keeping them locked away—or if I’m even right in the first place, and that’s what’s happening, and they aren’t really just lost forever because of your injuries.”

“I’m not sure I trust her with whatever is in my head,” Lossenol said.

“She is a healer. She won’t harm you—I’m vouching for her.”

“And if I still don’t want to remember?”

“She can at least see if it is possible—and if there is anything I missed, she might be able to fix it. She is a far more skilled healer than I can ever hope to be.”

Lossenol sighed, thinking of what Daeron had said on the mountain—of the shadows he could see that reminded him of Melian’s Girdle, the ones that scared him. “You really want me to let her look into my mind?”

“I want to be sure that you’re as fully healed as you can be—the memories are a secondary concern.”

“All right, then. And the twins?”

“She wants to take them east with her. I told her they would refuse. She replied that they are six years old and not very heavy.”

“I’d like to see her try to carry them far, if they don’t want to go,” Lossenol said. 

“I told her that, too.” Daeron sighed. “She isn't wrong, though.” He looked over to where Eluréd and Elurín were whispering together, hands up to hide their mouths. “What do you think they’re scheming about?”

“Some way to convince you not to send them away, probably,” Lossenol said. He finished cleaning the last fish, and got to his feet to dispose of the guts and bones.

“Eluréd, Elurín,” Daeron called. The twins came running, throwing themselves into Daeron’s arms. Lossenol didn’t hear what he said to them, but he saw him kiss their foreheads, and saw the twins smile.

Back at the village, Medlinel’s companions took the fish to cook, with smiles that seemed genuine, while Medlinel herself waited by the door to the house. She was not smiling. “Come on,” Daeron said, and pulled Lossenol over to her. 

“I hear you do not remember your right name,” Medlinel said, looking Lossenol up and down.

“I don’t remember anything,” Lossenol said after a moment, glancing at Daeron, who gave him a slight nod.

“Come inside, then. Let me take a look at you. What of new memories? Have you any trouble forming them?”

“I don’t think so,” said Lossenol as he followed her. He hadn’t even thought to worry about that. 

“I’ve noticed no gaps,” Daeron added, to Lossenol’s relief. He hadn’t been sure whether Daeron would follow or if he would leave them alone. “He still gets headaches, and at times speech is difficult.”

“Mostly when I’m tired,” Lossenol said. 

“And sometimes he seems to get lost in his own mind, and does not remember what he did afterward,” Daeron said after a moment. “Like sleepwalking, but it has only happened when he is awake.”

“Hmm.” Medlinel led them into the bedroom, and then said briskly, “All right, clothes off. I can’t do anything if I can’t see it.”

Lossenol wasn’t usually bashful, but he felt his face heat up as he pulled off his shirt and then his pants. Maybe it was because he was fully aware this time, and Medlinel was a stranger—he hadn’t even been conscious when Daeron had originally stripped him to tend his wounds. As he tossed the clothes aside, Medlinel gestured toward the bed, and he sat. She was just tall enough that she needed to lean down to take a closer look at his face. He could almost feel the weight of her gaze as she examined the scars and his bad eye, and then down the rest of his body, taking in the new scars as well as old ones, prodding a little with her fingers at the healed gash over his ribs that he’d gotten from the orcs. She asked a few more questions about aches and pains and things, all of which he could answer himself, and then she straightened. 

“Well, everything seems as healed as it can be—quite well, against all odds—though I haven’t yet looked properly at your head. You need not continue to feel bad about the eye, Daeron—no one could have saved it. You said it was a cave-in that did all this?”

“Almost all. That is what the Ent Finglas told me,” said Daeron. He had stayed near the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. 

“You’re lucky you survived the trek from Doriath to the Gelion,” Medlinel told Lossenol.

“I know,” he said.

“Luckier still that the damage to your mind seems to be minimal, aside from your memory. Now let me see.” Medlinel tilted his chin up until their eyes met. Hers were brown and, like Daeron’s, lit with ancient starlight. Lossenol did not want her to see whatever was inside his mind, but he tried to relax, and did not let himself look away. “Yes, I can see—it was very bad, but again, Daeron, you did well. The title of mighty singer is well-earned, even if you do not have all of a healer’s knowledge.” To Lossenol she said, “The headaches may never go away entirely, nor the difficulty with speech, but it sounds as though the latter is at least only a mild inconvenience sometimes—you certainly sound fine, to my ears. But what’s…”

She frowned, looking hard into his eyes for a few seconds, and spoke a few words—and pain lanced through his skull like a knife had been driven through his bad eye. He jerked back without thinking, hands flying to his face when even the relative dimness of the bedroom became too much. He heard Daeron exclaim something, but couldn’t understand anything through the blinding, searing pain. 

And then he wasn’t in the bedroom anymore he was in an enormous hall with ceilings so high they vanished into the shadows; something was burning, people were screaming—someone grabbed his shoulder and bright grey eyes under a sweat-dampened tangle of dark hair bored into his and a voice spoke, gasping and half-snarling, that made the air shiver around him. “Death is too—”

Familiar hands took hold of his head, on either temple, and Daeron’s voice murmured a few quiet words, half-chanting them, and he was back in the bedroom, dark now that someone had closed the window shutters. He was shaking all over, sick and confused. The pain started to ebb, and then Daeron helped Lossenol to lay down. “I’ll be back soon, just try to rest.”

“You said she—w-wouldn’t—”

“It wasn’t on purpose. Just lay still. Keep your eyes closed.” Daeron drew a blanket up over him, and left.

The pain faded very slowly, leaving Lossenol feeling sick and weak. He felt, too, the return of that terrible sense of emptiness that he had, for months now, been able to ignore—that panicky sense that without any knowledge of his past he was no one, that he could never be anyone, that he was just an empty shell pretending to be a person…

Eventually, Daeron returned. “Lossenol?”

“I’m n-not letting her near me—a—again.”

“I’m sorry.” Daeron sat on the bed beside him. “She was as alarmed as I was—I’m so sorry, I never expected it to hurt you like that. I should have. Can you get up and get dressed?” He helped Lossenol sit up and put on his shirt, but he couldn’t try to stand without the room pitching and spinning around him. “Here, drink this—it’s just water.” Daeron helped him hold the cup as he sipped at it, though his stomach rebelled and he couldn’t do more than that. “Lie back down,” Daeron said. “Do you want me to sing you to sleep so you can get some proper rest?”

“Will it hurt?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not doing anything like Medlinel tried.”

Lossenol breathed out, and felt tears gathering in his eyes. He didn’t want to cry, and squeezed them shut again. “All right,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry, Lossenol,” Daeron said a third time. He stroked his hair back out of his face. “I truly did not think it would hurt just for her to look.” He began to sing, his voice soft and familiar, bringing sleep with it like drawing up another blanket. Lossenol didn’t fight it, and finally, as sleep overtook him, the strange vision faded out of his mind, and his head stopped hurting. 

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As he fell asleep, a few tears escaped in spite of Lossenol’s efforts. Daeron wiped them away, and then went back out to where Medlinel waited in the front room. “I always knew you were strange, Daeron,” she said, turning from the window to frown at him as he shut the bedroom door, “but this particular choice of lover is beyond—”

“He isn’t my lover,” Daeron sighed. “What were you trying to do that hurt him so?”

“There is something in him—surely you’ve seen it? It brings to mind the Girdle. I wanted to see what it was.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it. I do not know what it is either, and it is beyond my skills find out. That’s why I wanted you to look. Do you think that is what keeps his memory locked away?”

“Yes. His injuries were bad, but there is nothing else there I could find that would explain such a complete erasure. You say you are no great healer, but you did your work well, especially considering the circumstances.” Medlinel paused. “It was done on purpose, I think—though it is clumsily done and I’m not sure the real intention was to seal away his memory. Without a closer look I can’t guess what the intention was, and I doubt he’ll let me in again.”

“He won’t.”

“As far as I can tell it poses no other danger, to him or to anyone else. There is something else, though—something I did not try to touch. Something dark. A heavy doom lies over him—”

“We’ve all heard of the Doom of Mandos,” said Daeron. “I’ve known all along he is a Noldo.”

“A kinslayer, Daeron? That is who you’ve taken to your bed, who you have allowed near Lúthien’s grandchildren—”

“I told you how we were all brought together,” Daeron snapped. “It’s not a matter of allowing—what was I supposed to do? Leave him to bleed out in the snow and make myself a kinslayer in turn? What would you have done?”

“I would not have been alone,” Medlinel snapped back. “I would have at least kept him away from the children until he could be sent back to his own people on his own two feet!”

“I tried to tell him, but—”

“And you could not just slip away, take the children and disappear into the twilight? You, Daeron, with all your skill in shadows and in hiding? For all you know, you have one of the Sons of Fëanor in your bed, not just one of their followers!”

“It’s not like that—”

“Why do you defend him?”

Daeron balled his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. He let the sharp pain of it ground him. “I am not defending him—not what he may or may not have done—do not interrupt!” he said sharply when Medlinel opened her mouth. He hadn’t meant to make it a command, but her mouth snapped shut, and he couldn’t regret it when he saw the way her eyes widened a little. Let her be reminded that he was not powerless. “I do not know who he was, before, but he has neither said nor done anything since he woke in Ossiriand to threaten either me or the children. He saved my life, Medlinel—at great risk to his own, and he didn’t have to. He is also not entirely ignorant—I told him of Alqualondë, and what I must guess happened in Doriath. His horror at it was not feigned. Whatever he was, it is not what he is now.”

“And when that veil is lifted from him?” Medlinel asked, not gently but more quietly. “What do you think he’ll do then?”

“I think he will remember what I have done.” Daeron would never admit to Medlinel that he thought she was right, though he knew she hadn’t really been serious—that it was one of Fëanor’s own sons in the next room. If Lossenol did wake up in the morning answering to the name of Celegorm—well. Surely that would not erase what had happened over the winter or that spring. Surely it would not erase all the affection he had for Eluréd and Elurín. 

There was, however, still the Oath. Daeron feared its awakening more than anything else, because he did not know what it would drive Celegorm to do whether he really wanted to do it or not. It wasn’t something he could plan for either, because he didn’t know enough about it—he didn’t know enough about anything. 

Medlinel looked at him with a strange expression on her face—a mixture of pity and resignation and something Daeron wanted to call disgust. He hated it. They had never been friends, he and Medlinel. She had come to Eglador to learn whatever Melian could teach her, and while he had also learned much of Melian he was much younger, and Medlinel had very obviously thought him foolish and frivolous. In turn he had thought her too grim, and so they had mostly ignored one another. Now he suspected she thought him rather pathetic, and he had just enough of his old pride left to despise her a little for it. 

Finally, Medlinel asked, sounding a little incredulous, “Daeron, are you in love with him?”

“What?”

“It’s one thing to take him to bed, but to fall in love—he’s a kinslayer!”

“I am not—oh, believe what you will. I don’t care.” No one had ever believed him when he had tried to say he wasn’t in love with Lúthien, either. As though it was impossible to love someone without wanting to take them to bed—or that you could share a bed with someone and do nothing more than sleep, just because it was a comfort to have another body beside you, someone else’s breathing to break the silence of the night’s darkest and loneliest hours. 

If Daeron loved anyone these days, he loved Eluréd and Elurín. He liked Lossenol, though, and he was grateful beyond words for both his company and for his skills, even if that wasn’t quite enough yet to banish the fear—and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. 

He left the house, and Medlinel followed. They couldn’t continue whatever that conversation had turned into in front of Eluréd and Elurín, and Daeron was very glad to sit in the grass and let them tumble over his lap. “Where’s Lossenol?” Eluréd asked.

“Resting. His head aches.”

Eluréd immediately turned to glare at Medlinel, who glanced at them only briefly before going to talk to her companions. “What did she do?”

“Nothing, Eluréd—she’s a healer, and she would never harm someone like that on purpose. It’s only that sometimes healing hurts, however careful we are. You know that Medlinel was once a student of your grandmother Melian? She could teach you much—”

“Not as much as you,” said Elurín.

“She can teach you different things than I can,” Daeron said. 

“Lossenol said you’d try to convince us to go away with her, but we won’t,” said Eluréd. “And if you try to leave we’ll just follow you—we know how! Lossenol’s been teaching us!”

Lossenol had been teaching them the rudiments of tracking, but they were a long way from being able to follow Daeron. He believed that they would try, though, and he sighed. “I’m not going to leave, songbirds,” he said softly. “And I’m not going to try to make you leave either. But while they are here, do not spurn Medlinel’s teaching, or her friendship. She was friends with your grandmother Lúthien, too, you know.”

“I don’t care,” Eluréd muttered, and pressed his face into Daeron’s shoulder. “She doesn’t like you.”

“That doesn’t make her a bad person,” Daeron said, though of course it did in the eyes of a six-year-old child, and nothing he said would convince either Eluréd or Elurín otherwise. “Please be polite, though—for me?”

“Fine,” they both sighed, as dramatic as Lúthien had been at their age when someone had needed to cajole her into doing something she didn’t want to do. 

Daeron couldn’t help but smile, in spite of the ache the memory brought with it. “Thank you,” he said.

Lossenol did not wake the rest of the day. Medlinel and her companions—Bronwel and Ifreth, neither of whom Daeron had met before—retreated to another one of the houses to sleep that night. They chose one of the bigger ones, which Daeron thought must have been Medlinel’s before they had left. He put Eluréd and Elurín to bed, singing them to sleep in hopes that they would have a quiet night, free of nightmares. 

He was tired but not yet willing to go to bed himself, and after making sure Lossenol was still asleep he slipped outside and climbed a nearby tree. It was very tall, and when he reached the highest branches he could see the open sky above, brilliant with stars. He leaned against the trunk and stared up at them. Once again, he did not know what to do. Medlinel would have him take Eluréd and Elurín and go with her into the east, leaving Lossenol behind. His own inclination had been, at least in the beginning, to make sure Lossenol and the twins were somewhere safe—Lossenol on his way to his own people and the twins with those who could care for them better than Daeron could—and to slip away, returning to his own lonely wanderings. Now all that had long gone by the wayside, and he didn’t know what he should do instead. By day it was easy, mostly, to ignore the grief that gnawed at his heart, but there alone under the stars he felt so very small and so very alone. Someday that grief would rise up and overwhelm him as it almost had in Ossiriand, and all Daeron could think of as he sat and watched the stars all blur together as he failed to hold back tears was his own father. 

All of Daeron’s life, Caladorn had been a bright and merry presence. So had Daeron’s mother, Togamel, though she was fiercer than her husband, much quicker to take up arms than he. She had also had friends and kin among the Falathrim, and had happened to be visiting there when Morgoth had returned to Middle-earth—both of them had been there when the orcs had laid siege to the havens. Daeron had remained at home, and his first taste of real terror had been in those long weeks and months of waiting for news—for any word of them at all, good or bad, as word came back from Amon Ereb of Denethor’s fall, and from elsewhere of orcs overrunning Beleriand; it had felt like the whole world was ending, until they learned of the coming of the Noldor and their swift and decisive victory against the armies of Angband. He did not know exactly how his mother had died, but he was sure that she had gone down fighting. His father had never recovered from the horrors of that siege, or the grief. He had returned wounded and deeply changed to Doriath, and lingered there for some years, clinging to life for Daeron’s sake, but in the end it had all just been too much to bear. 

It had been Daeron who found him one morning, in autumn, not long after the sun had first risen to give them mornings—his body limp and cold in his bed, his spirit unable to continue on in a world where Togamel was not. Daeron still did not know how he had not followed his father in those weeks and months afterward, when the new-risen sun had seemed to turn black and all the newly revealed colors had seemed to leach out of the world. He hardly remembered those days, or even much of the years that followed. 

Well. He remembered Menelas, his soft-spoken friend who had rarely left his side, who had wept with him and sang quiet songs and refused to let his world fall entirely silent and dark. He remembered Lúthien’s presence too, bright and blazing and impossible ignore, and Mablung—another dear friend—all of them determined that he would not follow his father. And he hadn’t, somehow. Maybe Melian had done something too; he had never asked. By the time the Mereth Aderthad had come around he had been recovered enough to put on a smile and to even really enjoy himself once he and Mablung reached Ivrin.

They were all lost to him now. Somehow Daeron had outlived both Lúthien and Mablung. And Menelas was…well, he might also be dead, but if not he was worse than dead. 

He wasn’t alone anymore—but Caladorn had not been alone either. It had not been enough, in the end. Someday it might not be enough for Daeron, either, and all he could think as he watched the stars and let the tears fall, was that he did not want either Eluréd or Elurín to find him when despair claimed him at last. 

When he returned to the ground he found Lossenol just coming outside, rubbing his good eye, hair still sleep-tousled. “How’s your head?” Daeron asked, trying to wipe his own face clean before Lossenol noticed.

“All right now.” Lossenol frowned at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—”

“But—d-did something happen?”

“No.” Daeron shook his head, and went to slip past Lossenol. “You should eat. I’m going to bed.”

“Daeron—”

“I’m fine. Please eat something.”

Daeron went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. He lay and stared at the dark ceiling, the grief still knotted inside his chest so that it was almost a physical ache underneath his ribs. Lossenol returned after a short while, and that made it a little easier to breathe—having a living person, a friend, right there—and Daeron closed his eyes, hoped he seemed asleep. If Lossenol could tell that he wasn’t, he didn’t say anything. He just settled back into bed. Daeron wasn't sure when either of them fell asleep for real. 

The next morning Ifreth departed, heading west to try to find what news she could. In the meantime, Medlinel seemed to decide that Daeron should know what had happened in between his departure from Doriath and Húrin’s bringing the Nauglamír to Thingol, which had happened just before she and her people had bid Lúthien and Beren farewell and departed from Ossiriand for the east. There were no songs for any of it, but Medlinel was a skilled speaker and storyteller—and she was kind enough to tell it all to him alone, out of the hearing of Eluréd and Elurín. Thus he heard the details of Lúthien’s quest that had escaped him before—all that went on in Nargothrond, and Finrod’s fall, and Celegorm and Curufin’s machinations—and then the disaster of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and then Túrin’s coming to Doriath, and later his going to Nargothrond, and its fall to Glaurung…

It was terrible. He listened and concentrated on just breathing and hated himself a little more with each word—for having left, for not having been there, even though there was still nothing he could have done. The tides of fate were inexorable and inescapable, and Doriath had been caught in the Doom of the Noldor, and even at the height of his power there were no songs he could have sung that would have stopped it.

Hardest of all was hearing of Celegorm and Curufin, of the way they had so deftly turned all of Nargothrond against Finrod—Finrod Felagund, shining and golden and open-hearted, who had taught Daeron Quenya with infinite patience in those years before Thingol instituted the Ban, who had been so determined to befriend anyone and everyone, who Daeron had liked, best of all Thingol’s strange and bright-eyed kinsmen—and the way they had ensnared Lúthien—Lúthien!—all just to gain what power they could. He supposed it might have served the Oath well, to unite the Noldor and the Sindar in that way, but it would not have worked. Lúthien would have never agreed, nor Thingol, and it would have only brought about more and worse kinslayings until there were none left to try for the Silmarils at all. 

When she finished, Medlinel looked at him. “You still wish to keep company with one who served the Sons of Fëanor?” she asked.

“That is none of your concern,” Daeron said, able to keep his voice even only because of many long years of practice. 

“It is my concern if he poses a danger to my people—or to the children.”

Outside, Daeron could hear Lossenol laughing with Eluréd and Elurín. It seemed impossible to imagine him having raised his voice in Nargothrond’s grand hall, or to have tricked Lúthien into captivity, or—

The thought came to him that it had once been impossible to imagine Elu Thingol ordering Lúthien’s imprisonment, too. 

Daeron had not been in Nargothrond, and the only one who could tell him what had really happened did not remember it. “Unless you are hiding the Silmaril,” he said aloud, “I do not think any of Fëanor’s sons, or their followers, pose a danger to you. Clearly, we do not have it. Therefore they should not be a threat.”

“And to Eluréd and Elurín? You think they might not be vengeful?”

“I do not think Lossenol is.”

“Perhaps only because he does not remember how to want such things.”

He isn’t, I know he isn’t, he would never hurt them no matter what— “A good thing, then, that he neither remembers nor wants to remember.”

Medlinel’s expression was very grave as she met Daeron’s gaze. “He will someday, Daeron. How or when or why, I cannot say. But he will, and you must beware. He is dangerous.”

“So am I.”

“Are you so insistent on remaining with him because I am the one advising against it?” Medlinel demanded. “We have never been friends, you and I, but I am trying to help you!”

“I know that,” said Daeron, “but—I was called back west of the Ered Luin for a reason. Finglas and Fladrif brought both Lossenol and Eluréd and Elurín to the precise place I had chosen to winter in Ossiriand—of all the places they could have crossed the Gelion, it was there. Do you think that is mere chance? The twins don’t think so, and—”

“They aren’t even seven years old yet!”

“They are Melian’s children,” Daeron said. “I have tried to tell them it would be better if they went with you, but they won’t hear it, and—they’ve lost everyone else already. The more I think on it—I cannot take Lossenol from them too. They were the ones to give him his name.”

“And when Ifreth returns to tell us all she could learn of Doriath’s final sacking?”

“I don’t need all of the details to know it was terrible. I’ve known all along, Medlinel.”

“You are playing with fire, Daeron.”

“I know that, too—and I will make sure that I am the only one who is burned if it all goes wrong.”

Medlinel left the house. As soon as the door shut Daeron fled to the bedroom, where he could close that door too and slide to the floor and let go of his self control for a little while. His tears the night before had been quiet, just the grief making itself known; now the horror of it all seemed to take his entire body in an icy grip and it wouldn’t let go, and he shook and sobbed until he couldn’t breathe—for Thingol, for Finrod, and Mablung, and Lúthien, and Orodreth, and Beleg—for Doriath. Even for Celegorm, who had lost everything including himself, even before his memories had been locked away—surely the way Lossenol first reached for kindness was proof that he had not always been what he became, that he had not always been someone who would betray his kin and commit kidnapping and murder just to get a little closer to jewels no one could ever attain.

He might not even be Celegorm, Daeron thought, but he knew he was only fooling himself. 

Once he could compose himself, Daeron slipped out of the house and went to the river to wash his face, trying to erase all traces of tears. As he dried off with the hem of his shirt, Lossenol appeared and sat beside him. “Where are the twins?” Daeron asked.

“Bronwel’s showing them how to weave baskets out of grass. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing—”

“Please don’t lie to me. You aren’t very good at it.”

“I used to be,” Daeron muttered. He rested his arms on his knees and stared at the water. Lossenol sat quietly and waited. He couldn’t stop thinking of Lúthien locked up in Nargothrond—brought there by fair words and false promises, entirely believable right until the lock clicked shut behind her. 

Lossenol was also full of fair words and promises. But Daeron had been on his guard from the start—he was not as foolish as Medlinel thought him. He would be able to catch a lie, surely. It wasn’t as though Lossenol had staged all of his injuries, or his panic when he realized he could not remember his own name. None of that had been feigned—no one was that good an actor, nor that devious a schemer. The shadows hovering behind his eyes were real. 

He had saved Daeron’s life, when it would have been both safer and smarter not to even try. Lossenol had done that—Daeron did not think Celegorm would have.

And there was danger in that, too—in thinking of them as separate people when they weren’t.

Finally, he said, “I just—there was much I did not know. And now I do.”

“About what?”

“What happened after I left. I…I knew that everyone I had known was gone, but I did not know how it had all happened. I still don’t know how Thingol died, but…I know the things that led to it.”

“I’m sorry,” Lossenol said quietly. “Both that it happened and…for whatever part I played.”

“Thank you.”

“I know it doesn’t mean very much.”

Daeron wondered what Lúthien would say if she could see them now. He wondered what his parents would think. Aloud he said, “It means a lot—at least to me. You know Medlinel thinks we’re lovers.”

“Is that why she keeps glaring at me?”

“Part of it, probably.”

“I assume you told her we aren’t.”

“Yes, but she didn’t believe me.”

He saw Lossenol shrug out of the corner of his eye. “Does it matter what she thinks? She’s not staying—and I don’t think any of us are going with her when she leaves.”

Daeron sighed. “No, we aren’t. And it doesn’t matter. It’s just…frustrating. No one ever believes me about that sort of thing.”

“That’s stupid,” said Lossenol. “Who would know your heart better than you?”

“Well—it’s not that no one ever believed me, just most people,” Daeron said. “Menelas—” He choked on the name, and had to press the heels of his palms into his eyes to stop the tears from escaping anew. 

Lossenol leaned over just so his shoulder bumped against Daeron’s. “I’m sorry,” he said, very softly. Without thinking, Daeron leaned back, letting his hands fall back onto his knees, and his head drop onto Lossenol’s shoulder. He couldn’t bring himself to care anymore what Lúthien would think—or Thingol, or his parents, or anyone else. They weren’t there; he was, and he was so tired of doubting everything he chose to do, even if it did someday come crashing down around him.

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Ifreth returned after two weeks, having gotten news from the dwarves who guarded the pass through the mountains. “Doriath is fallen,” she confirmed gravely. “The Sons of Fëanor came like wolves in the dead of winter—but it is not known that they retrieved the Silmaril they sought, and they lost three of their number. Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir fell in Menegroth, the Dwarves say. The rest have retreated to Amon Ereb, and have been fighting hard to keep the lands between the Amdram and the Gelion clear.”

“They are too few,” Daeron murmured. “Orcs still roam Ossiriand.” He was carving something, and did not lift his gaze. He’d been carving a lot lately—little charms that he hummed songs to while finishing, and wooden beads, and a few simple wooden flutes and sets of pipes, two of which he’d given to the twins. Lossenol didn’t know what he intended to do with the rest. 

It felt—something felt wrong, about listening to this news. The names should have meant something, but they didn’t, except that they did, only he didn’t know why.

Lossenol had followed them, those brothers, and now they were dead. Once he had thought them worthy of his loyalty—once, maybe they had deserved it. They had led him into terrible deeds; he did not want to return to their service. So why did he want to start screaming at the thought that they were gone?

He did not scream. Instead he leaned against a tree stump and listened to Ifreth answer Medlinel’s questions. The Fëanorians had been the second group to sack Menegroth, Ifreth told them. Dwarves from Nogrod had done it first, slaying Thingol for the Silmaril they’d set into the Nauglamír. That had been when Melian had departed and withdrawn her Girdle, setting the stage for the second attack. Daeron’s hands fell still as he listened to that tale, and Lossenol saw him close his eyes and take a deep, shuddering breath—but he did not otherwise react.

There was very little else to be said—the world was dark and growing darker. That was nothing new. His head ached dully; that was nothing new, either. Daeron sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and that was new. Lossenol kept his arms crossed over his chest and kept his gaze on the fire, and pretended he wasn’t leaning quite as hard against Daeron as he was. Eluréd and Elurín were nearby, playing one of their games, talking to one another in half sentences and made-up words. It was a beautiful summer day, with clouds drifting lazily across the sky. The world was dark but their little piece of it remained an island of sunlight—for now. 

The news kept circling in his mind like carrion birds, making his head hurt a little more every time. Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir fell in Menegroth. Celegorm, Curufin, Caranthir…

“What are we going to do?” he asked Daeron later that night. “I mean—we found Medlinel, and your plan to send the twins with her isn’t going to happen, but…”

Daeron sighed as he pulled a comb through his hair. “I don’t know.” He sat on the bed facing away from Lossenol. “We could stay here, I suppose. I mean—I know we intended to stay, but we haven’t spoken of how long. It’s close enough to the mountains that we can get news, as Ifreth did, and maybe do some trade with the Dwarves sometimes. It’s close to the lake, too, and Bronwel told me there is a settlement at the southern end of it—of Men and Elves—that we might also befriend. We cannot stay forever, but…for now, it should be safe.” He did not suggest that they go to join the people by the lake. Lossenol was relieved; the four of them had too many secrets, and it would be harder to keep them if they tried to join with some larger group. They might not have a choice in the coming years, but while they did have one, he would prefer to remain separate.

“It might be that the Dwarves will need help in keeping the passes clear,” Lossenol said, thoughts lingering on what the future might hold. 

Daeron turned to look at him. “You want to go back and fight?”

“I think—I think that’s all I’m really good at. Fighting and hunting.”

“That’s not true.”

“But I am good at those things, and—if I can help others escape like we did, shouldn’t I try?”

“Yes,” Daeron said after a moment, still looking at him, brow slightly furrowed, “but—you still wander, sometimes. I might have a song that will make it stop, but I don’t know for sure that it will work and I’m not yet ready to try singing it. You shouldn’t go alone, and we can’t both go.”

“I don’t mean I want to pack up and go now. I wouldn’t be useful to anyone now. Just—eventually.” Eventually it would come to fighting whether they wanted to or not. They needed to get ready for it.

“You also don’t have a sword.”

“I could get one. Maybe the Dwarves will make me one, if I can convince them I can be helpful.”

Daeron hesitated for a moment before saying, “You also should not overestimate yourself. I do not mean to doubt your skill, for I know firsthand what you can do, but—there might be effects of your injuries you haven’t yet noticed, in your mind or in your body. I can’t say what they might be, because I didn’t know you before, but…”

“I’ll be careful.” Lossenol finished braiding his own hair and slipped under the blankets. Then he said, as Daeron joined him, “The twins need to learn, too.”

“Learn what?”

“To fight, Daeron.”

Daeron raised himself up onto his arm. “Lossenol, they’re only six years old!”

“I’m not saying they need to be battle ready by ten—but keeping them safe means teaching them to keep themselves safe.”

“I am teaching them that,” Daeron said. 

“There are going to be times when they can’t use what you teach them,” Lossenol said quietly. “The earlier they start—the better they’ll be, when the time comes.”

Daeron seemed to want to argue, but after a moment he just sighed and lay back down, rolling onto his back. “I know. You’re right. I just—I hate it.”

“I’m not saying it because I like it.”

“I know that, too.”

The next day Lossenol saw Daeron speaking to Medlinel, and then the day after that he packed up the things he had been carving, and left with her and Ifreth, heading not west but east and south. “I’ll be back soon, I promise,” he told the twins, kneeling to kiss them when they protested. “If we’re going to stay here, though, we need to introduce ourselves to our closest neighbors. Medlinel knows the folk who dwell by the lake, so she’s going to introduce me.”

“Can’t we come too?” Elurín asked.

“Not this time. When you’re a little older. Just mind Lossenol, and don’t wander off, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Yes, Daeron,” they chorused. 

“Be careful,” Lossenol said when Daeron straightened.

“You too.”

Bronwel remained behind. She did not regard Lossenol with quite as much suspicion as both Ifreth and Medlinel; he thought she might be younger than they were. She had also endeared herself to Eluréd and Elurín by teaching them many new games. Lossenol left them with her to play one such game, and went out into the woods. He didn’t have knives or swords to start teaching them, but he could make staffs. It was a simple matter, finding branches that he could cut to the right length, and he took them back home to strip of bark and twigs while keeping an eye on Eluréd and Elurín and Bronwel. 

That night he put the twins to bed in their own room, but wasn’t surprised when in less than an hour they climbed into bed with him. “Daeron’s really coming back, right?” Eluréd whispered as Lossenol straightened the blankets over the three of them.

“Yes, of course. He promised he would.”

“And it’s not dangerous, where he’s going?”

“No, I don’t think it’s dangerous at all.”

“Can we sleep with you at night until he comes back?”

Lossenol laughed and kissed Eluréd’s forehead, and then Elurín’s. “You’re in here most nights anyway. Of course you can.” 

He had the staffs ready in two days, and when Bronwel went off to hunt, Lossenol presented them to Eluréd and Elurín. “You’re going to need to learn how to defend yourselves,” he told them, “and we’re going to start with these.”

“With sticks?” asked Eluréd skeptically.

“Someday they might be spears,” Lossenol said, “but you can do plenty with just a stick like this.”

“But Daeron is teaching us songs to protect ourselves,” said Elurín.

“And he’s going to keep teaching you,” Lossenol said, “but someday you might not be able to use songs—it might be too risky to make any noise, or you might injure your voice, or any number of things. And even if none of that ever happens, it’s better to be prepared for something that never comes to pass, than to not prepare yourself and then meet disaster. The more you know, the better. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” said Eluréd after a moment.

“It might also be fun,” Lossenol offered, reaching up to tug on Eluréd’s braid. “Whatever you might need to do in the future—that’s still a long way off. Today I’m just going to show you how to hold them, and one or two very simple swings and blocks, all right? It’s a little like dancing—there are steps to learn and patterns to follow.”

They spent half an hour at it that day. Lossenol wasn’t entirely confident in his skills as a teacher—not when he couldn’t be entirely confident in his skills in general—but Eluréd and Elurín were quick learners, and though they were still young and easily distracted, by the time Lossenol took the sticks back and agreed to go down to throw rocks in the river, he felt a little more sure of himself—and very sure that someday both Eluréd and Elurín would be formidable, in every possible way. 

Meanwhile, Bronwel proved much more willing than Medlinel or Ifreth to take Lossenol as he was—to talk to him as though they could be friends, and not treat him as though he was going to attack the moment her back was turned. It was nice, though he felt odd and uncomfortable trying to talk to her in return. She drew a map for them of the lands between the Ered Luin and the lake beyond the hills east of the River Lhûn, and south past the dwarf roads, marking places that were good for hunting or fishing, and she taught the twins a great deal that Lossenol didn’t think he could about the plants around them and what many were good for, and which ones to avoid. 

She also, apparently, decided that they were good enough friends that she could ask, only a few days after they had been left alone, “So—you and Daeron?”

Lossenol paused in the midst of stirring the cooking fire they’d been using since Medlinel, Ifreth, and Bronwel had arrived, in a fire pit dug outside in between the houses. “What about me and Daeron?”

Bronwel was kneading dough for some sort of flatbread, and didn’t pause as she spoke. “Medlinel thinks you’re lovers, but says Daeron denies it. On the one hand, I don’t see the point of denial if it’s true, but on the other hand…”

“There is no other hand. Why not just take Daeron at his word?”

“Is it common among the Noldor to share a bed with mere friends?”

Mere friends seemed like a disservice to the word—and to whatever he and Daeron were swiftly on their way to becoming. Not lovers, certainly—something closer to family than anything else. “Do the Laegrim only share a bed with a lover or a spouse, even when it is more practical? We only have so many blankets.”

“That’s fair,” Bronwel laughed. “Though you can always get more, you know. So if you aren’t lovers—”

“We aren’t,” Lossenol said. 

“Would you look elsewhere?”

Lossenol blinked at her. “For what?” She raised an eyebrow, and he felt his whole face get hot—and then felt his fingers heating up, because he hadn’t moved his stick and it had caught fire. He dropped it into the flames. “Oh. Um. Why…?”

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” Bronwel laughed again. It didn’t sound unkind, and Lossenol felt like this—whatever this was—should have been something he was good at. Maybe if he could remember ever speaking to any other person besides Daeron or the twins, he would be. “It’s all right,” Bronwel said, taking pity on him. “Just know that I don’t find it alarming that you are a Noldo with that strange light in your eye.”

“I’m also not that—I mean—I don’t—I’m going to see what Eluréd and Elurín are up to.” Lossenol fled, and found the twins climbing a nearby tree to try to see into a bird’s nest. That was much safer than trying to decide whether or not he even wanted to look elsewhere, as Bronwel had put it, when there were so many other more important things to worry about. She didn’t so much as hint at such a thing again, to his relief. 

Finally, Daeron returned with Medlinel and Ifreth, and he did not come back empty handed. He had seeds to plant the next year, and food to add to their stores, some bundles of fabric—and a sword, plus two smaller ones, with dulled blades clearly meant for teaching children. “What did you trade for all this?” Lossenol asked him. 

“The flutes that I made, and some songs—but the cloth and the seeds were gifts. Medlinel knows the people by the lake—they call it Nenuial, by the way—and she spoke for us.”

“I thought she didn’t like you. She definitely doesn’t like me.”

“For the twins’ sake,” Daeron said, shrugging. He still looked satisfied—quietly pleased with how the visit had gone. “And now we have friends among the folk who live near the southern edge of the lake, who are happy to know that Elves dwell again near the river. They also have some dealings with the dwarves, though not as much now as of old. Is this sword suitable? I know very little of such things. The smith gave it to me as a favor to Medlinel, who from what I gather saved his life once.”

Lossenol hefted the sword. It was not dwarf-made, but it was well made, with good balance and a sharp blade. “Yes,” he said. It wasn’t perfect, but a good sword was a good sword, and this would slay orcs just as well as one he might make himself. 

The thought made him pause for a moment. Did he know how to make a sword?

“Good,” Daeron was saying. “How did you fare here while I was gone?”

“Fine,” Lossenol said. “Nothing really happened, except I started teaching the boys how to fight with staffs.”

“And you’re all right?” Daeron asked. 

“Yes.”

“No—no wandering, no headaches?”

“No wandering. I woke up with a headache yesterday, but it was gone in an hour. I’m fine, really. Are you all right?”

A little bit of tension that Lossenol hadn’t even noticed before eased out of Daeron’s shoulders. “All right. Good. I’m all right—just glad to be back.”

“I missed you, though,” Lossenol offered after a moment. 

This earned him a smile, one that almost reached Daeron’s eyes. “I missed you too.”

Medlinel, Bronwel, and Ifreth did not linger much longer; they wanted to catch up to the rest of their people, and they did not intend to return. Medlinel and Daeron had words once more, and Lossenol suspected that Medlinel also tried to speak to the twins again—but Eluréd and Elurín were steadfast in their refusal to be parted from Daeron or Lossenol, let alone both of them at once, and so eventually they were left alone again, just the four of them in the woods. Lossenol couldn’t really feel sorry for it, and he didn’t think Daeron did either.

He started getting up early in the mornings—well, they all did, because there were chores to do, and Daeron started to insist on maintaining a routine of lessons for the twins, apparently modeled more or less on his own childhood education—and took his new sword out to the riverbank where there was plenty of room to practice. His body remembered what to do—how to hold it, how to swing it—but he still had a long way to go to recover all the strength he’d lost in the cave-in and his recovery over the winter.

“Are we going to have to learn that too?” Elurín asked one morning when Lossenol returned with his sword, still sweaty and with aching arms. 

“Eventually,” said Lossenol. “We’ve got swords for you to get started with.”

“Does Daeron have to learn it?” Eluréd asked.

“If he doesn’t already know, he should,” said Lossenol, glancing at Daeron. 

“I did learn, long ago, and Mablung very soon despaired of me,” Daeron said, speaking lightly but without a smile. “I’m a little better with a bow—good enough to hunt with success more than half the time—and I know more or less how to use a knife. But my primary—well, my power lies in my voice, though I have not often used it as a weapon. I could, and I will teach you how,” he added to the twins, “because you must know how to use and to control your power, Melian’s children, but it is not to be used lightly—not to cause harm. Only when you have no other choice.”

“Yes, Daeron,” they chorused solemnly. 

“Can you use a stick?” Lossenol asked, and tossed the staff he’d made for himself over to Daeron. 

Daeron caught it, frowning. “No?”

“Then I’ll teach you along with the songbirds.”

“Oh, but—”

“It’s better to be prepared for something that never comes to pass, than to not prepare yourself and then meet disaster,” Eluréd recited. Daeron narrowed his eyes at him, and Lossenol couldn’t help but laugh.

Elurín added, “Lossenol says it’s a little like dancing, except it’s really not.”

“It will be,” said Lossenol, “when you’re a little bigger and able to spar with each other properly.” He held out his hand, and Daeron handed the staff back. “Or when I teach you some of the more complicated forms.”

“Spear dancing was not practiced much in Doriath, but I have seen it before,” said Daeron. “It was very fierce—but also very beautiful.”

“No, I can’t teach you that,” said Lossenol when the twins turned to him with wide and hopeful eyes. “Sorry, songbirds.”

“Because we’re too little, or because you don’t know how?” Eluréd asked.

“Both. Come on—you need to practice at least a little bit every day.”

After their practice with the staffs, Daeron set the twins practicing cirth, and Lossenol went to hunt down a branch that could be made into a proper staff for Daeron, who eyed it warily when Lossenol sat down to start stripping away the bark and smaller twigs and leaves. “I’m not going to be any better with that than I am a sword,” he said.

“You might be. Different skills.”

“I’m not a warrior, Lossenol. I’m a singer.”

“Even singers need to be able to defend themselves.”

Daeron glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You mean, if I had been able to defend myself better those orcs wouldn’t have—”

“No,” Lossenol said. “Of course not. We were caught off guard and outnumbered and didn’t have enough weapons between us, anyway. We got lucky that neither of us actually died. But we can be better prepared for next time.” Because there would be a next time—it would be foolish to pretend otherwise. If their luck held, they wouldn’t encounter any more orcs until the twins were old enough to wield their own swords, but Lossenol knew better than to count on that. 

So did Daeron. He sighed. “All right, fine—but you aren’t allowed to make fun of me when I never get any better.”

“You don’t need to be good, you just need to be able to crack an orc’s skull if you have to.”

“Well.” Daeron grimaced. “Maybe.” 

The summer passed in lazy peacefulness. The twins turned seven years old at Midsummer, and they feasted on blackberries and wild strawberries in celebration. Lossenol trained himself hard, trying to learn how to account for being entirely blind on his left side as well as regaining the strength he’d lost, and trained the twins more gently. He cajoled Daeron into taking up his own staff, but not every day; Daeron only engaged with him half-heartedly as it was. When he said he was not a warrior, he meant he did not have the heart or the stomach for it. If the Shadow was not looming ever larger on the other side of the mountains, and if Daeron did not have a price on his head in Angband, Lossenol might have let it go—but it was looming, and there was a price, and so he pushed. In response, Daeron only grew more reluctant.

Once in the autumn, when they were about to get into a real argument over it, Daeron spoke a word that had Lossenol on his knees a second later, head spinning. “When I am not run ragged by a lean winter and having used all my strength in healing,” Daeron snapped, almost inaudible through the ringing in Lossenol’s ears, “I am more than capable of defending myself without a stick or a sword!”

Lossenol shook his head and staggered to his feet. “You can’t count on never being run ragged like that again, Daeron!”

“I can make sure that I never—”

“And when something happens and you can’t use your voice—why are you so resistant to learning to defend yourself?”

“I’m not, I just already know how!” Daeron stalked away, vanishing into the trees. Lossenol would have given chase if he weren’t still dizzy, but instead he went to sit down on the bench they’d put by the door of their house, and leaned back against the sun warmed wall, eyes closed, and waited for the effects of whatever Daeron had done to pass. 

After a minute he heard the door open, and opened his eye to find Eluréd and Elurín peering out, looking apprehensive. “It’s all right,” he said. 

“Is Daeron angry?”

“Just at me—he won’t be angry at you.”

Daeron did not seem angry at all when he returned, though he wouldn't look directly at Lossenol. He had smiles for the twins, and engaged them after dinner with their flutes, and spoke of making or finding drums for them to learn to play next. 

Later that night, when they were alone, Lossenol said, “Want to tell me what that was all about, earlier?”

“Was it not obvious?” Daeron asked, suddenly stiff and cold again. 

“I hit my head very hard last year,” Lossenol said mildly. “I think I might be a bit stupid now. Maybe you can explain more plainly?”

“Oh, don’t,” Daeron sighed. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Yes, I know. That’s the whole problem.”

“I’m not good at it and I hate it—and I have other weapons at my disposal, better ones than a stick.”

“And if you’re disarmed?” Lossenol asked quietly. “Or unable to use your voice, for whatever reason?”

“Then I run.”

“And if you are disarmed and overpowered?”

“Then I hope that I die before the enemy realizes who I am and drags me back to Angband.”

This was going nowhere. Lossenol rubbed his hands over his face and took a breath so his next words didn’t come out as a growl, wondering if Daeron realized what he was actually saying, and then asked, “And if you’re disarmed and overpowered and the twins are there? If I’m there, and I’m relying on you to cover my left side?” He gestured at his face, at the scars and the sightless eye he still didn’t know how he was going to compensate for in a real fight. “I don’t want you to like it, Daeron. I need you to stay alive.” Daeron had no argument for that—Lossenol could tell by the way he glared. “You’re the one that keeps saying the Shadow will cross the mountains eventually—”

“And when it does, whether or not I can bash someone’s skull in with a staff won’t make the slightest difference.”

“It will make a difference to Eluréd and Elurín! They keep saying we were meant to find one another, but what if we were just meant to protect them? There’s no one else like them in the world! I don’t know very much, but I don’t need to, to understand that they’re important.”

“They would be important even if they were not of Lúthien’s line,” Daeron said quietly.

“Yes, of course, but you know what I mean.” Privately, Lossenol also thought Daeron was important—he was a mighty singer, Melian’s student, one of the last survivors of Doriath. Of the four of them, it was Lossenol who wasn’t special in some way, aside from somehow surviving a battle and a cave-in long enough for an Ent to find. If he had been saved for a reason, he thought it must be to keep Daeron and the twins alive. Whether it would really make a difference against the might of Angband—who knew? He would still rather go down fighting than not do anything at all. And part of protecting them meant teaching them to protect themselves—even if Daeron didn’t want to.

Daeron turned away and banked the fire. Without looking at Lossenol he said, “Fine. I’ll try. And I’m—I’m sorry. This time of year is always…”

“Always what?”

“It’s the fading of the year—it just puts me on edge. It always has, and I am out of practice at hiding it. I’ll get better.”

“You don’t have to hide it. I don’t mind if you snap at me sometimes,” Lossenol said.

“Well, I do. You don’t deserve it.”

“Honestly, it’s the least of what I deserve, if—”

“No, it isn’t. I think you have already paid quite dearly for your actions in Doriath, and you do not deserve to have me lose my temper for no reason.”

Lossenol shrugged, even though Daeron was still turned away and couldn’t see him. “Just as long as you don’t use that one word on me again, it’s fine. Could you teach me that word?”

At this Daeron turned back to him, gaze assessing. “It’s not just the word, but the power behind it,” he said.

“Is that something you can learn, or…?”

“Yes and no. I don’t know if you have the same kind of innate power that I do—that’s just something you’re born with—but I can teach you to use what power you do have. Everyone has at least a little.”

“Good enough for me,” said Lossenol. “And for what it’s worth, that’s how weapons training is too.”

Daeron rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, you’ve made your point. I won’t argue about it again, I promise.”

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Daeron hated the fall. Not the beginning—that was always beautiful, especially in these woods full of oak and ash and maple. But the later months, as the days grew short and cold and all the brilliant colors faded to browns…it was as though the whole world was fading, and it made him keenly aware of his own danger. It helped a little to have things to do—to have a routine that required him to get up in the morning, that would not allow him to just huddle under the blankets all day no matter how much he wanted to. 

He was so tired, though, and as the days dragged on it just got worse, and his heart ached more and more, until one morning he tried to get up and just couldn’t. The thought of leaving the warmth of his bed was unbearable, and he couldn’t make himself remember why it was important that he did not just go to sleep and not wake up again.

Was this how his father had felt? Daeron kept his eyes closed and tried not to think about his father—or his mother, whose body he had never seen, whose grave he had never gotten to visit—and failed. He kept thinking he heard their laughter somewhere in the distance, and he couldn’t quite tell if it was a dream or a summons.

“Daeron?” Lossenol’s hand was warm and dry on his face, callouses catching on his hair as he brushed it back out of his eyes. “Daeron, what’s wrong?”

“Mm…” Daeron opened his eyes with effort. “Just…tired.”

“This seems like more than just tired.” Lossenol’s brow furrowed, pulling on the skin around the scars across his left eye. “You’ve been off for days. Are you hurt? Should I try to find a healer?”

“No—no. Just…” Daeron managed to sit up, but he felt so heavy—heavy and empty at the same time. “I’m sorry.”

“You said this time of year puts you on edge,” Lossenol said after a moment. In spite of what he had said before, he was not stupid, and Daeron should have realized that he would make the connection. “This seems worse.”

“I’m…” Daeron rubbed his eyes. “I have suffered bouts of this—whatever it is, for many years now. It’s been getting worse, especially at this time of year. I don’t—” know why I didn’t succumb to this fading years ago, he couldn’t make himself say.

“Is there anything that helps?”

“Not really. It…will pass.” Hopefully. Maybe. It felt worse than ever that year, after everything that had happened. He’d started dreaming of the orcs again. 

“Hm. Come on, get up.” Lossenol pulled him out of bed, and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. “Just come sit by the fire. You don’t have to do anything, but you’ve been alone every other time, and now you aren’t—that will help.”

“But—”

“Come on.”

A very short while later Daeron found himself seated by the fire, which crackled merrily on the hearth, with a cup of something steaming and sweetly herbal in his hands, while Lossenol told Eluréd and Elurín that they could comb out and braid Daeron’s hair for him that morning. “I really don’t need—” Daeron began, but there wasn’t any getting out of it, and he just had to surrender to four small hands pulling a little too hard on his hair as they wove crooked braids into it. As they did, Lossenol began a simple Quenya lesson, mostly just teaching them new words, while he did something with some animal skins that he had been treating over the last few weeks. Daeron knew very little about turning furs or skins into something usable, but Lossenol was determined that they would all stay warm that winter. 

Daeron just sat and sipped his tea and watched the flames, letting the chatter wash over him without really listening to any of it. He thought of the food stores they had set aside, and wondered if they would be enough. They had run out of the twins’ lembas long ago, and that was something Melian had never taught Daeron. It was the province of queens and matriarchs, at least in Doriath, and from what he had learned of the Noldor it seemed the same traditions had held true in Valinor. 

It was another argument in favor of sending the twins with Medlinel and her people, but that chance had passed, and Daeron thought it would take a lot more than another lean winter to make them agree anyway. It wouldn’t be as hard as the last winter—they were safe enough from orcs, he thought, and they had a far sturdier shelter now than the flet had been. Not to mention, Lossenol was still with them and almost fully recovered from his injuries except for some lingering weakness in his left shoulder. That would make everything easier, from hunting to keeping themselves stocked with firewood. 

He knew all of that, but it was still too easy to look ahead to the coldest and harshest months and feel like spring would never come. 

The rest of the autumn passed similarly. Some days were easier than others. Every day, Lossenol made sure Daeron wasn’t alone—though he never tried to make false promises or to act more cheerful than he really felt in an attempt to raise Daeron’s spirits the way some of his friends had in Doriath, which he appreciated. The twins also stayed close, curling up beside him and asking for stories that forced him to think of things outside himself. It did help, to not be alone—it was enough, at least for now.

“You seem like you’ve done this before,” Daeron remarked one evening. 

“Done what? Sew something?” Lossenol was patching his cloak, needle flashing in the firelight, swift and sure.

“Well—yes, that’s obvious. But I meant taking care of someone like me.”

Lossenol shrugged without looking up. “Maybe I did. I don’t remember. Is it helping?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what caused it?”

“Not in general. I’ve always been more prone to melancholy than most—my music has always moved the audience to tears more easily than to laughter—though it only got really bad after my parents died, and then worse after I left Doriath. But this year, it’s…I’ve had time now to—to really realize what it means. That there’s really no one left. It feels…”

When Daeron didn’t go on, Lossenol said, very quietly, “Like there’s this great empty space inside you—like something important was torn out, and all you can do now is hope the bleeding someday stops?”

Daeron blinked. “Yes. That’s—if you feel it too, how—?”

“If I go back and I find out what exactly it is I’m missing—who it is I loved and who is almost certainly dead, now—I don’t think I’d survive it. I don’t think it would be slow, but I know it would hurt. And that’s on top of finding out what exactly it is I did. Whoever I was, whatever I had, I like who I am now, and I never want to go back.”

“You could still be who you are now, even if you remembered,” Daeron said quietly, though he wasn’t sure that was really true. The Oath seemed to sleep, with the memory of it locked away, but of course it would waken with a vengeance if that changed. Daeron didn’t even know if the Oath held that kind of power in truth or if they all just believed that it did, and maybe it didn’t matter. The result was the same. 

Lossenol seemed to sense something similar, even if he couldn’t put it into words. He just shook his head. “I don’t think I could. But I also don’t—I really do think—whatever was there, as long as I don’t remember, I can keep the wound closed. If I do remember—it would kill me, and I don’t want to die.” He hadn’t sounded so bleak since those early days after he woke up in the flet. 

Daeron moved before he could even think about it, leaning over to wrap his arms around Lossenol and dropping his head onto his shoulder. For a moment Lossenol froze, but very quickly dropped his mending to return the embrace. “I’m sorry,” Daeron whispered. 

“Me too,” Lossenol whispered back.

Neither of them moved for a long time. Daeron couldn’t remember the last time someone had held him or he had held someone else like this—just after the Dagor Bragollach, most likely, but he couldn’t recall who. 

Finally, Lossenol loosened his grip, and Daeron drew back. “We should go to bed,” said Lossenol as he reached for his mending to put it away in a basket Elurín had made. “It’s late.”

Once they were in bed, Daeron rolled over and whispered, before he could talk himself out of it, “Lossenol?”

“Mm?”

“Can we—I still don’t want you to ravish me, but—”

“Good, because I still don’t want to.” Lossenol rolled over and wrapped an arm around Daeron again, tugging him in closer. “Is this all right?”

“Yes.” Daeron sighed and closed his eyes. Under his ear he could hear Lossenol’s heartbeat, strong and steady; his arms were very warm. “Thank you.”

He slept better that night than he had in ages, and woke feeling more rested than he had in years. 

The winter passed quietly. Daeron felt more like himself as he got used to the bare branches and the frost decorating the windows, and found new appreciation for the stark, harsh sort of beauty that winter brought with it as he saw it anew through Eluréd and Elurín’s eyes, for they were delighted with everything.

Once Lossenol was assured that Daeron would still be there when he returned, he made a journey of his own back west to the mountains. Daeron wanted to ask him not to, but they did need to establish some kind of relationship with the Dwarves there, and they needed to know something of what was happening in Beleriand.

The twins were as unhappy when Lossenol left as they had been when Daeron had, only this time they did not have as much to distract them, and the cold weather brought with it constant reminders of the disasters of last winter. Their nightmares came back, and more than once Eluréd broke down in tears, fearing that something would happen and Lossenol would not return and they would never know what had happened to him—just as they were likely never to learn what had happened to their parents or their little sister Elwing. There was very little Daeron could say to reassure them. He had his own fears—Lossenol had not lost himself and tried to wander off in many months, not since Medlinel had looked into his mind, but Daeron had not forgotten it. He had a faint suspicion that it was the Oath trying to wake up, and he feared what might happen if Lossenol heard something of the Silmaril while he spoke to the Dwarves. He had been working on a song of his own that might send it to an even deeper sleep—but it might have the opposite effect if he got it wrong, and so he hadn’t dared to try it yet.

No one’s fears came to fruition. After three weeks Lossenol returned with several bundles that turned out to be cloth—wool, much of it thick and soft and perfect for winter clothes—and a dwarf-made knife that he seemed very pleased with. The dwarves of Belegost still remembered their alliance with the Noldor, and had been generous. “They’re glad to know we’re here,” he told Daeron, “and they said they would send other Elves our way should they cross the mountains—Kóri said it’s likely to come to heavy fighting in the future, and they’ll be glad of Elves they can call upon, no matter how few our numbers.”

“I thought the Dwarves didn’t like us,” said Elurín. He and Eluréd had attached themselves to Lossenol upon his return and had yet to leave his lap.

“I asked about that,” Lossenol said. “I spoke to Dwarves from Belegost that man the outposts on the eastern slopes—only a few at a time, since all the real danger is in the west. It’s Nogrod that quarreled with Doriath, you remember? I think Ifreth found that out. Both cities are working to keep the passes clear for any refugees coming out of Beleriand and to protect their cities, but they’re stretched thin and they don’t know how much longer they can hold out. Neither one is going to be picky about allies.”

“What will they do if they cannot stay in their mountains?” asked Elurín. 

“Kóri said they would try to flee east, to Khazad-dûm. He’s never seen it, but he claims its bigger than any other Dwarvish city ever built, and is ruled by Durin the Deathless—whatever that means, it sounds as though he is very old—and that it will never fall to any Enemy. I don’t know who Durin is, and I did not ask.”

“I know little Dwarf lore, myself,” Daeron said when the twins turned to him. “They keep their most important stories secret, just as they do not share their language with outsiders, choosing to learn ours instead. But Durin is, I believe, the name of one of the Seven Fathers, who woke long ago beneath the stars sometime after the Elves awoke by Cuiviénen—perhaps after the Great Journey, I don’t know. It was well after our people settled in Eglador that the Dwarves first came to Beleriand. I don’t think the Dwarves know themselves when they woke. I can say nothing one way or another of Khazad-dûm or who rules it now—I have not gone that far east.”

“Have you known many Dwarves?” asked Eluréd.

“Once upon a time. They helped us to delve Menegroth long ago—and they were the ones who most appreciated my runes when I first made them. There was little call for writing things down, the Elves thought then, for our memories are long.”

“Why make them in the first place?” Lossenol asked.

“I wanted a way to learn and to teach that did not depend upon speaking to others face to face. How much easier it would be, I thought, to share my songs if I could just write them down and send the copies to the Falas, or to Mithrim, or wherever I wished! And writers there could do the same, and I could read their work in the comfort of my own home in Eglador! There are other uses too—leaving signs in the wood, warnings or directions, or—oh, all sorts of things. I also just wanted to add another element to my songs—that they might be as lovely to look at as they were to listen to—and it was a challenge, to take sounds and turn them into something tangible. The Dwarves took to them immediately, especially since I designed them to be easy to both write and to carve. The Noldor in the west made their own letters, maybe even as I was designing mine, I don’t know—and it seems to have caught on much more widely there. Even among the Sindar, the Tengwar are agreed to be much lovelier to look at than the Cirth.”

“That’s not true!” said Elurín.

Daeron laughed. “Thank you! But it’s all right, I don’t mind. They were made in different places by different minds, and these days they serve different purposes.”

“Will you use your right name when we have dealings with the Dwarves?” Lossenol asked. 

“I don’t know yet, but probably not. I doubt there are any left who I once knew—Dwarves are long-lived, but still mortal, unless one’s name is Durin the Deathless it seems, and it sounds as though they’ve lost many to the war. Did you not speak of us to them?”

“I did, but I didn’t use names. They seemed to understand.”

Daeron was not as good at sewing as Lossenol was, but if his stitches were not pretty they were strong, and as he made new clothes for them all he hummed songs of strength and warmth and comfort, feeling them sink into the cloth and thread, and finding more satisfaction in both the singing and the making than he had in a long time. Lossenol made fur-lined hats and mittens for them all. There was far less snow on the eastern side of the mountains, at least that year, and so when it did come it was more of a chance for play and pleasure than anything else. The twins made little snow fortresses to hide in, and populated the village with snow-people with sticks for arms and stones for eyes and mouths. As their Quenya lessons progressed, Lossenol earned a nickname: Lossë, a word for snow, which the twins were delighted to find was so similar to Sindarin’s loss. 

Since permission had been granted, Lossenol grew increasingly tactile, often slouching against Daeron or slinging an arm over his shoulder as they stood or walked somewhere. It was all purely friendly, but also intimate—intimate in the way of family, of brothers or dear friends. It was nice. It made it easier to hold himself in the present, to remember that that he both could and wanted to stay alive and himself, rather than fading way into the winter woods.

Daeron tried to recall if Maglor and Maedhros had behaved in the same way, but couldn’t. Of course, they had been at a very public event, even if it was not quite as formal as it might have been. But he thought he remembered Maglor, at least, often reaching out to Maedhros, laying a hand on his arm or bumping their elbows together. Certainly they were always looking at one another, sharing laughter or having entire conversations in the space of a glance. Then he thought—perhaps Lossenol was a glimpse of Celegorm as he had once been in his happier youth, surrounded by brothers and cousins and friends. And then, of course, he wondered what all of his brothers had been like. He wondered what Fëanor had been like before it all went wrong—brilliant, of course, one of the mightiest born of all the Eldar, or so it was said, but all the actual tales Daeron had heard of him spoke of someone fey and fell, fierce and proud and terrible. 

So his sons had been too—at least Celegorm and Curufin, in Nargothrond. But they could not have all always been that way. Daeron wondered how it was that someone could fall so far.

“What are you thinking about?” Lossenol asked, dropping down beside Daeron in front of the fire. “You look very serious.”

“Oh—nothing in particular. I’m just sick of the cold.”

“I heard ice cracking up the river somewhere today. It won’t be long now before spring comes.”

“How long before it never comes again at all?” Daeron murmured without thinking. 

“That’s cheerful.”

“Sorry.”

Lossenol glanced at him, expression serious. “Speaking of cheerful things,” he said, “I keep dreaming about light. I don’t know what it means, but it—it frightens me more than the dark.”

“What kind of light?”

“I don’t know. Maybe—you said I had seen the Trees? Across the Sea? Maybe it’s that. It feels familiar, and it’s beautiful, but it also…hurts.”

“Maybe it is the Silmarils you dream of,” Daeron said carefully. Lossenol grimaced and looked away, but the mere mention of them didn’t seem to have stirred the Oath. “I’ve never seen one, but they are said to be very beautiful—they’re all that’s left of the Trees’ light, now, so I suppose it’s really more or less the same, whether you dream of one or the other. I can only imagine that is why Elu Thingol chose to keep it after Beren gave it to him—he had seen the Trees once, too. It was foolish—but, oh, I don’t know. That Light was what all our people crossed the world for, even if some of us never finished the Journey. It doesn’t surprise me that you would dream of it, or that it would be painful in its beauty. Fate seems to bend strangely around them too, if that makes sense—even when they aren’t present. I could feel it before I left, though I did not know what it meant.”

“I wish I wasn’t dreaming of it. I hate it. But how could you feel it?”

“I don’t really know. It was like hearing a key change in a song. At the time it felt discordant and wrong. I don’t know anymore if it was only my fear that made it seem so. There’s…there is an echo of the Great Music in all the waters of the world. You have probably heard bits of it here and there—most Elves can. If you know how to listen, you can hear more. Sometimes—it used to allow me to understand better what was happening, or what might happen in the future. But when Beren came I didn’t stop to listen—I was too afraid of how different the Esgalduin suddenly sounded.” He hadn’t tried to listen in the years since, either. Sometimes he thought about going to spend a few hours learning what the Lhûn might tell him, but he never did.

“Why did you leave, though? I don’t think you’ve ever actually explained what you did that was so bad.”

Daeron breathed a sigh, and moved over so he could lean against Lossenol, grateful for the arm that immediately came up to wrap around his own shoulders. In the other room Eluréd and Elurín laughed, busy at some game of their own invention. “I saw Lúthien with Beren in the woods, and I heard the change. He brought Doom on his heels, and I was afraid for her. So I went to Thingol, and I told him of Beren—who should not have been able to pass through the Girdle, let alone unnoticed. He was angry, and when Lúthien brought Beren before him he demanded a Silmaril as a bride price. It was not his to demand, and—really he just wanted Beren to leave and to never return, in spite of the fact that he had promised Lúthien he would not harm him. The Silmarils were all then still in the Enemy’s crown, impossible to retrieve, or so we all thought.”

“I don’t think I like Thingol much,” Lossenol said.

There was much Daeron could say in Thingol’s defense. He had been something like an uncle—a teacher, a kind and steady presence—as well as Daeron’s king, all his life, for Daeron’s parents had been friends and fierce supporters of his by Cuiviénen, before and during the Great Journey, and then afterward, when Eglador had been established. And of course he had been Melian’s student for many years—he had loved them both, just as much as he had loved Lúthien. There was also nothing he could say in Thingol’s defense, because he had acted foolishly and even cruelly, when he should have listened to Lúthien or at least to Melian. “He was as afraid as I was, I think,” Daeron said. “I don’t mean to defend what he did, or what I did, because I knew Lúthien better than almost anyone and I too should have let her make her own choices in her own time. I should have spoken to her, rather than running to her father. But I did go to him—twice. Because Lúthien grew determined to go after Beren, and when she told me of her plans I betrayed her trust. It was still just fear—fear that she would make it all the way to Angband and then not be able to get out again. That was the worst thing I did, because by then I knew more, and she had trusted me, and I betrayed her—she could forgive me before, but not after that. When I left Doriath it was in an attempt to follow her, to try to make up for it somehow, though I really don’t know what I would have done if I’d managed to find her. But the Girdle caught me and turned me around and spit me out in the east, and…”

“You didn’t want to go back?”

Lúthien had been so angry. She didn’t get angry like her father—he had never actually seen her with such fury in her eyes, cold as ice and frighteningly dark, voice gone low and dangerously quiet. And everyone knew that he had been the one to inform Thingol, at least the first time. Mablung had probably known, at least, that it had been him the second time too. “I don’t think I would have been welcomed back,” he said quietly. “And I thought…then I still trusted that the Girdle would hold. That—that it would be there, if I ever changed my mind.” It had been as foolish a belief as any of his others, then. He’d known that Doom had wound its way through the trees, following on Beren’s heels—that it was only a matter of time.

It had just seemed so impossible that Menegroth would fall. That Melian would leave, that Thingol could possibly be slain. 

He felt Lossenol take a breath and said, “Don’t apologize. You already have, and—if it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else. Even if the Oath had never been sworn and no blood of kin had ever been spilled—there is still the Shadow in the north.”

“If it weren’t for the kinslayings and the Doom of Mandos,” Lossenol said, voice barely above a whisper, “there might be a chance of winning.”

“I don’t think so. Not unless the Powers in the West choose to act—which they could have done by now, if they really cared.” Daeron heard the bitterness in his voice, but didn’t know how to quell it. He wondered if Melian had returned there—if she had tried to plead before the Valar, or if she knew that it wasn’t even worth trying. Maybe she just wanted to await Thingol outside the doors of Mandos and did not care anymore what she had left behind. Maybe grief had done to her whatever it was the Maiar suffered rather than fading and death.

He lifted his head, but didn’t pull away. “I have songs that can chase away dreams, if you’d like a night of uninterrupted rest.”

“That…would be nice. Thank you.”

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The next few years passed peacefully. The lands remained quiet; for long stretches of time it was almost easy to forget what was happening just beyond the Ered Luin. Things got easier—they established themselves more firmly, learned the land, were able to set aside more and more food and supplies until winter did not bring so much worry, and to trade with the Men and Elves who lived across the river and over the hills by the lake, and sometimes with the Dwarves—though that wasn’t really trading so much as exchanging gifts whenever Lossenol went to ask for news. And when Eluréd and Elurín were old enough they started going with Daeron or Lossenol to those meetings by the lake or at the feet of the mountains. The nightmares faded, for all of them, though they never quite went away. Daeron started singing more, building up his strength again in the same way Lossenol was building his every time he picked up his sword.

The first time Lossenol took only one twin with him was the spring before they turned fourteen; they were gawky adolescents then, clumsy with sudden growth spurts, and on track to grow taller than both Daeron and Lossenol. Eluréd had sprained his ankle, and so he had to remain behind with Daeron while Lossenol and Elurín went to visit the dwarves. The twins both agreed to the plan without hesitation, and Elurín was cheerful for the first few hours—until that night, when they stopped to make camp, and he realized that this was the first time in his life he would be sleeping apart from his brother. 

“Come here, birdie,” said Lossenol, and tucked Elurín against his side. It was late spring and warm, so they hadn’t made a fire. The forest around them was alive with the sounds of nightlife—crickets and rustling and occasionally the call of an owl. He kissed the top of Elurín’s head. “Your brother’s going to be fine, and so are you. This had to happen sometime, you know.”

“I know,” Elurín said, voice slightly muffled by Lossenol’s cloak. “I just miss him.”

It was an easy trip to the mountains. Elurín was quieter than he usually was, but as the days passed he cheered up a little. The path was a familiar one to both of them by now, but there were always new things to see in a springtime wood. Once they glimpsed an Ent passing through the trees in the distance—not Fladrif or Finglas, according to Elurín, and so they did not call out to him. Another afternoon they heard bright and merry singing somewhere on the edge of hearing. “That sounds like Iarwain,” Elurín said. “I didn't know he came this far west.”

“I think Iarwain goes wherever he wants,” said Lossenol. Iarwain Ben-Adar had started coming around the year before, bounding over the hills and dancing up the riverbanks. Daeron found him grating, but Lossenol liked him, with his merry songs and everlasting good cheer. He always had interesting stories to tell—mostly of the woods and the creatures within it, sometimes of the trees and the rivers elsewhere in Eriador, though it was sometimes hard to tell which ones he spoke of because he had names of his own for them that did not always match what Elves or Men used.

They did not see Iarwain himself then; the singing faded away into the distance, and did not return. A few days later they reached the road, and from there it was a straight and easy route to the outpost near the pass. Most times that Lossenol came to visit it was manned by one or two dwarves—far fewer than those who held the more fortified western roads—but sometimes no one was there, as when they had first passed through the mountains themselves; then, it had been because the dwarves had withdrawn to regroup after some fierce fighting in the west, some signs of which Lossenol had seen, though not enough to realize the scale of it. They had been very lucky in their timing, then, without knowing it.

Now, a dwarf that Lossenol did not know stepped outside as they approached. “You must be Lossenol,” he said, looking him up and down. “And this is one of your sons?”

Lossenol was usually careful not to refer to the twins as his children—the nickname songbirds came in very handy—but before he could think of a way to correct the dwarf Elurín said brightly, “Yes, I am! My name is Pínamrent, at your service.” He bowed politely.

“Halli, at yours and your family's,” replied the dwarf with a bow of his own. “Kóri should be back soon—he’s gone back up the mountain to find out what’s happening on the other side of the pass.”

“Has there been any trouble?” Lossenol asked.

“Plenty, but mostly west of the Gelion.”

Kóri did not return that day, and Lossenol didn’t get a chance to speak to Elurín alone until the evening when they bid Halli goodnight and retreated to the small room set aside for visitors. “Birdie, you can’t just go around saying I’m your father—”

“Why not?” Elurín replied, frowning at him. Lossenol could already tell he was going to lose this argument; Daeron said that expression made the twins look like Elu Thingol, and every time he said it, it was with weary resignation. “We already call you that—you and Daeron. You’re Atya Lossë and he’s Ada Daeron.”

“But we’re not,” he said. “You know that.”

“Of course we do,” said Elurín, “and we haven’t forgotten either Adar or Naneth—we’ve just got two more fathers now.”

“Elurín—”

“Pínamrent, remember?”

“You are Pínamrent only because it’s too dangerous to use your right name,” Lossenol said. “Don’t forget that either.”

“I haven’t. But I also remember how Daeron said once that names shouldn’t be given lightly. They’re important.”

“I didn’t give it to you any more lightly than you gave me mine,” Lossenol said. “I just don’t want you to forget who you are.”

“You forgot,” Elurín pointed out, “and you don’t want to remember.”

“That’s different. I don’t think I was anyone all that important. You know what I mean,” he added when Elurín bristled. “I wasn’t someone anyone bothered to search for afterward.”

“Neither were we.”

“There’s a very big difference between no one bothering to search, and there being no one able to search,” Lossenol said. “But that’s not—look, does Daeron know about this?”

“Not yet. We knew you’d both be upset—that’s why we’ve only been calling you Ada and Atya when we’re talking about you, rather than to you.”

Lossenol sighed. “I’m not upset.” It just felt like he had been given something very precious very suddenly that he never expected to receive and certainly didn’t deserve, and didn’t really know what to do with. Not when he was part of the reason Eluréd and Elurín lost their parents in the first place.

“Anyway,” Elurín went on, “doesn’t it just make sense to tell people we’re your sons? No one’s going to think we’re us if they think you or Daeron are our real father.”

“Maybe,” said Lossenol. “Just warn Daeron before you go around introducing yourself like that, all right? He really will be upset if you take him by surprise.”

“Yes, Atya.”

Kóri returned the next day—and not alone. He had two Elves with him, and the man had a child strapped to his chest, apparently asleep. “Lossenol!” Kóri exclaimed, beaming. “I hoped you’d make your way here sooner or later!”

“Well met, Kóri,” Lossenol said. 

“And is this Pínamrent or Pínfileg? I can never tell.” 

“Pínamrent, Kóri,” said Elurín with a grin. 

The Elves were introduced as Hendaras and Elenel, and the child was not an Elf but a child of Men, who they had found wandering alone in the woods during their flight east, and had named Mithon. Kóri had already told them of Lossenol and Daeron and where they were settled near the River Lhûn, a good stopping point between the mountains and the lake, and Lossenol could see the relief in Elenel’s eyes as she grasped his hand in greeting. He remembered feeling the same way after crossing the mountains. Still, he looked at each of them carefully as he met their gazes—he didn’t think there was anything wrong with them, but he also wasn’t as sure as Daeron would be what to look for. 

“You’ve had no troubles since you settled there?” she asked.

“No, none, and it’s been nearly seven years.”

“There’s always the chance of an incursion, especially from the north,” Halli warned from where he sat near the fire, whittling something. “We are stretched thin enough as it is keeping the pass clear—we don’t know what tunnels the orcs might have dug through the mountains elsewhere.” 

“They haven't yet, though,” said Kóri with a warning glance at Halli, who ignored him. 

“And that’s not even accounting for the dragons that might be running loose—”

“We have seen no signs or orcs or dragons,” said Lossenol, seeing the alarm on both Hendaras and Elenel’s faces. “I’ve been keeping watch. And we can show you other roads east, where other Elves have gone.”

“Why did you not go farther east?” asked Hendaras. Lossenol only shrugged. Neither he nor Daeron wanted to flee any farther east, but if Daeron had the words to explain why, he hadn’t shared them with Lossenol. For himself, he just wanted to do something, when the time came. That wouldn’t be possible if they went all the way to the Misty Mountains or beyond. 

Later, while Elurín played a game with little Mithon on the floor and Halli engaged Hendaras and Elenel in conversation, Kóri sat with Lossenol near the open doorway that looked out toward the road. “You always want news of the west, I know,” he said, “and if you’re really keen on it and can spare a few days this time, two of the Sons of Fëanor are at our outposts on the other side of the pass. The youngest—Amrod and Amras. Twins, you know,” he added, as though the fact that Lossenol was raising one pair would endear him to another. 

“I like news, but I’m not so eager to cross the mountains,” said Lossenol. “How bad is it?”

“Getting worse every day. There was one Elven city still standing—Gondolin. You know of it?” When Lossenol shook his head Kóri went on, “Turgon and his folk turned up for the battle that lost us Azaghâl—that your people call the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. I’m too young to have fought, so I never saw them, and then they disappeared somewhere back into the mountains, they say. Well, they’ve come out again—or some of them, at least. Led by Turgon’s daughter—Idril, I think Amrod said her name is—and her husband, a Man of the House of Hador or some such. So say Lords Amrod and Amras, and they’re in a better position than us to know. Gondolin is no more, same as Doriath, and Nargothrond, and all the rest. Gondolin fell some years ago now, I think, but news is slow to cross the miles these days. There’s only the Havens at the Mouths of Sirion now, and Círdan on the Isle of Balar, and a few outposts on the Amdram. Gil-galad is High King now. You know him?”

“I know the name,” said Lossenol, and did not add that he only knew it because he had heard it first from Kóri. “Did a remnant of Doriath make it to Sirion, then? I’ve never heard if that was more than only a rumor.”

“Yes, they and their little princess, Elwing. She’s half-elven, they say, same as Idril’s lad. There might be a few more who attempt to cross the mountains, like Hendaras and Elenel here—but not many, I think. They only made it past the rivers because they fell in with the Fëanorians that were on their way here.”

“Is there any good news?” Lossenol asked.

“Well, that anyone escaped Gondolin must be good news,” Kóri said after a moment. “Beleriand is not entirely overrun—not yet. Our wise ones say there is yet hope—they say to watch the stars.”

“The stars? What are the stars going to do?”

Kóri laughed. “Funny thing for an elf to say! All your people ever sing about is the stars, when you can get away with it.”

“We love the stars,” said Lossenol with a smile, “but I, at least, have never expected anything from them, except to help me find which way is north.”

They didn’t stay much longer. There was little else to learn, and no immediate danger that the dwarves knew of. That was almost always the case, but it always made Lossenol uneasy. Sooner or later it would change, and all he could hope for was that the change would come only after the twins were full grown—though they were growing so fast that even that day would come far sooner than he would like—and that they might have a little bit of warning beforehand.

At home, they found Daeron coaxing a goat off the roof of one of the empty houses in the village. “That happens a lot,” Elurín told Hendaras and Elenel, who covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. “He brought a pair home from the lake settlement last summer and I think he regretted it immediately.”

“Lossë, come help!” Daeron called in lieu of a greeting. 

“The goats hate me,” Lossenol replied. 

“But they listen to you!”

“Sorry,” Lossenol said to their companions. “You can pick any house to stay in, they’re all empty and we’ve kept them more or less maintained—but maybe not the one the goat’s on. It’s their favorite for some reason.”

“Thank you,” said Hendaras.

Elurín ran to find Eluréd, and Lossenol went to join Daeron. “They’ve come from across the mountains,” he said in a low voice, nodding toward Hendaras and Elenel. “There might be more in the future, but Kóri doesn’t think it’s likely. Nearly everyone in Beleriand seems to have congregated at the Mouths of Sirion by now.”

“I suppose that’s good to know,” Daeron said, sighing. “Do they intend to stay or move on?”

“They need a place to rest a while, but I’d be very surprised if they stayed. Whatever their story is, they haven’t shared it. The child isn’t elvish, though. Orphaned, I think. I can’t tell if he’s one of the Edain or an Easterling, though I suppose it doesn’t much matter.”

“Mm.” Daeron glanced toward them again. “I suppose I should also use my other name—except I hate it. Especially here at home.”

“We knew this was likely to happen,” Lossenol pointed out. They’d talked about it several times, and agreed that they wouldn’t turn anyone away if it was safe.

“I don’t mean I want to send them away,” Daeron said. “I just…wonder now how much it matters if they know who I am.”

“I was careful—I don’t think they’re a danger, but your sight is keener than mine.”

“I hope it is, though I’ve heard tales before of others who were enthralled but kept it hidden until it was too late.”

“If you’re looking for it, I don’t think you’ll miss it,” said Lossenol. Daeron smiled, brief and crooked. He was more sure of himself these days than he had been when they’d met, but was still plagued with doubts—especially when it came to things like this. “I’ll get the stupid goat. You go see what you can see.”

Most animals were easy to talk to. Lossenol was friends with most of the birds in the surrounding woods, and never feared wild animals when he went wandering. Goats, though. They were ornery on a good day, and the ones Daeron had brought back hated Lossenol in particular, and for no good reason. This one, the kid that had been born that spring, was still small enough that Lossenol could climb up and grab it—though he got both kicked in the shins and bitten for his pains. “Why did it have to be goats?” he asked Daeron plaintively once he was on the ground and the kid had scampered back to its mother. “Of all the animals. You couldn’t have just gotten the songbirds a puppy?”

“You say that like I had a choice. When an elderly wise woman decides your growing boys need milk, you don’t argue—especially with Mistress Aereth. Anyway, you’re fine.” He paused, and then added in a low voice, “And they’re fine. Hendaras and Elenel. I’ve introduced myself as Torrandir—I still hate it, and they have no intention of returning to the west, but…better safe than sorry, I suppose.”

“Doesn’t have to be a false name, if you choose,” Lossenol said.

“A name someone else gives me would be one thing, but Torrandir is what I chose only to hide myself. Using it for more than a few days at a time feels like trying to put on clothes that don’t fit.”

“We’re safe here, whatever happens,” Lossenol said quietly. And they could also pack up and leave in less than five minutes—they’d have to leave the goats behind if the worst happened, but goats were resourceful and could take care of themselves. By now all four of them were very good at disappearing into the woods, together or separately, and they had a dozen meeting places where they could reunite later if they were parted.

“I know.” Daeron took a deep breath, and put on a smile. “It’s just going to take some getting used to. Having other people around, answering to another name. It’s not a bad thing, I’m just still a grumpy hermit.”

It turned out to be a good thing. Lossenol liked both Hendaras and Elenel, though Hendaras looked at him oddly sometimes. It was obvious to everyone that everyone else had pasts they did not wish to share, and they just silently agreed not to bring it up. Mithon was just old enough to toddle around, following after Eluréd and Elurín as they went about their chores. The twins were more than happy to play with him and carry him around when they went out into the woods, showing him the flowers and the nests that the birds were building in the trees. 

“He’s baby Elwing’s age—when we last saw her, I mean,” Eluréd said one evening, a week or so after their return from the mountains. The four of them were in their own house. Eluréd lay with his head on Lossenol’s lap, while Daeron combed Elurín’s hair, picking burs out of it from when he had fallen out of a tree after dinner. 

“She’s not baby Elwing anymore,” Elurín said. “Ow!”

“Hold still, I’m going as gently as I can,” Daeron said. “This is what you get for climbing that tree, you know. I told you that branch wouldn’t hold.”

“Did you hear anything about her from the dwarves?” Eluréd asked. 

“Kóri told me a remnant of Doriath did make it to the Mouths of Sirion, for certain,” Lossenol said, “they and their Princess Elwing, he said. And a remnant of Gondolin has lately arrived there too—I don’t know how recent the news is, though. Turgon’s daughter led them there. She sounds like Lúthien—she married a Man of the House of Hador, and Kóri says they have a son.” At this Daeron tilted his head, making a thoughtful noise. 

“What’s Gondolin?” asked Eluréd. 

“Some Noldorin city, I suppose,” said Lossenol. “I’m not sure I would have known about it even before—it sounds as though it was secret.”

“It’s location was secret,” Daeron said, “and its name—but I do remember when Turgon and all his people disappeared from Nevrast. He was close in friendship with Finrod, his cousin, who was very concerned when it happened—though he did not seem to me entirely surprised. Birdie, if you don’t hold still I won’t ever get done.”

“Sorry.” Elurín stopped fidgeting. “There’s no getting to Sirion for us, though…”

“No, Elurín, I’m sorry,” Daeron said. He paused in his combing to lean forward and kiss his cheek. “We would get you there if we could.”

“She’s where she needs to be,” Eluréd said, “and we’re where we need to be.” Lossenol glanced down to find that odd faraway look in his eyes. It passed in a moment and he sighed, closing them. “I miss her, though.”

When Daeron finally finished picking the burs and bramble bits out of his hair, Elurín said, “Lossë knows about the Ada Atya thing, Eluréd. I forgot to tell you before.”

“What Ada Atya thing?” Daeron asked, hands going still halfway through parting Elurín’s hair.

“A dwarf asked if I was Lossë’s son, and I said yes,” said Elurín.

“Elurín—”

“I know—”

“We talked about it,” Lossenol said. “It’s a losing battle, Daeron, and he’s not wrong that it’s probably safer to introduce them that way.”

“But what—”

“Oh, we’ve been calling you both Ada and Atya for ages now,” said Eluréd. “Just between ourselves because we knew you wouldn’t like it, but we haven’t been correcting anyone who calls us your sons, either.”

“Birdies,” Daeron protested. “We’re not—”

“You’re Ada Daeron, he’s Atya Lossenol, and we haven’t forgotten Adar or Naneth,” Elurín said, crossing his arms. “But they’re not here, and you are.”

“Told you,” said Lossenol when Daeron opened and closed his mouth a few times, unable to come up with anything to say.

“It’s not you or them that are our parents, it’s you and them,” said Eluréd. Lossenol took his hand and squeezed it. “Anyway, there’s lots of families like ours by the lake—adopted ones, or people just thrown together by chance. They’ve got all kinds of names for each other, that they get to choose. We’ve chosen these for you, because it feels right.”

Daeron sighed. He turned Elurín around and embraced him, holding on very tightly, though he said nothing. After a minute he let go and went back to braiding his hair. When he finished he said, “You can call us whatever you like, birdies. Just don’t forget where you came from. It’s important.”

“We know, Ada,” the twins chorused. Elurín added, “You’re important too, though.”

After the twins finally went to bed, Lossenol said carefully, “Daeron…?”

“It feels wrong.” Daeron didn’t look up from tidying up the burs and things that had come out of Elurín’s hair. “It feels like I’m—like I’ve stolen them, like I’ve taken her place where I have no right, and—”

“Whose place?”

“Lúthien’s. I know they aren’t her sons, but they’re her grandsons, and…”

“You haven’t stolen anyone,” Lossenol said. “You didn’t ask for any of us to get dropped into your lap.”

“I know that. But I’m—I’m so glad that you were, and—”

“So are we. Would Lúthien really be upset with you for taking care of her grandchildren? For loving them, like you loved her?”

“We did not part on good terms. You know that.” Daeron got to his feet. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Daeron, wait.” Lossenol caught him before he reached the door. “Don’t go far?”

“I won’t. I just—I need to be alone for a little while.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Lossenol said. 

“You know that’s not true,” Daeron said, so softly that he was almost inaudible. “I did a lot of things wrong a long time ago—and somehow that has landed me here, where I don’t deserve to be. Just let me feel it, Lossë, please. I’ll be all right by morning.”

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Daeron had meant it when he had said the twins could call him whatever they liked, but it was still very strange to be called Ada or Ada Daeron more often than not. He had never expected or even wanted to be anyone’s father, and it still felt wrong to hear it coming out of children who both looked and sounded more like Lúthien every day. They should have been able to grow up with their real parents, he kept thinking. With Lúthien, and with Beren—their grandparents. He didn’t know how old Beren had been at his final death, or whether he had died young or old by the measure of Men—it still felt unfair, regardless. 

It was also a little frightening, how quickly they were growing. Their father Dior must have grown just as fast, after the manner of Men rather than Elves. It felt like they were being robbed of a real childhood. And what would happen when they reached adulthood, he found himself wondering. Would they continue to age as Men did? Or would they stop, after the manner of Elves? Would they die as Men did, or would they live as Elves did?

There was no one like them in the world, but for their sister far away—there was no one they could look to for answers. He knew the not knowing frightened them even more than it worried him, though Eluréd had only ventured to talk to him of it once or twice and never for long. As he watched them spar with their swords, Lossenol circling them and calling out encouragement and advice, Daeron wondered if Lúthien had known the answers—if she had been able to give Dior the reassurances that he couldn’t give Eluréd and Elurín. Or had she been just as ignorant—had she even realized what uncertainty she was leaving her children as their inheritance alongside a bloodstained gem?

Mithon, still a little unsteady on his feet, wandered over to crash into Daeron’s legs, giggling, and lifted his arms hopefully. “Up?” Daeron obliged, putting on a smile for him, and Mithon settled happily onto his lap to watch Eluréd and Elurín, babbling in the way very young children did. Daeron smoothed his soft brown curls back from his face and thought of Lúthien again, at how surprised she would probably be to see where he had ended up. He thought of his own parents, wondered what they would think if they could see him now. Then he wondered if they really could see him—if he appeared in the tapestries that lined the walls of Mandos, the story of the world woven by Vairë and her handmaidens that Melian had described for him once. 

Elenel and Hendaras had said that morning that they intended to join the Men and Elves dwelling near the southern end of Lake Nenuial. It would be better for Mithon, they said. “Why have you not gone to live there?” Elenel had asked Daeron. 

“I was a solitary wanderer for some years. Even now I dislike going among too many people for very long. Lossenol feels similarly. But someday—it may be that it will grow too dangerous to remain on this side of the Lhûn. We will come south then, most likely.”

“If it gets very bad, I hope you will come even farther east with us,” said Elenel. 

“Maybe. At least in the meantime we’ll visit often. The songbirds love Mithon too well not to.”

For now, Daeron tickled Mithon and watched the twins, and wished, desperately and uselessly, that all three of them could grow up without fear—without needing to learn to wield weapons, or to be wary of strangers. 

That afternoon, Hendaras came over as Lossenol and Daeron tried to fix the gate to the goat pen that the goats had broken—again—and said, “Lossenol—can I ask you a question?”

“Yes?” Lossenol straightened. 

“Do you come from Nargothrond?”

Daeron dropped the piece of wood in his hands, and knelt to pick it up, letting his hair fall forward to hide his face as fear twisted in his chest. 

“Nargothrond?” Lossenol repeated, surprised. “No. Why? Is that where you hail from?”

“Yes. It was a large city, but—there is something about you that seems familiar. You never even visited?”

“No,” said Lossenol, having no idea that he spoke a lie. Daeron kept his gaze on the gate as he fumbled to fix the latch. “I followed Angrod across the Ice, and escaped to Himring after the Bragollach. Then after the Nirnaeth we were scattered, and I never went back.” That had been the story they settled on; no one would question it, least of all his with injuries—no one had escaped either the Bragollach or the Nirnaeth unscathed.

“Oh, I see,” said Hendaras. “I apologize. Perhaps that is where I know you from. I was sent to carry messages to Dorthonion several times during the Long Peace.”

“That must be it,” Lossenol agreed. 

Hendaras went away, and Daeron released a breath. “All right?” Lossenol asked, kneeling beside him to help again.

“Yes, of course. Just—I didn’t expect such a frank question.”

“I hope I wasn’t really ever in Nargothrond,” Lossenol said after a moment. “I hate lying.”

“No one from Nargothrond would be pleased to know the truth,” Daeron murmured. 

“Did you ever go there?”

“No. The only time I left Doriath after the Girdle was raised was to attend the Mereth Aderthad—and to leave for good.” Daeron finished attaching the bit of wood that hopefully would keep the latch from being chewed, though he had his doubts. “All right, done. Thanks, Lossë.”

“These goats are more trouble than they’re worth.”

“And next time you see Aereth you will be sure to sing their praises,” Daeron replied. Lossenol snorted. “They are the best goats in Eriador, according to her.”

“Stars save us, what are all the others like?”

Elenel, Hendaras, and Mithon departed a few weeks later, wishing to put more hills and miles between them and the mountains. On their heels came Iarwain, dancing up the forest path with his bright songs that Daeron caught himself humming days later in spite of himself. Iarwain always seemed to know when he was out of sorts, and that was when he came with his brightest songs and irrepressible laughter—and it worked, which was the most annoying thing.

“Better than lying in bed feeling awful, though,” Lossenol said when Daeron made the mistake of saying so out loud a few days after Iarwain finally left them in peace. He swung his staff and Daeron blocked it, wincing as the impact jarred all the way up his arms. He didn’t hate sparring with Lossenol—not as much now as he had in the beginning—but he still didn’t particularly like it. “Better than fading,” Lossenol added, taking another swing that Daeron ducked under before attempting to hit him in turn. It had been years now, and he still had yet to land a real blow. 

“Yes, but I hate that he just knows.” 

“Well, I like him. He did something this time that got the goats to stop biting me.”

“Yes, I know—he’s gotten rid of my greatest source of entertainment, too—ah! Lossë!” Daeron barely managed to block a series of very swift blows before he could duck out of range. “Enough! That’s it, I’m done today.”

Lossenol lowered his staff, looking smug. “You couldn’t have done that when we started,” he said. “Told you, you’d get better.”

“I’m still not picking up a sword. I—” Daeron paused, the back of his neck prickling with sudden awareness. “Where are the twins?”

“At the river. Why?”

“Someone’s coming.” 

Lossenol adjusted his grip on his staff. “From where? Is it Iarwain coming back?”

“No. South. Following the river.”

They both ran for the riverbank. Eluréd and Elurín were enjoying the sunshine on the stones by the water, mending fishing nets and making up songs to the tune of one of Iarwain’s songs. Eluréd spotted them first and broke off. “Daeron, what’s wrong?”

Daeron stepped past them to the edge of the water, looking south. A small figure was making their way upstream, jumping lightly from boulder to boulder. The breeze picked up, carrying a voice humming a merry tune—a voice that he recognized. “That’s—that’s Nellas.”

“Who?” Lossenol asked.

“Nellas!” Elurín exclaimed. “You remember Nellas, Eluréd? She showed us where the wild strawberries grew by the Esgalduin.”

“I remember.” Eluréd got to his feet and stepped up beside Daeron. “She escaped Doriath?”

“It seems so,” Daeron said, but he couldn’t relax—he would have been more at ease if it were a stranger coming. “Go back to the village, birdies.”

“But—”

“Let me speak to her first. Lossenol, please go with them.”

“Why?” Elurín asked, even as he bent to gather up the netting. “You can’t think Nellas would—”

“I don’t think anything,” Daeron said, but he glanced at Lossenol, who nodded without speaking. “Please just go, Elurín.”

“We aren’t children anymore—”

“Please,” Daeron said. Something in his expression made Elurín take a step back; he and Eluréd exchanged a glance. “I will explain why later—but I need to speak to Nellas alone first.” He hadn’t yet told them of Menelas—he hadn’t spoken of his brief time in captivity to the twins at all—even though he knew that he needed to. They needed to know; they were not as grown as Elurín wanted to pretend, but they were not young children anymore either. Hopefully he would be able to tell them the tale later, without them learning first-hand what it looked like in Nellas.

“Come on, birdies,” Lossenol said. “We’ve talked about this—”

“But Nellas isn’t—” Eluréd protested.

“Now isn’t the time to argue,” Lossenol said. “Come on.” He rarely got sharp with the twins, but he did now, and Eluréd and Elurín hurriedly finished gathering up their things and followed him back into the woods. 

By then Nellas had spotted them, and Daeron watched her pause, and then wave excitedly. “Daeron, is that you?” she called, and broke into a run, swift and light footed as a deer, thick curls bouncing with each step. 

Nellas was much younger than Daeron, having been born just after the first sunrise, and she had been among those who did not care to come dwell in Menegroth, so he did not know her well—but they had still been friendly, for she was Menelas’ younger cousin and he had doted on her as a child. It seemed that she still remembered Daeron fondly, though he wondered if it was just that he was the first familiar face she had seen in some time. He waited in silence for her to reach him, hoping desperately that he would find her still only herself, and dreading the moment he had to tell her what had happened to Menelas. 

As she approached, her smile faded. “Daeron…?”

He tried to smile himself, but couldn’t. “Nellas. It’s good to see you.”

“Is it?” She tilted her head a little, looking both hurt and confused. “What’s the matter?”

Daeron met her gaze. Her eyes were very green, and clear, and when he looked further he saw her draw back—but he also saw nothing behind them except herself. There was nothing even remotely like what he had seen in Menelas, and he breathed a sigh, closing his own eyes for a moment. “Daeron, what—”

“I’m sorry.” Daeron stepped forward and took her hands. “I am glad to see you, Nellas. I never thought to see anyone from Doriath again.”

“Neither did I,” she said. “What were you looking for just now?”

“I needed to be sure that you were still yourself.”

“Who…who have you met who was not themselves?” 

Oh, this would be hard. “Let’s sit. I think we both have much to tell each other.”

“Can we start with who I saw with you? Why did they leave—oh, because you were not sure if I was a danger?”

“Yes. That was—well, you wouldn’t know Lossenol, but the other two were Eluréd and Elurín.”

Nellas’ eyes went very wide. “What? But they were—I thought they were lost! I thought they were all lost! I fled as soon as the trees roused around me to warn of coming danger—for the Girdle was in tatters by then, you know, with the queen gone. I’ve heard since that Doriath is no more, and…”

“A remnant escaped down Sirion, and—the Ent Fladrif found the twins and brought them to where I was wintering in Ossiriand.”

“Ossiriand? Then I must have passed you by…”

“Perhaps. That was when I met Lossenol, too. We came east that spring, and have been here ever since.” They spoke a little more of Doriath. Nellas could say a great deal about Túrin and his time there, but a shadow passed over her face when she said his name, and she did not seem to want to share very much just then. The grief of it all remained very near. She could tell him at last the full tale of Thingol’s death, too—of the fight over the Nauglamír and the first sacking of Menegroth by the Dwarves of Nogrod, and of the battle near the Sarn Athrad afterward, which explained the treasure still scattered across the bed of the Ascar. In return, Daeron could tell her his own second-hand news. None of it was good. He did not try to hide most of the truth of Lossenol from her—that he was a Noldo, that he had been among those who came to Doriath that fateful winter, that he did not remember anything of his life before waking up in the flet in Ossiriand. It was such a relief to speak the truth to someone, to speak of all of it to someone he knew. Nellas listened in silence, and when he finished she just said, “I trust your judgment, Daeron. If you say he can be trusted, I believe you.”

For her part, Nellas had been wandering through the woods, sometimes visiting the Ents who roamed Eriador, and sometimes staying with one she called Goldberry, the River-daughter. There was some connection to Iarwain too, and Nellas laughed when Daeron made a face. “He isn’t that bad, Daeron! But is that all the news we have to share between us? I want to see Eluréd and Elurín—”

“Wait, Nellas. Just—” Daeron caught her hands before she could get to her feet. “First—you mustn’t tell anyone that Daeron and Eluréd and Elurín still live, or that we are here. We have friends among the Dwarves and among those who live near Lake Nenuial, but they do not know our right names. There is a price on my head out of Angband, and it would be even worse if the Enemy learned that Dior’s sons still live.”

“Of course. I promise, no one will learn of it from me.”

“There is something else, Nellas.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Menelas.”

Nellas went very still. “What of him?” she asked. “He was—he was caught in the Bragollach, wasn’t he? He died.”

“No,” Daeron said, as gently as he could. “He didn’t. He—he was taken, instead. I was taken, when we were on our way to the mountains—Lossenol rescued me before we reached the Anfauglith, but Menelas was with the orcs. Working with them.”

“No!” Nellas pulled her hands free. “He wouldn’t! Daeron, how can you say such—”

“It was not by choice! It wasn’t his fault! He was taken and enthralled—that is why I needed to be sure that you were yourself. He was trapped, and I—I wasn’t able to help him, then. I wish I had been. And then—Lossenol got me away, but I don’t know if Menelas survived.”

Nellas started to cry, and roughly wiped at her cheeks. “You mean we must hope that he didn’t,” she said. “Oh, Menelas…oh, cousin…”

“I’m sorry.” Daeron wasn’t really sure what to do. He just waited as Nellas wept, grieving her cousin anew. When her tears slowed he said, “The twins remember you fondly.”

“Do they remember me?” Nellas smiled, though it was wavering and watery. “Oh, I’m glad. They were such sweet little children—they and Elwing.”

“Come on.” Daeron rose and held out his hands. Nellas accepted the help up and then threw her arms around him, as though they were much better friends than they really were. Maybe that didn’t matter—not when they were the only two left, at least on that side of the mountains, who remembered Doriath in all its glory, and all those who had once filled its woods with song and laughter and who were no more.

Finally, they returned to the village. “It’s really just the four of you here?” she asked.

“Others have come over the mountains—the dwarves sent them here—but no one stays. It’s too close to the mountains.”

“Why do you stay?” 

“It just…feels right.”

“Nellas!” The twins burst out of the house. Nellas ran to greet them. There were no tears for that meeting, and Daeron was glad of it—glad to see Eluréd and Elurín so happy, even though he knew they would still be upset with him for delaying it even for only an hour. 

Lossenol stepped up beside him. “Everything all right?”

“It’s safe,” Daeron said. “I told her of Menelas…he was her cousin. It’s—hard.”

“We probably should have explained all this to the songbirds already,” Lossenol said.

“Yes, I know.” Preserving what innocence they had left would do them no favors in the long run, but he’d wanted to do it anyway. Let them be as happy as possible for as long as they could. “I’ll speak to them tomorrow.”

The rest of the afternoon was taken up in welcoming Nellas, who had come wandering up the Lhûn to begin with on the advice of Goldberry. She met Lossenol with a smile—still a little shy, though not nearly as timid as she had been when Daeron had known her in Doriath—and was very happy to claim one of the flets above the houses for her own, though she also said that she could not promise to stay. “I have had a taste of wandering and I do not think I can give it up. But it is nice to have another place I know I can return to when I wish for familiar and friendly faces!” 

It was several days, in the end, before Daeron was able to get the twins alone. “I’m sorry,” he told them first, as they sat underneath an enormous oak tree where he often brought them to practice music. “I should have explained to you long ago why I must always meet newcomers alone—why it was especially important that I do so with Nellas. It’s just that until Hendaras and Elenel came there wasn’t anyone to meet, so…”

“We always thought you just needed to be sure they were who they said they were,” said Elurín, “but you cannot doubt Nellas.”

“That’s just it, birdies—we have to be most cautious when we meet old friends unexpectedly.” Daeron paused, and sighed. “Do you remember when the orcs took me?”

“Yes,” Elurín said slowly, exchanging a look with Eluréd. “I think that was the most frightened I have ever been—worse even than Doriath, because we knew better what was going on. What has that got to do with Nellas?”

“It was not only orcs—they met a group of Men after a few days, and with them was an Elf, all of them in the service of Angband. It has long been known that—that the Enemy seeks to capture as often as he seeks to kill, and it has happened in the past that some of those captives were let go. It seemed that they had escaped, but they were still as trapped as they had been in Angband, only the chains were invisible, in their minds and spirits. Our people learned to be cautious—those thralls could do terrible harm. I knew the Elf that was with those orcs and those Men. His name was Menelas. He was Nellas’ cousin, and my own dear friend, long ago, and I had thought he died in the Dagor Bragollach. I don’t know whether he survived the landslide, but it is safer to assume that he did, and that he took word of me back to Angband. He knew nothing of you, but there is also a price on my head, which is why they took me in the first place. Because of Menelas, I know what it looks like when someone has been thus enthralled—so that is why both Lossenol and I were cautious of Hendaras and Elenel at first, and why I needed to speak to Nellas alone.”

“But how did the orcs know who you were?” Eluréd asked.

“They heard you call me by my name,” Daeron said. “Oh, no—it wasn’t your fault, birdies,” he added quickly, reaching for their hands as their expressions turned to horror. “I had no idea my name was known in the north, how could you?”

“Could you not save him?” Elurín asked. “Menelas?”

“Not then. I was—I told you at the time that I was fine, but I had nearly reached the end of my strength before you three caught up and rescued me. If I met him again now, or someone like him, I do think I could help them—at least, I have given it a great deal of thought, and I think that I know how to do it.” It would be brute force in song form—anything more subtle or gentle would take too long. What came afterward, he couldn’t guess; it was as likely his songs would hurt as much as they helped, in the breaking of Angband’s chains. He feared that for most, for Menelas, the only real escape would come when his spirit was able at last to flee the living world to find refuge in the Halls of Mandos.

“Can you teach us what to look for?” Elurín asked.

“I don’t think there are good words to describe it. It’s just—a wrongness, behind their eyes. They might act perfectly normal, except that something just seems off about it. At least, that is how it was with Menelas, but he was not seeking to hide. The two of you, I think, will be able to recognize the wrongness better than even I can. Your sight is keener.”

The twins exchanged another look. Then Eluréd said, very carefully, “There’s…there is a sort of wrongness in Atya Lossë…”

“There is,” Daeron agreed, “but it isn’t the same. He is entirely himself, in full control of his thoughts and his actions—I promise you that. The shadows that lie upon him do not come from Angband. If you ever see what I’m talking about, I think you’ll understand the difference—but if you are ever unsure about anyone, for any reason, come to me immediately.”

“We will. But does he know? Where do Lossë’s shadows come from?”

“Yes, he knows. It’s something he will have to reckon with someday—but not yet. I cannot answer the other question, I’m sorry.” They would all have to reckon with it someday. And what Daeron did not know how to explain was that the more he saw of Eluréd and Elurín as they grew, of the way they wielded the power of their songs, the more he suspected that it had been their own father who placed the curse on Lossenol that had locked away all his memory of who he was. Whether Dior had meant to do it was another question that would likely never be answered—but it explained, at least to Daeron, why the shadows behind Lossenol's eyes sometimes brought to mind the Girdle of Melian.

You are playing with fire, Daeron, Medlinel had said, years ago now. As long as the Oath remained asleep, they would not be burned. That was one good thing about the scarcity of news out of the west, at least. The mere mention of the Silmaril was not enough to rouse the Oath, but if they learned where it was—if it came within reach, somehow—he didn’t know what would happen. Most days it was easy not to think about it. But sometimes Lossenol woke in the middle of the night from nightmares of blinding light—and sometimes Daeron saw him staring into the west, with a faraway look in his eyes. 

For now, they could all ignore it. It was easier for Eluréd and Elurín—even for Lossenol himself. Daeron tried, and for the most part succeeded, but some nights he woke from nightmares of his own, where it was not the orcs but his own choices that caught up with him at last.

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Lossenol wasn’t quite sure what to make of Nellas at first. It was very strange having someone else there in the village—someone who knew all their real names, who wasn’t a stranger just passing through. Or at least, not a stranger to Daeron or the twins. He supposed everyone outside their little family was a stranger to him, even now. 

Sometimes he could forget that he—well, that he had forgotten. It didn’t matter. Here he was just Lossenol, no one particularly important except to Daeron and Eluréd and Elurín. But Nellas knew the truth, and Lossenol couldn’t tell whether her friendliness was real or if it was feigned just for Daeron and the twins’ sake. It felt like he should be able to tell, and the fact that he couldn’t made him jittery and irritable. 

Daeron pried it out of him eventually. “It’s real, Lossë,” he said once Lossenol finally admitted why he’d been avoiding Nellas in the weeks since she’d come to stay with them. “Nellas isn’t that great an actress—or at least she wasn’t when I knew her before, and she’s spent the years since Doriath’s fall wandering the woods like I used to, and that’s no place to hone such skills.”

“But—why?”

“I told her the truth, and an important part of the truth is that I trust you. Anyway, it’s obvious that the twins are turning out more or less all right, and that’s in no small part thanks to you.”

Lossenol sighed and slumped over so he was lying down with his head in Daeron’s lap. Daeron immediately started running his fingers through his hair. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to keep questioning you.”

“She’s a stranger to you. Of course you’re nervous.”

“I do trust you, though.”

“I know. If you’ll notice, I haven’t taken offense. And neither has Nellas.”

Lossenol looked up at Daeron’s face, found him looking somber and troubled in spite of his words and light tone. “What’s wrong?” he asked. 

“I dreamed last night. A great wave rose up, taller than the mountains—I woke just before it hit. It would have drowned all the world.”

“Foresight?”

Daeron shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe, except I don’t usually receive such visions. I remember too that the skies were clear in the dream—blazing with stars, and the Sickle brightest of all. Eluréd has been having similar dreams, but Elurín told me this morning that he’s been dreaming of birds—sea birds and eagles.”

“Ulmo, Manwë, Elentári,” Lossenol murmured.

“Hm?”

“The Valar. Sea, birds, stars.”

“You’re remembering more,” Daeron said softly. “You remember when I had to explain to you what I meant when I spoke of the Noldor?”

“None of it’s anything about myself,” Lossenol said. “Just—general things.”

“You still don’t want to remember?”

“I never want to remember, and I’m not going to change my mind.”

“It’s all right if you do, you know.”

“I won’t. But if you’re dreaming of those things…”

“I don’t know what it means,” Daeron said. “It feels like we are on a precipice, like the world has taken a deep breath and is holding it, and I don’t know what will happen when it’s released.” He looked up as Eluréd and Elurín came back from the river with Nellas, all three of them soaking wet and laughing at something. Nellas was small and slender in stature, and it wouldn’t be long before the twins grew taller than she was. The sun was shining brightly, and in the trees the birds were singing. It did not seem to Lossenol as though the world was holding its breath. It seemed as though everything was just going on as it had been for years now. The Ered Luin were not that far away, but they felt impossibly distant. Lossenol watched Daeron’s face, saw the slightly pinched look around his eyes, the way his gaze drifted westward. 

“It’s been a while since I went scouting around the mountains,” Lossenol said after a moment. “Not since last year.”

“Summer is waning fast,” Daeron murmured.

“I’ll be back before the leaves turn brown.”

“That’s not…” Daeron sighed. “I’ll be fine.”

“Of course you will. Because I’ll be here.”

That got a small smile. “I know you will. Are you going to take the songbirds?”

“Not this time. I thought…maybe Nellas? She’s quick and keen-eyed—we can cover more ground between the two of us.” 

“Even though you’re still not sure about her?”

“I think this will help me feel sure.”

Nellas readily agreed to the idea. They gathered supplies, and in a few days were prepared to leave. “Please be careful, Lossë,” Daeron said as he braided Lossenol’s hair back out of his face for him.

“I will.”

“If you see anything, just come back—don’t try to do anything about it.”

“Depends on what it is I find,” said Lossenol. “But I promise I won’t take any unnecessary risks.”

Daeron finished the braid and wrapped his arms around Lossenol's shoulders. “It occurs to me that your idea of unnecessary might be rather different from mine.”

“We can compare notes when I get back.” Lossenol leaned back against Daeron, closing his eyes for a moment. “Just be on your guard. I know it was my idea, but I don’t like splitting up.”

“I am very good at slipping away and hiding myself,” Daeron said. “I always have been. If something happens I can get the twins away—and we’ll meet you south of the lake, as we’ve talked about. And—I am stronger now than I was when we met.”

“We both are.” Lossenol turned to wrap his arms around Daeron, burying his face for a moment in his hair. “Just—whatever happens, we have to face it together. I’ll come back as quick as I can.”

“We’ll be waiting.”

“Be careful, Atya,” said Eluréd when Lossenol stepped outside.

“Always, birdies.” Lossenol hugged each of them. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“So, where exactly are we going?” Nellas asked as they fell into step together, passing out of the Girdle that Daeron had sung up around their home. 

“There’s a good chance that the orcs will find or make their own way through the Ered Luin—or maybe come down from the north, having gone around, I suppose. I think it’s more likely they’ll just cross from somewhere in Beleriand, but I don’t know the lands to the north. The dwarves are stretched thin already, just keeping the passes guarded, so we—mostly me—have been keeping an eye on the northern slopes. I went out late last year, but I think I should start going more often.”

“Might they come from the south?”

“I suppose, but we aren’t south of the passes, so that’s on someone else to watch.”

“Have you ever seen any sign of them here?”

“No, none. But it’s only a matter of time—either they cross somewhere through tunnels of their own, or they come in large enough numbers to break through the passes. Or try, anyway,” Lossenol added after a moment. “I think the dwarves have plans to close the passes entirely if that happens, but they don’t want to do that yet. Too many innocent people are still likely to try to get through.”

“What if we don’t find orcs, but something worse?” Nellas asked. “Like—I don’t know. Dragons, or something?”

“Then we run,” said Lossenol. “If we see any signs of something worse than orcs, we run and we get Daeron and the twins, and we go south to warn everyone.”

Nellas nodded. They were silent for a while. Lossenol turned his attention outward, listening to what the birds were saying to one another, and pausing once in a while to lean against a tree, seeking its slow and sleepy thoughts. So far nothing spoke of danger—but he didn’t expect anything else, for it would be some days yet, even moving quickly, before they came within sight of the mountains. 

Finally, Nellas said, “What if we find—someone? Not an orc, but…”

“Someone enthralled?” Lossenol asked. Nellas nodded. “I don’t know. I think it depends.”

“On what?”

“A lot of things, I suppose. What they’re doing. If they’re alone—if they are enthralled, and not just someone lucky enough to have escaped. Daeron thinks he can sing someone out of it, but he doesn’t know what happens afterward, and I don’t know if we’d be able to get them back home without someone getting hurt. I would want to try, but if it isn’t possible, we’d just go back and warn Daeron. He might want to come looking himself.”

Nellas adjusted the straps of her pack, and looked sidelong at Lossenol. She had fallen in on his right side, and he was finding himself a little jumpy because of it—usually one of the twins or Daeron would take his left, so he wasn’t always having to turn his head to see. At the same time, he still didn’t know her, and didn’t think he could bring himself to trust her on his blind side anyway. “Can Daeron not help you?” she asked. 

“With what?”

“Your lost memories?”

“Oh, that. He doesn’t want to cause more harm than I’ve already got—did he tell you I was caught in a cave-in, and my head was all bashed in?”

“Yes, he said you were very badly hurt. But surely there is some song that would let you remember. Daeron was accounted the mightiest singer of all our people—he is skilled at other things, too, and very clever.”

Lossenol adjusted his own pack. “I don’t doubt he could figure it out if I asked him,” he said after a few minutes. “But—there was this healer, Medlinel…”

“I know her name. Her brother was Denethor, who died in the first battle after the Enemy returned to Beleriand.”

“She’s a healer, like I said. It’s her village we’re staying in—or it was. They left for the east, and then she came back after we arrived, because they’d gotten word of Doriath and wanted to know more. Daeron asked her to look into my head—it hurt, just as bad as when I was first injured. Between that and—well, I know enough to understand what I was. What I was a part of. I don’t want to go back to that. I don’t care to remember who I used to be or why I did what I did.”

“Just remembering won’t force you to go back,” Nellas said after a few moments.

“Well, it’s been years now. There’s probably no one to go back to anyway.” He tried to speak lightly, but the words came out bleak instead. He found himself remembering Ifreth. The Sons of Fëanor came like wolves in the dead of winter—and they lost three of their number. 

“I’m sorry.”

Lossenol sighed. It was a common tale—nearly everyone who escaped over the mountains had lost everything, or almost everyone. Orphans like Mithon were all too common in the town by the lake, and everyone carried with them tales of grief and woe. The only thing that made Lossenol different was that he couldn’t remember—and he had been on the wrong side. 

They made good time, and soon parted. Lossenol went north and Nellas went south, and they agreed to meet again in a few weeks at most. “We’re just looking,” Lossenol reminded her.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Nellas said. “I’m no fighter.”

Lossenol ranged up the lower slopes of the Ered Luin, following streams and looking for caves. He was familiar with many, and made for those first, looking for signs of change or of new depths inside them. He found nothing, and saw no signs of so much as a scout—not until he reached as far north as he intended to go, and saw a plum of dust rise up from a barren slope, where a landslide years before had cleared it of trees. He watched for some time, but determined that it had been only another, smaller rock slide. Then he saw a few signs that someone had passed through—but they were old, so faint that he could tell they were there but not much else. Lossenol followed them up into the foothills until he lost them in the rocks, and then he made a search of the next few miles, moving carefully and silently. 

Nothing. 

It made him uneasy, but there was no way to follow the trail in the other direction either, for it disappeared under the leaves. By then he was already late in turning back to meet Nellas, but he didn’t hurry, instead keeping his eye and ears open. When he asked the birds who lived in those hills, they could tell him nothing of any threat—so he felt it safe to assume the tracks did not belong to an orc or anything worse. 

“There you are!” Nellas exclaimed when he finally reached the agreed upon spot. “Did you find anything?”

“Some old tracks, but I don’t know what they mean. It might’ve been a hunter from somewhere else in Eriador, I don’t know. Did you find anything?”

“No, nothing. It’s all quiet. How often do you come out here to look for such things?”

“Every year or so—but I think I need to do it more often now. Only…”

“Only?”

They had started to walk back through the woods toward home. Lossenol didn’t look at Nellas when he said, “I don’t like leaving Daeron in the autumn.”

“Oh, of course.” Nellas offered a small smile when Lossenol glanced at her in surprise. “His father died late in the autumn. It was a few years before I was born, just after the Sun’s first rising, so I have never known Daeron when he was not so weighed down by grief—and that time of year is always difficult for him. It was not always thus—my cousin told me once that Daeron had been among the merriest of their friends in their youth. It was not until later that his music gained fame for heartbreaking, rather than breathtaking, beauty.”

That wasn't how Daeron told it, but Lossenol supposed he shouldn’t be too surprised. Of course things would look different from the outside. “I knew Daeron’s family was dead,” he said carefully after a moment, “but…he hasn’t spoken much of his past. I know—generally—why he left Doriath, but…”

“Perhaps it isn’t my place to say, if he does not wish to speak of it.”

“He said once that he did not think he would have been welcomed if he went back,” Lossenol said. 

“That is certainly not true!” Nellas exclaimed. “Of course he was missed! There were searches made for him—Mablung was a particular friend of his, and he was so worried, for Daeron has never been a great woodman or a hunter. I helped to search, too, and so did Beleg Strongbow, and many others. But that was after the Dagor Bragollach, of course, and it was so dangerous, and Mablung in particular could not be spared long from the marches, even with the Girdle—especially after it was determined that Daeron had passed beyond its bounds.”

Lossenol had thought it must be something like that—he couldn’t imagine anyone knowing Daeron and not caring about him, not trying to look for him when he disappeared. “Will you tell him that?” he asked. “I think he needs to hear it.”

“Yes, of course!”

When they arrived home the twins came running to greet them. “You’re back!” Eluréd cried, throwing himself into Lossenol's arms. “Did you find anything?”

“Some mysterious footprints, but I don’t think they mean much—they were old,” said Lossenol as Daeron followed the twins. “How are things here?”

“Fine,” said Daeron as the twins switched places, Elurín coming to Lossenol as Eluréd went to Nellas. “It’s been very quiet. What sort of footprints?”

“Too old to tell. Weeks at least, if not more. We’re safe for now.”

The next week or so settled them back into their normal routines. Lossenol taught the twins new forms with their staffs and swords. Daeron started work on a new song, playing snatches of music on his flute over and over again until he settled on the right notes. Autumn was coming on; the leaves changed color and the air got cooler. Lossenol kept an eye on Daeron, who seemed cheerful enough for the time being. 

Then he came to bed one night in silence, after having gone off with Nellas after dinner, with that tight expression on his face that Lossenol had come to recognize as him trying to hold back tears. “What is it?” Lossenol asked. 

“Nothing.”

It would only mean an argument if he pushed, so Lossenol just waited for Daeron to stop tossing and turning before rolling over to wrap an arm around him, tucking himself up against his back. Daeron went stiff, but didn’t pull away, and after a while he relaxed, releasing a shaky sigh. “Is this all right?” Lossenol asked.

“Yes,” Daeron whispered. Then after a moment he added, “I’m not, though.”

“You will be,” Lossenol said, tightening his arm a little. 

“But I don’t…” Daeron faltered, and then turned over so they were facing each other. Lossenol drew back a little, surprised when he saw the tears on Daeron’s face. Daeron hated to be seen crying. “Someday I won’t be,” he said. “Someday the fading will take hold for good and I won’t be able to stop it.”

“Daeron—”

“Just—don’t let them find me. The twins. When it happens, however old they are, don’t let them be the ones to—”

“They won’t, because it’s not going to happen.”

Daeron made a noise that sounded like a badly-suppressed sob, and then buried his face in Lossenol’s chest, shaking all over. “It almost did, once,” he said. “When—when Finglas told me what happened. If you hadn’t—I would have just died then and there if I hadn’t had to try to help you.”

“Just because I’m not bleeding out anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still need you,” Lossenol said. “Eluréd and Elurín still need you too.”

“I know,” Daeron whispered. “But it’s—if the Enemy is still looking for me it would just be better if I wasn’t—”

“Don’t say that!”

“I’m scared, Lossenol! I don’t want to die, but when the Shadow comes for us—”

“It won’t have you! I’m right here, and I’m not going to let them take you again—I’ll fight the Enemy himself before I let that happen!”

Daeron’s breath hitched, and he held onto Lossenol like he was afraid to let go. “Please don’t say that,” he said. “Please don’t do anything like that. Not for me.”

“Whatever happens, however dark the world gets,” Lossenol said, “we’re going to face it together, and we’re going to survive it, and we’re going to see the light again on the other side.”

“You can’t make that promise.”

“I’m not making a promise. I’m just telling you how it’s going to be.”

The next day Daeron was withdrawn and quiet, taking himself away down the river with his flute. The wind carried his music back upstream, haunting and mournful. “Leave him be, songbirds,” Lossenol said when he spotted Eluréd and Elurín exchanging a glance. “If he doesn’t return by this evening, you can go drag him back.”

“But what’s wrong?” Elurín asked. 

“He and I spoke of Doriath yesterday,” Nellas said. “Of old friends—of some things he didn’t know, of how he was missed.”

“But of course he was missed!” Elurín exclaimed. “Our grandmother used to speak of him all the time! That’s how we knew who he was when Fladrif brought us to Ossiriand. Didn’t he know?”

“No,” said Nellas.

“Then we have to tell him—”

“Later, birdies,” said Lossenol. “Just give him some time first.”

He left the twins with Nellas and ventured out into the wood, feeling restless. The tracks he’d seen by the mountains hadn't left his mind, and he wished that he knew who had made them. Ents sometimes roamed these woods, but he rarely got to speak to them. If he could find one and ask at least that they keep their eyes open, maybe he’d feel better. 

He passed out of the bounds of Daeron’s enchantments, and walked through the trees with no real direction or destination in mind. He had his bow, but did not intend to hunt. As he walked he listened, and as the wild sounds of the forest surrounded him, undisturbed, he breathed a little easier. As he let his mind wander, senses aware but thoughts branching out along no particular path, he found himself reaching out sometimes—like he wanted to touch something in particular, or rest his hand on something or someone, almost always on his right side. Someone’s shoulder? He tried not to think too hard about it—it wasn’t the first time he’d done this, and it only ever happened when he was alone and distracted. 

After a while a sparrow came to ride on his shoulder for a while. He listened to it chirp and sing of the forest gossip—disputes over territory, where the best places to find food were (for sparrows, anyway), and about the other tall two-legged creature coming down the river. “Hang on, what?” Lossenol halted, and then decided not to wait for any more explanations from the sparrow, which wouldn’t be helpful anyway—sparrows weren’t worried about the same things that he was. He took off at a run, heading back toward the Lhûn. Daeron had gone downriver, but this stranger was coming from upstream—from the north. 

“Lossë!” Elurín called as he flew through the village. “What’s wrong?”

“Stay there!” Lossenol called over his shoulder. 

He reached the river and turned north. It was a bright day, cloudless and warm in spite of the waning of the year. Lossenol made better time on the open and rocky riverbanks, but slowed before too long, not wanting to be seen. He stopped to catch his breath in the shade of a boulder, and peered around it. For a little while he saw nothing, but eventually a figure appeared, slipping out of the trees to the water to kneel and refill a canteen. Lossenol squinted against the bright sunlight reflecting off of the river. A Man, he thought, not an Elf. Young—though how young he couldn’t tell at a distance. Their cloak was stained and tattered. The figure quickly disappeared back into the trees. 

Seeking shade or to remain hidden? This had to be the one whose footprints Lossenol had found by the mountains. Every instinct he had was screaming of danger. 

Then he nearly jumped out of his skin when Elurín said behind him, “Lossë?”

“I told you to stay put!” Lossenol grabbed Elurín and yanked him closer to the boulder, out of sight. 

“But—”

“Where’s your brother?”

“I’m right here,” Eluréd said, joining them, out of breath. “What’s going on?”

“I’m starting to understand why Elu Thingol locked Lúthien in a tree house, is what’s going on,” Lossenol said. “When I tell you to stay put you need to stay put! Like right now! Don’t move from this spot until I come back, all right?”

“But why?” Elurín demanded. 

“Someone’s coming, and I don’t know who they are!” Lossenol pressed the twins against the stone. “Stay here, and stay quiet. If you hear my hawk’s call, go find Daeron and tell him what’s going on. If this is an enemy, it’s him they’ll most likely be looking for.” 

“What if something happens and you can’t make the call?” Elurín asked.

“Then you’ll hear me yelling, and then you should go find Daeron.”

“But if you—”

“Do not come after me,” Lossenol said. “I mean it!” 

He left them and slipped into the woods, loosening his knife in its sheath. He moved carefully now, and soon came upon a young man who had stopped and seemed to be listening hard. He had thick, tangled dark hair, and wore the same kind of clothes and mail that Lossenol had seen on the Men holding Daeron captive, years before—only his clothes were threadbare and tattered, hanging loosely on his half-starved frame, and his mail rusted and falling apart. His eyes were dark and wide, and he looked like he was holding his breath. Perhaps Lossenol’s voice had carried farther than he’d thought. 

Lossenol waited until he started moving again, and then grabbed him as he passed the tree behind which he’d hidden himself. He pressed the Man against the trunk and put his knife to his throat. Immediately the Man froze. “Are you alone?” Lossenol asked him, keeping his voice low, letting it turn into a growl. 

The answer did not come in Sindarin, but in a language Lossenol knew without knowing how. “I d-don’t understand you.”

“Are you alone?” he repeated, this time in the right language. 

“No,” came the answer, far too quickly to be true.

He was so young—only a handful of years older than the twins, if that. Lossenol eased his grip on the knife, though he didn’t pull away. “Who sent you over the mountains?” he asked. The Man—the boy—didn’t answer. “You don’t have to go back, you know.” At this the boy’s jaw went slack, eyes widening. “You can just leave him—just disappear. You’re clearly good at it. Go east—don’t go back west.”

“His reach is to the ends of the earth,” the boy whispered, staring at Lossenol, fear shining in his eyes. “You don’t—you don’t know—”

“I do know,” Lossenol said. “He wants to cover all the world in darkness, but look!” He tilted his head toward the riverbank, just visible through the trees, and the bright sunshine reflected on its surface. “You are a child of the sun. You don’t have to follow him!”

The boy stared at him. Lossenol could see the longing there, the desire to run away from the shadows of Angband and never look back. But the fear was stronger. “They’re looking for you,” he whispered. “You and the singer—they won’t stop. They’ll find you. You can’t outrun him.”

“Yes we can,” said Lossenol. “So can you. If you’ll let me—”

Burning pain bloomed across his stomach, and he fell back with a cry. The boy lunged forward without hesitation, bloody knife flashing. It was a quick fight—even wounded and taken by surprise, Lossenol was bigger and faster, and he had not been struggling to survive in the forest alone for weeks—but it was a fierce one, and it ended with both of them on the ground, Lossenol’s knife plunged deep into the boy’s chest. He was dead before he hit the ground, eyes still wide open but empty now. 

Lossenol had killed before, even if he couldn’t remember the details. He remembered enough to know what battle was like—the chaos, the blood, the sweat, the battle-fury and the fear. But a battle was one thing—a fight like this, up close and personal, one that neither of them had wanted—this was different. It shouldn’t have happened. He should have disarmed him—why hadn’t he disarmed him? He didn’t even know the boy’s name. 

He would have killed Lossenol, discovered Eluréd and Elurín and maybe Daeron and Nellas too, and taken word back to Angband if he could. There hadn’t been any other choice. 

He knew that.

He also felt like he was going to be sick. Lossenol staggered to his feet. Someone called his name in the distance. There was an odd roaring in his ears; the cut across his stomach bled freely, but he couldn’t make himself look away from the boy’s face, from his eyes, staring sightlessly at the trees overhead, wondering what he might have done differently, if there was anything he could have said—or if the boy was right and there really was no escape, once the Enemy had someone in his grasp.

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It always hurt to speak of Doriath, but Daeron hadn’t expected the wave of fresh and brand new grief that washed over him when Nellas told him that he had been missed. That searches had been made. That Mablung had wanted to go after him when they realized he’d slipped out of the Girdle altogether—that he hadn’t only because it was too dangerous to leave the marches unguarded, especially after they learned that the Girdle could be pierced, and that he had been both heartbroken and furious at the choice forced on him—between seeking Daeron and doing his duty—that wasn’t really a choice at all. 

Somehow that had loosened his tongue enough to confess to Lossenol the extent of his danger—the real possibility that someday he would just die of this—this awful, rending, consuming grief. He didn’t know what kind of reaction he had expected—but Lossenol had been fierce in his insistence that it wouldn’t happen, that he wouldn’t allow it to happen. That they would all make it. 

“Whatever happens, however dark the world gets, we’re going to face it together, and we’re going to survive it, and we’re going to see the light again on the other side.”

Daeron sat by the river and put his flute to his lips, playing without thinking very much about the melody. He tried not to think about very much at all, but he kept picturing his old friends from Doriath. He had hardly spoken to any of them after the first time he’d gone to Thingol about Lúthien. Even before then, he’d been withdrawing, not quite as overcome with grief for Menelas as he had been when his parents had died, but even more afraid of what was happening outside of Doriath. The whole world had been on fire. Doriath had seemed like an island in a sea of flame and blood—and what happened when there was nothing left outside the Girdle? 

Now he sat on another island, one in the sunshine when all the rest of the world was growing dark. It didn't seem fair—why should he have survived when Mablung hadn’t, or Beleg, or Lúthien or Thingol himself? Why was he saved and they weren’t? Did it matter, if Morgoth was just going to shroud all the world in darkness anyway? 

No, that was despair talking. He was meant to be bringing himself out of that, not farther into it. It did matter. Eluréd and Elurín mattered, even if Daeron still didn’t understand why they had been brought to him, of all people. 

Something at the edge of his awareness stirred. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Something had changed in the river’s song, just for a second, too quickly for him to tell what exactly it was. It was not at all like the way the Esgalduin had changed when Beren had come into Neldoreth, but any change was not something to ignore. Daeron put his flute away and scrambled to his feet. He ran up the river, following its course, hoping that he was only imagining it but more and more certain that he wasn’t. A stranger had entered his Girdle.

He saw the twins huddled by a boulder just a few seconds before he heard Lossenol’s voice in the woods, crying out. “Daeron!” Eluréd exclaimed as he reached them, only for Elurín to clap a hand over his mouth. 

“Someone was coming down the river, and Lossë went to find them in the woods,” Elurín said. “He said if it’s an enemy he’d give his hawk’s call and we had to find you because it’s you they’re looking—”

“Stay here, birdies,” Daeron said, and ran for the trees. It was a matter of seconds before he heard the sounds of a fight—and then the sudden ceasing of them. “Lossenol!” he called. 

Lossenol didn’t answer.

He finally found him, leaning hard against a tree, a hand pressed against his stomach, covered in blood. A few feet away was a body, unmoving in the leaves. Daeron stumbled to a halt, feeling like he was caught in a dream where everything was moving too slowly. “Lossë…?”

“Daeron?” Lossenol looked up. “You shouldn’t—”

“What happened—no, it can wait.” Daeron went to catch him when he swayed. “Come away—back to the river, in the sunlight.” 

“You were supposed to run away when the twins found you,” Lossenol muttered, but he leaned heavily on Daeron as they made their way back through the trees. 

“They didn’t find me. I felt something wrong.”

“Lossë!” the twins cried when Daeron and Lossenol finally left the trees. 

“One of you start gathering firewood, and one of you run back home for the bandages and things,” Daeron said. “I need a pot to heat water, too.”

“I’m fine,” Lossenol said. 

“You are not!” Daeron and Elurín lowered Lossenol to the ground by the boulder where the twins had been waiting; Eluréd had already taken off at a run toward home. 

“I’m not going to die—”

“Clearly not for lack of trying!” Daeron snapped. As Elurín ran to start gathering wood he peeled Lossenol’s shirt away, revealing the bloody gash across his stomach, not far from the scar over his ribs that the orcs had given him. It wasn’t as deep as it looked at first, and it was clean. He bundled up the shirt and pressed it against the wound, and then looked for others—finding a few cuts on Lossenol’s arms and hands, the sort he would expect to find after a knife fight. They were shallow and the bleeding was already stopping. 

Elurín returned, but his hands were shaking badly and he couldn’t strike the sparks. “It’s all right, Elurín,” Daeron said, somehow forcing himself to speak calmly. “Don’t rush it. Take a deep breath.”

“But—”

“Looks worse than it is,” Lossenol said, and grunted when Daeron increased the pressure on his stomach. “Promise, birdie.”

“It looks really bad,” Elurín said in a small voice.

“Take a deep breath, Elurín,” Daeron repeated. His own hands were shaking now too. “A few more seconds won’t do any harm. Just take your time.”

Elurín sat back on his heels to wipe his eyes, and then he took a deep breath as Daeron had said. This time he was able to make the sparks catch, and carefully started to grow the flames, adding tinder a little at a time. As he started to add bigger sticks, Eluréd returned with the pot for water—the same one Daeron had carried all the way from Ossiriand—and the kit of bandages and other healing supplies. Nellas was with him. 

“Nellas,” Lossenol said before Daeron could speak. “Can you—I think he was alone, but—”

“If there is anyone else, I’ll find them.” Nellas ran for the trees. Just before she disappeared Daeron saw her leap into the branches; she would move through the forest with all the ease and speed of a squirrel. 

Eluréd filled the pot with water to heat, and Daeron tried to remember the songs he knew for healing. Somehow they all seemed to have flown out of his head—it didn’t make any sense. Lossenol had been hurt much worse than this before, and Daeron had been able to care for him without panicking. As he wiped blood away from a cut on his arm, Lossenol caught his wrist. “Looks worse than it is,” he repeated quietly. 

“I know,” Daeron said without looking at his face. “But that was stupid, getting into such a—”

“I know.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” he sighed. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? That’s all you—” Daeron stopped himself, and then just barely stopped himself from covering his face with his bloody hands. He took a deep breath of his own instead. “Eluréd, Elurín, can you sing the healing songs? I can’t sing and stitch at the same time.”

Eluréd came to sit beside Lossenol as Elurín tended the fire. The water boiled and Daeron used it to clean everything before he threaded the needle. Lossenol clenched his jaw and turned his head away, but made no sound as Daeron did his work and Eluréd and Elurín sang the healing songs together. The twins’ voices had begun to change as they grew, but when they sang their voices were still clear and bright, and listening to them felt a little like listening to Lúthien. 

It didn’t take long, in the end, to bandage everything. It really did look worse than it was. As soon as Daeron gave permission both twins threw themselves at Lossenol. They hadn’t panicked in the moment, but now that it was over the tears flowed. “I’m all right, I promise,” Lossenol told them, an arm around each twin. “He was alone—we’re safe.”

“But he won’t be the last,” Daeron said, dread gripping his heart. “If he was sent from—”

“He was.” Lossenol looked up. His face was ashen, but his gaze was steady. “He knew who I was—that I’d been with you before. He said that they’re still looking for you.”

Daeron thought he would faint. To try to distract himself he started cleaning up the mess of bandages and bloody fabric. “So when he doesn’t—doesn’t return,” he began, voice shaking. He didn’t want to think about this. He didn’t want it to be true. It couldn’t be true. Surely the Enemy had other more pressing things to think about than him—

“There are any number of reasons someone going alone into treacherous mountains and dense forests wouldn’t return,” Lossenol said.

“But there will be others.”

“So what do we do?” Elurín asked. 

“You leave,” Daeron said, mouth moving before his mind could catch up. “When Nellas gets back, you go to Nenuial—it’s safer there, and—”

“What do you mean you?” Eluréd demanded. “Daeron—”

“It’s me they want, so—”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Lossenol said, struggling to sit up straighter.

“You’re not leaving us!” Elurín cried. 

“Elurín—”

“No, you can’t!”

“I’m not going to be the thing that gets you killed!” Daeron snapped. He finished gathering up the remnants of bandages and things, and left them by the river, ignoring Lossenol when he called after him. The danger had passed for the moment, and he didn’t have it in him to fight over what to do.

After he put everything away and scrubbed his hands until they were pink and raw but finally free of Lossenol’s blood, he went out into the woods. He didn’t go far before he knelt among the leaves and took a deep breath, and then another, struggling to call upon Melian’s ancient teachings to calm and center himself so he could sing. Once he more than halfway succeeded, he sang all the songs he knew of protection, of hiding, of shadows twisting against enemies, of shelter and safety, and when he ran out he made up more, until the afternoon was half gone and he had sung himself hoarse. It was more power than he had used in many years, and a far more extensive Girdle than he’d dared to attempt before, and when he tried to get up he just fell over again, landing hard on his knees as the world spun around him. 

For a little while he just sat there in the leaves, listening to the birds singing around him, knowing himself to be—for the moment—safe. His protections still could not compare to Melian’s, because he was only an Elf and could not and would not tie himself to the land in the same way, but they would be enough to at least give them more time if the worst happened. He could stay a little longer. 

He had been happy, these last few years. Of course it couldn’t last—of course it had been a mistake to let himself believe it might, that he might really get to keep what he’d found. 

Before he could get up and make his way back home, Eluréd came to kneel in front of him. His eyes were red but he seemed very calm. “You aren’t leaving, Daeron,” he said, in a tone that was not reminiscent of Thingol so much as Beren. 

“No, I’m not,” Daeron sighed. “Not today. I’m—”

“No, not ever. It’s—Ada, you can’t. If you leave then—it won’t be good, it won’t fix anything. I just know it. I don’t understand why you keep trying—”

“Oh, Eluréd.” Daeron held out his arms, and Eluréd fell into them. Somewhere nearby a nightingale burst into song, and Daeron had to close his eyes against the sudden sting of tears. “I do not want to leave you,” he said. 

“Then don’t,” Eluréd said. 

“It’s not that simple—”

“Yes it is!”

At fourteen, Eluréd was too big now to sit comfortably on Daeron’s lap, but he pulled him in anyway, tightening his arms around him. “Listen to me,” he said, half-whispering because otherwise he’d lose his voice entirely. “Don’t interrupt. I told you that years ago there was a price on my head, and now today we have learned that I have not been forgotten—that the Enemy is sending people to look for me. That puts anyone with me in terrible danger—Lossë was injured today because of it—and it will be so much worse if they ever find out that you are alive. I’ve sung as much protection into these woods today as I can, but it won’t last forever. It might not be enough. I love you so much, Eluréd. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much, before I met you and your brother. It is because I love you that if it comes to it, I will leave you.”

He could feel Eluréd’s tears soaking into his shoulder. “You’ve got it the wrong way around,” he whispered. “I can’t explain why I know it, I just do. If you leave—then all is darkness. Please, Ada, I need you.”

“I’m sorry,” Daeron said. “I’m so sorry—I spoke in haste, earlier. I was frightened—I’m still frightened. But I won’t leave you unless I absolutely must.”

“But—”

“I can’t promise more than that, Eluréd. Even you can’t know all that the future holds. But I will promise,” he added, drawing back to lift Eluréd’s face so he could look into his eyes, “is that if we must part, for whatever reason, I’ll do everything I can to find you again, whatever long it takes. I can’t promise that I’ll succeed, but I will try.” He thumbed the tears from Eluréd’s cheeks. 

“Daeron? Eluréd?” Elurín’s voice drifted through the trees. “Where are you?”

“Here,” Eluréd called back. He wiped his own face and got to his feet, drawing Daeron up after him. Daeron swayed, suddenly dizzy again. “Daeron did what he’s always warning us not to.”

Elurín came around a tree, and looked worriedly between them. Daeron sighed and held out his arms. Elurín immediately ran forward into them. “I’m sorry, Elurín. I’m not going to leave. Hopefully none of us will have to leave, if what I’ve sung into my Girdle holds.”

“You’ve overextended yourself,” said Eluréd. 

“Only a little.” Daeron kissed Elurín’s temple. “Love you, birdie,” he whispered. Elurín tightened his arms around him.

When they returned to the village they found Lossenol sitting on the bench by their door. He hadn’t put on another shirt, and sat with his arms crossed over the bandages. Without looking Daeron in the eye he said, “We need to dig a grave.”

“I’ll do it,” said Daeron. “You aren’t in any state to—”

“You look like a stiff breeze will knock you over.”

“Can we help?” asked Elurín. 

Daeron hesitated. Lossenol said, “We’ll all go. He was—he deserves the kindness of a grave, even if he was an enemy.”

“Of course,” said Daeron. 

The boy was where they had left him. Eluréd made a small, pained noise. Daeron went to kneel beside the body, and Lossenol quietly told the twins where to start digging. Lossenol’s knife was still lodged in the boy’s chest, and Daeron carefully pulled it free. He had brought more water from the river, and bunches of niphredil flowers, and now he gently washed the body’s face and hands, and closed his eyes, and combed some of the snarls out of his dark curls with his fingers, chanting quiet songs of mourning as he worked. After a beat Lossenol joined him; they were ancient songs, hardly changed from when they had first been sung by the shores of Cuiviénen. There were some newer verses that spoke of Mandos, but Daeron did not sing those—the words of uncertainty and grief were more fitting for a child of Men, since Daeron did not know any funeral rites for the Edain or for Easterlings, or anyone else. 

When the body was cleaned and neatly arranged, with flowers twined in his curls and tucked into his hands, the grave was ready. Eluréd and Elurín lifted him by his tattered cloak, and gently lowered him into the ground. 

“Is there anything else we must do?” Eluréd asked as they all helped to cover the grave again. 

“For someone we know, we might say some words of them, give their name to the stars,” said Daeron, “but we do not know his name, or anything about him.”

“He was young, and he was afraid,” Lossenol said softly. “He died alone and far away from home, and for nothing.”

“And now he is free,” Daeron said. Lossenol shook his head, and didn’t answer. 

They gathered stones from the riverbank to cover the grave, a smaller cairn than Daeron would have wished, but his strength was fading fast, and Lossenol was in more pain than he would admit to. Nellas had not yet returned, but if she was making as thorough a search as Daeron expected her to, they would not see her again for some days. 

Those days were tense. Lossenol was restless, frustrated with the weakness that came from blood loss and angry with Daeron for what he had said by the riverbank. Those words had been the result of panic, but though Daeron had apologized to the twins he knew Lossenol wouldn’t accept the same, and so he didn’t try. He was sorry that he had upset Eluréd and Elurín, but he wasn’t sorry for the words themselves. If others came looking for him, he would leave—he would lead them on a merry chase until he could be sure that Eluréd and Elurín and Lossenol were safe, even if it meant he was never able to return to them.

He didn’t sleep much. Instead he sat outside, watching the leaves fall and trying to master the fear that had gripped him in a tight fist and wouldn’t let go. It didn’t work, and when he did doze off it was only to fall into dreams of the orcs—of ropes biting into his skin and cold mud and dark laughter all around. They all tried to return to their normal routines, but it was hard, especially with Nellas absent, and the uncertainty of what news she would bring back. 

Finally, Nellas dropped out of the trees. “Nothing,” she announced as the twins ran to greet her. “I found his trail and followed it as far as I could—I think he was the one whose footprints you found before, Lossenol.”

“I thought so too,” said Lossenol. He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, face grim. “Could you find where he crossed the mountains?”

“No, I did not go that far. But there must be many ways across the Ered Luin—just because the easiest one is where the Dwarves have made their roads, doesn’t mean there aren’t other ways, especially for small parties or single travelers. At least it seems so to me. I met an Ent in the north woods, and he promised to keep an eye out too.”

“But will more come over the mountains?” asked Eluréd. “Can they be spared?”

“If the Enemy thinks his victory there is nearly complete, he may be turning his thoughts east,” said Daeron. 

“I don’t think he came looking for Daeron in particular,” said Lossenol. “I think he was sent merely as a scout, to get the lay of the land. He knew who I was and that I’m connected to Daeron, so we’ve not been forgotten—there was probably some sort of reward promised to him for news of us—but I don’t think that was his main purpose.”

“In that case, more will certainly be sent,” said Nellas, “though perhaps not by the same paths—and perhaps not very quickly.”

“I’ve strengthened my Girdle, as much as I can,” said Daeron. “Warnings should be sent to Nenuial and the Dwarves.”

“I’d go to the Dwarves, but someone stole all my things,” said Lossenol. Daeron had taken his sword and bow and hidden them away behind the goat pen, where Lossenol was least likely to look for them. He didn’t want him going out before he had regained his strength; his refusal to reveal their hiding place had earned him a cold shoulder and some dark looks on top of the lingering anger from the riverbank, but he didn’t care. At least Lossenol was alive to be angry with him. 

“I’ll go to Nenuial,” Nellas said. 

“You’ve only just returned,” said Daeron. “They should be warned, but if there is no immediate threat it does not have to be this moment.” He glanced at Lossenol as he spoke, and received a glare in return. “I’ll give your sword back when your stitches come out.”

Nellas looked between them as Lossenol growled out his frustration, teeth bared, before he disappeared inside again. “Daeron…?” she ventured. 

“He’ll be fine,” Daeron said. “Are you all right, Nellas?”

“Yes, of course. I’m a little tired, but that’s all. What makes you think that that scout was after you?”

“He said so to Lossë.”

“Lossenol spoke to him?”

“I was trying to avoid having to kill him,” Lossenol snapped from inside. 

“Can we go to Nenuial with Nellas?” asked Eluréd. 

Daeron wanted desperately to say no. But there was no immediate danger, and he thought it might be good for them to visit friends, to see little Mithon and to be reminded that there were still good things and safe places in the wider world—and for them to be doing something. “Yes,” he said, “but stay close to each other while you’re traveling.”

“We will,” said Elurín, “if you promise to still be here when we get back.”

“Why wouldn’t you be here?” Nellas asked, alarmed. 

“Of course I’ll be here,” Daeron sighed. “Someone has to stop Lossë from tearing his stitches.”

“I can hear you,” Lossenol growled.

“I know.”

He saw the twins and Nellas off the next morning, and tried not to imagine what else might be creeping over the mountains behind him as he watched them disappear down the forest path.

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The twins left with Nellas two days after she returned. It was very quiet with them gone, and it grated. Daeron wasn’t speaking to him, though he also didn’t go off alone, which was something. 

There wasn’t much to do, either. They had plenty of stores for the winter, and with the twins gone there were no lessons or practices to oversee. Lossenol would have liked to practice himself, but Daeron still wouldn’t give his weapons back, and he couldn’t figure out where they’d been hidden. His mind kept returning to the boy he’d killed, full of questions that could never be answered—what his name was, why exactly he had been sent east, what he had expected to find, what would have happened if he had managed to escape and return west over the mountains. Whether he had family—whether they would be wondering what had happened to him. 

He went back to the grave most days. There wasn’t anything to say—but it felt wrong to just leave it unattended. So he went and added another stone or two to the small cairn, or placed fresh flowers on top of them, and then went back home. 

Daeron also didn’t come to bed at night, and Lossenol had no idea if or when he was actually sleeping. The worry overtook the frustration, and two days into Nellas and the twins’ absence Lossenol dragged himself out of bed after a restless night and went to find Daeron playing his flute for the goats. When the goats got bored and wandered off, Lossenol sat on the grass beside him and said, “I thought we agreed that whatever happens, we face it together.”

“We didn’t,” Daeron said without looking at him. “You said that, and I didn’t argue one way or the other.”

“Daeron—”

“I told the songbirds that I won’t leave unless I absolutely must. I spoke without thinking, by the river, but I did mean it. I won’t be the reason any of you get hurt—”

“That’s not how this works.”

“And you’re the expert, are you?”

Lossenol opened his mouth, and then closed it again, a little startled at how badly those words stung. “That’s not fair,” he said finally.

Daeron sighed. “No, it’s not. I’m sorry.” But he still didn’t look up. His fingers moved absently over his flute, picking out a silent tune. “But we did agree that keeping Eluréd and Elurín safe is the most important thing. I won’t promise never to leave if someday my presence puts them in danger. But I did tell Eluréd that if I must leave, I will try to come back.”

“Will you promise me that you’ll come back?” Lossenol asked.

“We can’t cling too tightly to each other, Lossë. When it all goes wrong—”

“That’s why we need to hold tightly.”

“It just makes it harder to do what’s necessary.”

“No, it doesn’t. You just think things are necessary that aren’t.”

Daeron dropped his flute and rubbed his hands over his face. “This is pointless. We aren’t ever going to agree. I don’t want to leave you, and I don’t want to die, but as far as I can tell both of those things are inevitable—”

“That’s what we disagree on,” Lossenol said. 

“So if I try to make you promise not to die, not to throw yourself into a fight you can’t win because you think—”

“That’s different.”

“No it’s not! I’m still not a healer, Lossë! What happens when you are injured in a way I can’t fix?”

“I’m already injured in a way you couldn’t fix,” he said, gesturing at his eye. “I’m dealing with it. I also got my skull bashed in and you fixed that—”

“I could fix it then, maybe, but I don’t think I could now! Not when I forgot everything about healing that I do know when I saw you—” Daeron’s voice broke, and he got to his feet. “If I’m not to leave, you aren’t to take such risks.”

“I didn’t intend to take that one.”

“Well, don’t do it again!” Daeron stalked off, and over his shoulder he added, “And I’m still not giving you back your sword!”

Lossenol snarled his frustration to the grass and pushed himself to his feet. If he couldn’t go swing his sword at nothing, he could find something to make or fix that required a hammer. Maybe that would make him feel better.

Nellas and the twins returned after several weeks, as frost edged the leaves in the morning and Daeron withdrew even more into himself—his usual bad autumn habits returning with a vengeance now that his fears of Angband had been reawakened. But the day after everyone was safely back at home, Lossenol found all his weapons in their proper places, as though they’d never been moved at all. 

He took that to mean Daeron wouldn’t object if he took the warning to the dwarves, and so he started packing. “Where are you going?” Elurín asked.

“You took word to Nenuial, and I’m going to the mountains,” said Lossenol as he unsheathed his sword, making sure whatever Daeron had done hadn’t damaged it somehow. He slid it back and hooked it to his belt. “I’ll be quick—be back before the first snows.”

“Are you two still angry?”

“No. I’m not, anyway.” Lossenol kissed his forehead. “Stick close to home, all right?”

“Please be careful.”

“I will, I promise.”

The trip to the mountains was quiet; most of the birds had flown south for the winter, and as he made his way up the road he saw no other travelers, east or west. Halli was at the outpost, and he did not look surprised at the news. “It was only a matter of time,” he said. “But he won’t be taking anything back home with him, at least.”

“No,” said Lossenol. “I don’t think we need to worry about an army just yet.”

“Orcs can dig tunnels, just as Dwarves can,” said Halli. “Or they might just march around the northern end of the mountains. It might take them some time, and maybe they won’t bother if none of their scouts come back to tell them it’s worth it—but we’d all be fools not to prepare for it.”

“Is there anything you can tell me?”

“No, nothing new. It’s all bad, and getting worse.”

“Do your wise ones still say to watch the stars?”

Halli snorted. “Kóri told you that, did he? Aye, there’s still talk of watching the stars, though for what, I can’t say. The stars have naught to do with Mahal.”

“Mahal is one of the Powers, akin to she who made the stars,” Lossenol said. 

“And all of them are safe somewhere over the Sea, content to sit idly by while the rest of the world slowly crumbles. Maybe you Elves and some like Kóri find some comfort in believing they care—”

“If I had that kind of faith, I’d still be back across the Sea myself,” said Lossenol. “I don’t know what I believe anymore—just that I don’t want to give up.”

“I’ll be very happy to be proven wrong,” said Halli. “Anyway—thank you for the warning. We’ll send our own folk into the mountains, as we can spare them.”

“Thank you.”

“Lossenol,” Halli said as he turned away. When Lossenol looked back he asked, “Why did you cross the Sea?”

“Morgoth destroyed the only home I’d ever known,” he said after a moment. He didn’t remember it, but the words felt true as he spoke them. “I was angry. I’m still angry—angrier, even—I’m tired of every good thing I find being torn from my grasp.”

Halli held up his mug in a wry toast. “So are we all.”

When he drew near home, he found that he could feel, much more strongly than before, when he passed through the borders of Daeron’s Girdle. It made the hair on his arms stand up, and he wondered what Melian’s had been like if this was but a limited imitation. The air didn’t actually change, but something felt like it did. It was comforting, in a way, being so surrounded by Daeron’s power. Another change was that Eluréd and Elurín could now sense someone coming through the Girdle the same way that Daeron could, and they met Lossenol in the woods. “How was it?” Eluréd asked as Lossenol wrapped an arm around each of them. 

“Quiet. Spoke to Halli—he reminded me that goblins can dig tunnels, and we should be watchful for more than just scouts. But not yet, I think,” he added quickly. “They’re sending scouts for a reason—they won’t send an army until they know what they’re going to be dealing with. Or at least that’s what I would do.”

“But you’re clever,” said Elurín.

“So is the Enemy, Elurín. We’re safe for now, but we can’t count on it lasting.” They’d be lucky to get another five or ten years, Lossenol thought. It wasn't something he’d say aloud, and it made something under his ribs ache with a longing he didn’t fully understand and wouldn’t be able to put into words even if he tried.

Daeron was with Nellas when they arrived at home, sitting by the hearth and putting together what looked like a small loom. They were talking quietly, looking serious. Daeron glanced up, gaze sweeping up and down Lossenol, before he offered a small smile and turned back to what he had been doing. 

They didn’t talk about the scouts again, or about anyone leaving. Daeron hardly spoke to Lossenol at all, withdrawing and growing very quiet through that winter, and he sang very little; it was Eluréd and Elurín who made most of the music that passed the long dark evenings, and Nellas who told stories. By spring Daeron was more his usual self—but although they still did not speak of why, both Lossenol and Nellas went out to patrol the forests again, sooner than Lossenol had originally planned. They found nothing, but fear had come back to stay, overshadowing all their happiness. 

By the time Lossenol and Nellas got back from the spring scouting the forest was awash in new green growth and flowers. It was late, for they had been close enough that they hadn’t wanted to stop and make camp, and they found everyone already asleep. Or at least in bed. Lossenol stepped into the bedroom and Daeron sat up with a gasp. “It’s only me,” he said. 

“Oh.” Daeron breathed a sigh and rubbed at his eyes. “Did you find anything?”

“No. It’s all quiet. How is it here?”

“Also quiet.”

Lossenol changed into his sleeping clothes and combed out his hair, and then slid under the blankets. Instead of keeping his distance, as he had for months, he rolled over and wrapped his arm around Daeron, burying his face in his hair. “What do I have to do to make you stop being angry with me?”

Daeron sighed again. “I’m not angry, Lossë.” He rolled over so they were facing one another. “I’m just afraid.”

“You’re not still planning to leave—”

“I’m not going to leave. I don’t want to leave. I just—”

“If we part ways, none of us make it,” Lossenol said. 

It was hard to see Daeron’s face in the dark, and then he hid it entirely when he tucked himself against Lossenol’s chest, pressing his face into his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But if we are parted—if I do have to leave you, or if something else happens, I—I do promise that I’ll do everything in my power to come back. I promised the twins, and now I promise you.”

That was as good as it was going to get. Daeron was never going to promise not to leave, whatever happened. “Leaving has to be the last resort,” Lossenol said aloud. “Only if it’s certain that staying puts the twins in danger.”

“Or you,” Daeron said.

“No, I—”

“I will not be the thing that gets you killed, Lossenol. Not any of you.”

“Well, I’m not going to just stand by and let you get killed, either.”

Daeron shuddered in his arms, and Lossenol felt his fingernails dig into his shoulders for a moment. “Then I suppose we’ll remain at this stalemate until—something happens, one way or the other.”

“I suppose so.” Lossenol tightened his own arms around Daeron. He was determined to win this argument in the end, though. Whatever happened—none of them were going to lose anyone else. Not while he could still wield a sword. “Next summer I want to take the twins to Nenuial—for a longer visit than usual. I can’t teach them everything they need to know here.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Fighting on horseback, for one. Fighting with other people—and strategy, and defense, and—all kinds of things. They can learn more of healing there, too. Aereth already offered to teach them all she knows.”

Daeron was silent for a long time. Then he said, “Yes, all right. And Nellas wants to take them to stay with Goldberry for a while, sometime. I just wish they weren’t growing so fast.”

“It might be a blessing,” Lossenol said. “The Enemy isn’t idle. They need to be ready.”

“I know. I still hate it. Do you think we should remove to Nenuial entirely?”

“No. Not yet.” They still had too many secrets—and this place was home, the only home the twins had ever really known, the only home he could remember, and Lossenol was reluctant to leave it. He wanted to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

The years slipped by, swift and steady as the currents of the Lhûn—five years, then ten, then twenty—and as no other threats arose they were all able to set aside most of the fear. Eluréd and Elurín grew quickly, taller than Lossenol or Daeron, though not—according to Daeron—as tall as Elu Thingol himself. Lossenol kept training them in all the weapons he knew how to use, and they learned other things from the Men and Elves and Dwarves as they spent more time by Lake Nenuial. They learned to ride horses and sail small boats across the lake, and to fight on horseback and on the water as well as on land; they learned healing and herblore. Little Mithon too grew up, and was soon married with a family of his own. Small groups of both Elves and Men trickled over the mountains, often sent by the Dwarves to Lossenol and Daeron for shelter and guidance before they escaped farther east. Lossenol watched Daeron go stiff and quiet every time someone new came up the path, but none of them were ever anything but what they said they were. Sometimes they saw signs of scouts out of the north and west, near the mountains or in the woods, but none ever came as close as that first boy to finding them, and whether they made it back to report on what they found, Lossenol couldn’t guess. The Ents that wandered through, tending to the trees, never indicated concern, but he didn’t like it.

Dreams of waves and birds continued to plague the twins every so often—Eluréd more than Elurín—and Daeron started to grow uneasy again too as time went on. “I was mistaken before,” he told Lossenol one evening as they brought in laundry that had been hung out all afternoon to dry. “When I said it felt as though the world was holding its breath. It was only inhaling, then. Now it feels like the breath is being held—and I still do not know what will happen when it is released.”

“Are you having dreams too?” Lossenol had dreamed a few times over the last couple of years of that beautiful and blinding light, waking with both a throbbing headache and a conviction that he needed to pass back over the mountains immediately, after almost a decade without such nightmares. The feeling had faded with the pain, but the memory of them both lingered, and filled him with unease. He hadn’t been able to hide the headaches, but he hadn't spoken of the other feelings to Daeron. It frightened him too much. 

“No,” Daeron said as he folded a blanket. “The Music is different, though—the echoes in the Lhûn. It isn’t anything I have ever heard before. I just…” He trailed off, frowning, and turned toward the river. Lossenol followed his gaze, and saw Elurín emerging from the woods. “What is it, birdie?”

“Nellas wants us to come out to the river.”

“What, right now?”

“There’s something she wants to show us. She seemed very serious.”

Lossenol glanced at Daeron, who frowned, but neither of them protested further. Instead they set the laundry aside and joined Elurín. He was almost too tall for Lossenol to easily put an arm around his shoulders. “You all right, Elurín?”

“Yes, of course,” said Elurín, but he didn’t smile. 

By the river the trees fell away, and it was easier to see the stars. They found Eluréd standing beside Nellas, a hand over his mouth as he stared at the western horizon. Nellas was also looking that way, eyes wide. “Look!” she said, pointing. Lossenol followed her finger, and blinked. Beside him Elurín sucked in a sharp breath, and Daeron went very still. 

There was a new star, brighter than any of the others. It hovered over the horizon, and—and he knew that light. He had seen that light before. He dreamed of that light. His head started to ache, the way it hadn’t in years—a sharp throbbing taking up residence behind his temples. 

Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean—

“That’s the Silmaril,” Elurín said in a low voice. “That’s…that’s not possible.”

“Are you sure?” Daeron asked. 

“You don’t forget that Light after you’ve seen it, even once.”

“Kóri—Kóri said once—” Lossenol’s head ached so badly he could hardly speak. He turned away from the bright new star on the horizon, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. He could hardly think. 

Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords—

“Lossë?” Daeron caught his wrists. “Your head? Come sit down. What did Kóri say?”

“Their w-wise ones, he said—said to watch the s-stars.” He sat down hard on the flat stones that lined the river. The water flowed along beside them, a quiet rushing sound that was almost soothing. “Is this—”

Woe unto world’s end!

“It feels like the change we’ve been waiting for,” Daeron said softly as he knelt down with him. “The Valar are moving—you were right, Lossë, when you spoke of them before, do you remember?”

“Birds, stars, waves. Manwë, Varda, Ulmo.” The words felt clumsy in his mouth; he was dizzy and vaguely sick and he didn’t understand why. It had been years since he’d felt this bad. “Did—did they put—”

“No!” Elurín cried suddenly. Lossenol jerked his head up and regretted it immediately when the pain spiked. Elurín had rounded on Eluréd, suddenly furious. “No, you’re wrong this time—”

“Elurín,” Nellas began, reaching for him.

“No, she’s not—she can’t just be gone!”

Eluréd said something too quietly for Lossenol to hear, but Elurín did not seem to be listening. He stormed away instead, off into the trees and away from home. Eluréd started to go after him, but Nellas stopped him and went instead. 

“Eluréd,” Daeron said when they were alone, “come here, birdie. What did you see?”

When Eluréd came to sit between them his face was wet, and he was shaking all over. “I just—Elwing, she—she’s gone. She—I don’t know if she’s alive, or—but she’s never coming back—not to Middle-earth.”

“Oh, Eluréd.” Lossenol held out his arms and Eluréd fell into them, breaking into horrible, wrenching sobs. Daeron stroked his hair as Lossenol rubbed his back. There wasn’t really anything either of them could say. Eluréd and Elurín had been counting on someday reuniting with their sister somehow, in spite of the ever-growing danger. It was the one thing they had always hoped for, the one thing they wanted above all else.

“I’m sorry,” Daeron murmured. “I’m so sorry. We would have taken you to her if we could, Eluréd.”

“I kn-know,” Eluréd choked out. “Just…I don’t…I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I,” said Daeron. “There are ways to try to find out—the Dwarves might have had news, or perhaps Iarwain or Goldberry might be able to tell us something. They often know unexpected things.”

“Can we go to them?” Eluréd asked, voice small, sounding so much younger than he really was. “Please?”

“Yes,” Daeron said, “yes of course. But not right away. Lossë, you need to go home and lie down, and when Elurín returns—”

“Lossë?” Eluréd sat up. “Your head hurts? I’m sorry, are—”

“I’ll be fine.” Lossenol thumbed a tear from his cheek. “Don’t worry about me.”

“That’s not how this works,” Daeron said pointedly. Lossenol tried to glare, but above Daeron’s head the Silmaril shone and he couldn’t look at it without feeling like a knife was stabbing through his bad eye. “Come on. We don’t need to stay out here—the new star isn’t going anywhere, I think.”

Eluréd got to his feet and pulled Lossenol up after him. The world pitched around him and he closed his eyes. “This is worse than usual,” he heard Eluréd say. 

“Feels l-like when Medlinel…” Lossenol began, but couldn’t quite finish. 

“I’ll sing it away when we get home,” said Daeron. 

“I knew I didn’t like her,” Eluréd muttered. 

“It wasn’t her fault,” Daeron said. “I told you then and I’ll tell you now—she’s a healer, and she wouldn’t harm someone on purpose no matter who it was or how she felt about them. Someone else did this to Lossenol.”

“I thought it was because there was a cave-in—”

“That too—maybe that all made it worse, I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lossenol muttered, stumbling as they passed under the trees. It was a little easier to open his eyes there, but he still felt dizzy, and had to lean heavily on Eluréd. 

“Of course it matters!” Eluréd said vehemently. “Whoever did this—”

“Is probably dead,” Daeron said. “Though I have had the thought that it was the Girdle itself—if it was not dissolved entirely when Melian departed, but only broken and left to fade away on its own…”

They kept talking, Daeron distracting Eluréd with speculation about enchantments and what the Girdle of Melian might have become in her absence, but Lossenol stopped listening. It was a relief to get home and to lie down, finally, on soft pillows. Daeron smoothed his hair back, humming a quiet and familiar song that chased away the worst of the headache. Then he started to sing something else, something new, that dragged Lossenol down into a deep sleep where nothing hurt and there were no memories, good or bad, to trouble him at all.

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Elurín and Nellas did not return home that night. Lossenol slept until morning, and when Daeron looked into his good eye, it was normal. The shadows were there but no longer crowding everything else out. The Oath had returned to sleep. He thought it would stay that way, for it was clear that the Silmaril was now out of anyone’s reach. He hoped it would stay that way—it wasn’t even about protecting Eluréd and Elurín anymore, for they could protect themselves, and by now he didn’t think even the Oath could drive Lossenol to harm any of them. It hurt Lossenol, though, and if it woke fully it would probably get him killed, or worse. Daeron was determined not to let that happen.

For now, though, the danger had passed. “How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed as Lossenol sat up. “You were dreaming just before you woke. Do you remember what about?” He’d been mumbling in Quenya, sounding distressed. 

“Not really…I…” Lossenol rubbed his face. “I woke up wanting my father? But I don’t remember my father…”

“But of course you had one,” Daeron said. “Of course you loved him, even if you can’t remember.” Whatever Fëanor had become by the end, surely he had not always been that way—Daeron couldn’t imagine Lossenol becoming who he was if he had not had parents who loved him, whatever had happened later. It made the Oath all the more cruel. What a terrible thing Fëanor had chained his children to. “I’m sorry, Lossë.”

“Not your fault.”

“No, just—I understand. I miss my parents too.” He hesitated, and then said, “I owe you and your people a debt of gratitude, you know. My parents were both at the Falas when it was besieged, and it was the Noldor who broke it.” It was Lossenol himself, if Daeron recalled the stories right—it had been forces led by Celegorm son of Fëanor who had broken and scattered the orcs. “My mother was slain, but your arrival allowed my father to return home.”

“But he still died.”

“He did, but—I had more time with him than I would have otherwise, and I will be forever grateful for that. And many others survived.”

“I just…whatever’s happening…” Lossenol leaned forward until his head dropped onto Daeron’s shoulder. “I’m so scared,” he whispered.

“Me too,” Daeron whispered back. 

They found Eluréd outside with the goats, but clearly only going through the motions, his gaze continually straying north, toward the woods where Elurín had disappeared. “He was so angry,” he said when Daeron stepped up beside him. “He’s never been angry at me like that.”

“It isn’t your fault, Eluréd,” said Daeron. “He’ll come around and remember it.”

“I wish I wasn’t shown such things,” Eluréd said. “I wish…” He wiped at his face, turning away. “Someone should go to the Dwarves. See what they have learned.”

“Someone will, but…” Daeron sighed. “I know I said last night that they might have news, but like as not it will only be what one of their foresighted or wise ones have been shown. Lossë was there only a month ago, and there was no real news out of the west. Waiting a little while might make it more likely that we actually learn something from them.” The Sons of Fëanor had been the Dwarves’ primary source of news for decades, but they had vanished from Amon Ereb a few years before, and if they had returned they had sent no one any farther east, and no one else dared venture too far west of the Gelion. Sometimes ravens—long the friends of Dwarves—or other birds brought news, but that was always scattered and not always reliable. “Whatever this new star means, it will take time for any of it to reach either the Ered Luin or us. Especially anything out of Sirion. For now I don’t think there is anything more we can do but wait—at least for Elurín to come back home.”

“Did you see the Sickle last night?” Eluréd asked after a moment. 

“No.” He hadn’t even thought to look for other stars. “Was it different?”

“It was brighter—brighter than I have ever seen it. You said once that Elbereth hung it in the northern sky as a warning to the Enemy.”

“So she did.”

“That must mean they are going to act. Doesn’t it?”

“Maybe. But even the Valar cannot act in an instant.”

Nellas finally brought Elurín back as the sun rose toward noon. She looked frustrated, and he was still glowering. “Elurín,” Eluréd began, but he just walked past him and disappeared inside. 

“Give him time,” Nellas said. “Is Lossenol all right?”

“Yes,” said Daeron, not liking how Eluréd seemed to shrink into himself, but not really sure there was anything he could do about it.

Lossenol seemed to disagree. He had watched the exchange from where he sat sharpening knives near the door, and now he went inside. Almost immediately Daeron heard raised voices. “I don’t think that’s helpful,” Nellas said, frowning.

“That’s Elurín, not Lossë,” said Daeron. “Come on. It’s nearly lunchtime, and I’d wager neither Elurín nor you, Nellas, have eaten very much since yesterday.”

“Not much, no,” Nellas agreed, sighing. 

They prepared lunch, and by that time Lossenol had given up and come out, looking even more frustrated than Nellas. Daeron took his turn, carrying a plate inside. He found Elurín by the window in the bedroom he shared with Eluréd. They had stopped sharing a bed but still shared the space, never able to sleep well if they were apart. The walls were covered in drawings, added to little by little over the years from the first days of their coming there and now reaching nearly to the ceiling—birds, trees, flowers, scribbles in tengwar and cirth. Daeron set the plate down on the windowsill, and then sat facing Elurín. “Do you wish to speak of it?” he asked.

“No,” said Elurín without looking at him. 

“Will you listen to what I have to say?”

“Lossenol already said it.”

“I don’t know what Lossenol said. I rather doubt it is the same as what I want to tell you.”

Elurín sighed, and lowered his head into his arms. “Fine.” 

Daeron sighed too, and looked down at his hands, clasped loosely on his lap. “I never had siblings,” he said, “and both of my parents are dead—they died long ago, when the Enemy first returned to these lands. But I had dear friends from my earliest childhood who were nearly brothers and sisters to me. Lúthien was one. It is one of the greatest regrets of my life that I was unable to make things right with her before we both left Doriath. It was one of the worst moments of my life to learn what had befallen my home, and everyone there who I still cared for, to know that I was truly all alone in the world. I don’t know what has happened to your sister, but you have your brother right here, and it is not his doing—it is not his fault that he was shown something, and he is as heartbroken as you are.”

“But he’s wrong,” Elurín said without raising his head.

“Maybe he is. Foresight is a strange thing, and maybe he is mistaken in what he saw, maybe what he has been shown is a future that may not come to pass. I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Whether he’s right or he is wrong, whether Elwing remains at the Mouths of Sirion or whether she is in Mandos or somehow across the Sea in Valinor or somewhere else entirely—something has happened, and his heart hurts just as much as yours. He needs you, and whether you wish to admit it right now or not, you need him. If you need space, or time, of course you must take it and no one here will try to stop you. But make peace with Eluréd first. Do not make him keep wondering whether or not he has lost both his sister and his brother in one fell swoop.”

Elurín did not answer for a long time. Daeron waited. Outside in the trees a nightingale trilled. The breeze carried the scent of niphredil and eglantine through the window. Finally, Elurín said, “I don’t think I have ever been so angry. Just—whatever happened, it had to be them, right? The Fëanorians. They came to Doriath and—and Elwing had the Silmaril, so they didn’t get it then, and…”

“I don’t know,” Daeron said. “All any of us can say for certain is that they still haven’t got it—they could not have put it into the sky as a new star for us all to see.”

“I still hate them.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But I do—they killed Adar and Naneth and destroyed our home, and—and they stole our sister away from us, all for a stupid jewel…”

And one of them loves you more than life itself, Daeron thought. Aloud he said, “Hatred is poison, Elurín. I cannot tell you how to let it go, but please try. Do not cling to it. They are out of your reach and the only one you will harm with this is yourself.”

“I don’t care—”

“I do. Eluréd does. And Lossë, and Nellas.” Daeron rose, and leaned over to kiss the back of Elurín’s head. “I can never replace your parents, nor do I wish to, but I love you—I love you so much. Please do not make me watch you go down such a dark road.”

Elurín did not emerge from his room that afternoon. Eluréd was reluctant to go into it that night, so Daeron stayed up with him when Lossenol went to sleep early. When they were alone, Eluréd breathed a shuddering sigh and slumped over until he lay with his head pillowed in Daeron’s lap, staring at the flames on the hearth. “What did Elurín say, earlier?”

“He’s angry. Not with you, not really, but he has nowhere else to direct it.”

“I don’t feel angry,” Eluréd said after a moment. “Should I?”

“There’s no right or wrong way to feel, I think,” Daeron said as he stroked his hair. Eluréd was quieter than Elurín, more thoughtful and more prone to tears than temper. They both took after Lúthien—and Melian—with shadow-dark hair and soft grey eyes, but Elurín had more of Thingol’s temperament, though he was still young and, with few reasons until now to get so angry, had not yet learned fully how to rein in his temper.

“The worst part is…we knew that Elwing had made it, but she never knew about us. I know why, but she—she probably thought that we were dead. That she was all alone.”

“If I could have gotten you to Sirion, I would have,” Daeron said. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t.”

“We were not meant to go there,” Eluréd said. “I know that. I just—”

“It’s easier to feel at peace with it when all is going well,” Daeron said. “I know.”

“Do you think she’s dead?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible, but—well. Lúthien did so many impossible things, and Elwing is as much her grandchild as you are. It would not surprise me to learn that she found a way through the enchantments of the Valar through sheer force of will, and broke all their hearts with her songs, as Lúthien once moved the heart of Mandos. That Silmaril found its way to the Valar’s hands somehow, Eluréd. Do not give up hope yet.”

“I still want to visit Goldberry and Iarwain, but I’m not sure Elurín does.”

“We’ll ask him in the morning, or whenever he decides to rejoin us. If he doesn’t, then I or Lossenol will go with you—and Nellas will surely wish to go too.”

Elurín opened their bedroom door then, and leaned on it as he looked out. “Eluréd?”

“Yes?” Eluréd sat up. 

“Can you—I’m sorry. I’m—”

Eluréd immediately rose to his feet and ran to his brother. The door swung shut behind them, and Daeron breathed a sigh of relief. He banked the fire and tidied up a few things, feeling the absurdity of such domestic chores while the world was preparing to change forever, and then he went to bed. “Did they make up?” Lossenol asked. 

“I thought you were asleep,” Daeron said as he slipped under the blankets.

“Tried. Can’t. The songbirds?”

“Elurín apologized—they’ll be all right. Does your head hurt?”

Lossenol sighed. “No.” He rolled over so he and Daeron were facing each other. His good eye glinted in the darkness of the bedroom. “It was my people that drove…whatever happened.”

“I know Elurín thinks that, but we can’t know for sure.”

“Who else? If it has to do with the Silmaril, it has to do with the Fëanorians.”

“But it has nothing to do with you,” Daeron said. “You have been here, with us. And whatever happened, that Silmaril is now out of anyone’s reach.”

“So why did it hurt so much just to see it?”

“I don’t know,” Daeron said. The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. “Maybe just—its Light is familiar to you. The Light of the Trees, I mean. If you wanted to try to—”

“I don’t. I just—I don’t know what I want, except for the past to stay there.”

“I’m sorry,” Daeron whispered. He reached for Lossenol, who rolled over to press his face into Daeron’s chest, shaking with the effort of trying not to cry. “What is it you’re afraid of?”

“Hurting the twins,” Lossenol whispered. “Hurting you.”

“You aren’t going to hurt us.”

“I already have. And something from my past might, in the future. It—”

“We all know that you love us and you won’t ever harm us,” Daeron said. “Whether something else from your past—or mine, for that matter—comes across the mountains, that is beyond our control. We’ll deal with it if and when it happens—together.” 

They were both silent for a while. Through the wall Daeron could hear Eluréd and Elurín’s voices, quiet and muffled—a good sign, he thought—and outside he heard the wind rush through the trees. Finally Lossenol asked, “What from your past would be so bad?”

Daeron sighed. “Menelas,” he said softly. “Or someone like him. Or just—not anyone enthralled, just someone else from Doriath.”

“Wouldn’t they be pleased to see you? And the twins?”

“Maybe. I suppose it would depend on who it was.” Everyone he had once called a friend was dead—that left those who had been only acquaintances and whose opinion he couldn’t be sure of. He thought suddenly of Celeborn, who had wed Galadriel of the Noldor—Galadriel with her bright and piercing gaze, who would recognize Lossenol in an instant were chance to bring them together again. “My fear is that if Eluréd and Elurín are discovered to be alive, someone would try to crown one of them—to restore the kingship of the Sindar in, oh I don’t know, either in alliance or opposition to the kingship of the Noldor, I can’t possibly guess which. I don’t want that for them.”

“They could do it,” Lossenol said.

“Of course they could—but we’ve worked so hard to keep them hidden, and revealing themselves in that way would put them in even more danger than if the Enemy found them here while looking for me. I know it’s not likely to happen, but…”

“But it’s not impossible.”

“No. And I don’t think it’s what they want either.”

By the next morning Eluréd and Elurín were back on speaking terms—even more than usual, sticking together as they hadn’t since they were children, always within arm’s reach of one another. They were all in quiet, pensive moods, and Daeron kept pausing to extend his senses to his Girdle. He felt nothing, of course, except for that tingling sense of the world on a precipice. What kind of precipice, he couldn’t guess. 

A week after they first saw the Silmaril in the sky, Eluréd brought up going to visit Iarwain and Goldberry again. Nellas immediately brightened at the idea.

“You go,” Lossenol said when Daeron looked at him. “I’m going to go see what Kóri thinks of this new star.”

“You’re going alone?” Daeron asked. 

“I go alone all the time. I’ll be fine.” 

“Does your head still ache?” Eluréd asked him. 

“Not at all.” Lossenol leaned over to tug on Eluréd’s braid. “I’m fine now, birdies, I promise.” 

They all left the next morning, Lossenol for the west and the rest of them for the south. Goldberry did not roam as widely as Iarwain did, preferring her lily pools along the banks of the little willow-lined river she called home. It was some days’ journey from their home by the Lhûn, over the hills and south of the lake, close to the dwarf road. When they came to the little river they found Goldberry sitting by one of the lily pools, singing as she combed her long golden hair. When she saw them she smiled brightly and leaped to her feet. “Nellas, it has been too long!”

“It has!” Nellas embraced her. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!”

“And you!” Goldberry held out her hands to the rest of them and kissed them all in greeting. “Welcome! No Lossenol this time?”

“No, he has gone on an errand of his own,” said Daeron. 

“And you have come, I think,” Goldberry said, her smile turning knowing, “to speak of the new star that has appeared in the gloaming. I have seen it—it is very beautiful, is it not?”

“It is a Silmaril,” said Elurín.

“It is a sign,” Goldberry replied. 

“Of what, though?” asked Elurín. “Do you know?”

“Perhaps a little,” said Goldberry, “and Iarwain might know more. I have listened to what the rivers tell me, and I have been thinking of following them down to the Sea where Uinen might speak more with me. Though that is never certain, for she comes seldom to the shallow waters. I would ask Ossë, but he delights in riddles and never gives me a plain answer when he can give one full of eddies and strange currents instead.”

“What can you tell us now?” asked Daeron. 

Goldberry led the way upstream to a flower-strewn meadow, where they could sit on blankets in the sunshine and eat berries and cream and drink clear spring water that tasted better than the finest wines Doriath had ever produced. As she handed a basket of raspberries to Nellas, Goldberry said, “You must have guessed already that the Valar have put this new star into the sky. It is a sign to all of us in these lands that they are not idle, and that there is yet hope. Estel, I mean, though perhaps amdir too.”

One was so much harder to hold onto than the other. “But do you know what they are doing, if they are not idle?” asked Elurín. 

“Were I to guess? Preparing for war.” Goldberry pointed to the north, where there was nothing but blue sky and white fluffy clouds at the moment, but where later that night the Sickle could be seen, blazing brightly. “So they came once to Utumno, so they will come again to Angband—and as the world changed then, it will change again. Lands will sink and rise and the seas will change their shapes.”

Eluréd and Elurín exchanged a glance, and Daeron swallowed a sigh. Thus far it was nothing they had not already guessed for themselves, though they had not spoken of what might happen to the world itself. Then Elurín asked, “Have you heard in the rivers how the Silmaril came to the hands of the Valar?”

“No,” said Goldberry. “But Iarwain may know. He hearkens to the winds and to the rains as well, and to the eagles that circle so high in the air even elven eyes might not see them. Iarwain can see them—and he can hear what they call to one another.”

“Where is Iarwain?” asked Eluréd. 

At this Goldberry laughed. “Here, there, anywhere! He is not here, and that is all I can tell you.”

Iarwain did not make an appearance that day, but he arrived the next morning, laughing as he danced up the path from the river. Daeron sighed, and Eluréd grinned at him. “He’s not that bad, Ada.”

When asked what he knew of the new star in the sky, Iarwain stopped and turned toward the west, though it was the middle of the morning and no stars at all could be seen. “War is coming, and armies are mustering,” he said after a moment, unusually serious. “The western lands will be greatly changed when all is over. But the Song goes on, and the winds still blow and the sun still shines. The seasons will turn and the rivers flow down to the Sea.”

“You think the Valar will be victorious, then?” asked Elurín. 

“Melkor is not so mighty as he once was,” said Goldberry, and Iarwain nodded. “In himself, I mean. He has put so much of himself into the earth—into the stones and the air. He has marked it forever, and it will be the work of all our many lifetimes to heal it. But someday soon his throne will sit empty and the towers of his fortress will crumble into the Sea. What will become of him, I cannot say. That is for the Valar to decide.”

“Much is dark on the horizon,” said Iarwain. “I cannot see what lies past the mountains; I know little of what has been happening, of how the rivers flow and all the dark winds blow. All I can say is that Light always returns, when it is chased away. So it was when the Valar first came and Varda lit the first stars to shine in the dark before everything, and so it was when the Lamps were toppled, and so it was when the Trees were withered. The Shadows of Melkor, that you call Morgoth, might seek to hide the Sun and Moon, yet they are far out of his reach, and here we sit in bright summer sunshine! The Shadow does not last, whatever form it takes.”

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Lossenol found Kóri looking smug at the mountains. He also found a flurry of activity, as the outpost was being expanded and further fortified. Similar work was underway on the western side of the pass but on a larger scale, he was told. “It seems our wise ones were right,” Kóri said as they retreated inside away from the noise. “You’ve seen the new star?”

“I have. Has anything else changed?”

“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Have you seen anything in the mountains or elsewhere in the north?”

“No, nothing. It’s probably only a matter of time for that, too.” 

Everyone else was still away by the time Lossenol returned home. He had expected to be the first back; in fact, he expected Eluréd and Elurín to part from Daeron and Nellas to do some wandering of their own before they came back, taking advantage of the relative safety of Eriador while they still could, taking time to come to terms with whatever had happened to their sister away from everyone but each other. It was very quiet in the empty village, though, and there was not much to do. He pulled some weeds in the garden, hunted, picked up his sword to practice, argued with the goats. His dreams were filled with the Silmaril’s light and with voices that he knew while still caught in the dream, voices he kept trying to reach, but which slipped away as soon as he woke. 

Finally, Daeron returned—alone. “The twins have gone to stay with Mithon for a little while, and Nellas remained with Goldberry,” he said. “How are things at the mountains?”

“Preparing for war,” said Lossenol, “but no one knows when or how or what it will look like. What did Goldberry say?”

“Very little more than we’ve guessed already,” sighed Daeron. “Iarwain says armies are mustering and war is coming, though he did not say whose armies or where. But they were both hopeful, and spoke of the Enemy’s downfall as all-but certain.”

“Do you think they’re right?”

“I’ve never known Iarwain to be wrong. If the Valar themselves march to war than anything is possible, I suppose. They have fought and defeated him before.”

“We need to think about what we’re going to do,” said Lossenol. “If that kind of war is coming to Beleriand, people are going to be fleeing east.”

“You still want to join with the Dwarves?”

“I’d be very surprised if those armies mustering that Iarwain spoke of didn’t include everyone in Eriador,” said Lossenol. “I don’t want to run away. The whole reason I left Valinor was to fight the Enemy.”

Daeron looked at him sharply. “Do you remember that, or…?”

“Not exactly, but why else would I have left?” 

“Do you think you’re able?” Daeron asked after a moment. “With your eye…”

“It makes it harder, but I can manage, especially if I have someone I trust on that side. It’s my shoulder that gives me more trouble.” He wasn’t sure if it had been crushed by a falling stone or a blow from a weapon, but he still didn’t have the same range of movement on his left as he did his right. It didn’t stop him from being able to draw a bow or wield a sword, especially since he was right handed, but it did limit him. The bones also ached sometimes when it got cold and damp. Until now it had been a minor annoyance, hardly ever thought of, but a weak and blind left side might cost him his life in a real battle. “The bulk of the fighting will surely happen farther west, and north. I don’t want to go that far. I can’t go that far. If we can defend the pass from behind walls or hidden in the hills, or use other tactics to keep the roads clear—that will be very different from charging into a pitched battle.”

“Have you spoken with any healers lately?” Daeron asked.

“There’s nothing they can really do about it.” He’d long known that he was as healed as he would get—Daeron felt far more badly about it than he did. “Don’t look at me like that, Daeron. I’m fine, and I know my limits.”

Daeron sighed. “I’m going to hate it whatever we do,” he said. “Whenever I think of retreating farther east—Hendaras and Elenel are already packing their things, along with many others, all the women and children and the old—whenever I think of joining them, I feel rather like I did when I tried to delay crossing the Ered Luin before.”

“We aren’t meant to go east, you mean.”

“I wish I was shown things the way others were, instead of these vague feelings and hints in the Music. We aren’t meant to go east, but I do not know what we are meant to do.”

“Kill a lot of orcs, probably,” said Lossenol. 

“Very funny.”

“If we’re lucky we might even get to take down a balrog.”

Daeron shuddered. “Oh, don’t say that. I have never seen a balrog, and I don’t want to. But it’s also—there won’t be any point in hiding, after a while. Myself, I mean, especially if I have to sing songs of great power. Or the twins, which is worse.”

“They can handle themselves,” said Lossenol. “I don’t think we could have done any more to prepare them than we have.”

“I know. But it doesn’t feel like enough. It feels—they’re still so young, Lossë, and I don’t—if something happens to them—”

“Don’t borrow trouble from the future. We’ve always known it was going to get bad—now we have reason to hope that after it gets worse it will get better.”

“I don’t know how to do that—to hope for that.”

“Then just take it one day at a time, same as we’ve been doing all along.”

It was a relief to have Daeron back, to have another person to talk to. His absence with the twins had been the longest Lossenol had ever been apart from any of them when he wasn’t away on errands of his own. It was very different to be alone in the woods with a purpose, to be doing something, than it was to just sit or wander idly. It had felt like too long. He wasn’t built for that kind of solitude. He didn’t know how Daeron had endured years of it.

Eluréd and Elurín did not stay away as long as Lossenol had expected. All of them were uneasy and no one wanted to be apart from the others for long. A few days after they returned, Elurín sought out Lossenol. Daeron and Eluréd were busy elsewhere, and Lossenol was fletching arrows. “Can I help?” Elurín asked.

“Always, birdie.”

Elurín sat down, crossing his legs, and picked up an arrow. “I’m sorry,” he said after a few minutes, not looking up from his work. “For shouting at you, I mean. It’s—none of it’s your fault. I know that.”

“I’d rather you take it out on me than your brother,” Lossenol said. “I can take it, and I know you didn’t really mean it. You’re still angry?”

“Yes,” Elurín said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Good,” Lossenol said. At this Elurín looked up, startled. “You can use that anger, Elurín—as long as you rule it, rather than letting it rule you. When it comes to fighting—and it will, far sooner than any of us would wish—you’ll need it.”

“You speak as though from experience—but I don’t think I have ever seen you get angry.”

“I haven’t been, really, not since we met. But before that—I think I was.” Sometimes he realized that he knew things about himself only as he said them out loud. But as he spoke he became certain that it was true. “I think I was so angry that I grew blind to nearly everything else. I think I might still be that angry, somewhere deep down. That’s most likely how I ended up in Doriath in the first place—and I don’t want that for you, Elurín.”

“Do you really not want to remember who you were? To know these things for certain rather than just guessing?”

“No, I don’t. Some doors that close shouldn’t be opened again.” Most days, at least before the Silmaril had appeared in the sky, he didn’t even think about the fact that he hadn’t always been Lossenol, hadn’t always known Daeron or the twins. He wished he could keep it that way—hoped his past would never come back to haunt him. He didn’t want to remember why he had been so angry—he didn’t want it to consume him again, and he was afraid that if he did remember—the anger and the reasons for it—it would.

“Just…I can’t imagine ever forgetting my parents. Or Elwing. Or Eluréd.”

“You know why it’s different for me, birdie,” Lossenol said quietly. “You know who I followed, why I was in Doriath.”

“That doesn’t mean there isn’t anyone out there who might be missing—”

“I don’t think there is. But it’s fine—I’m here with you, and that’s more than enough.”

Summer waned into autumn. Nellas did not return, having decided to stay with Goldberry for the foreseeable future, unwilling to venture again any closer to the Ered Luin; Lossenol missed her, but didn’t blame her. He watched Daeron carefully as the days grew shorter. He seemed fine at first—it had been a long time since his grief weighed on him enough that Lossenol felt seriously worried—but as the leaves fell and the bright autumn colors faded to the browns and greys of winter, he grew quiet, and slept more—and started having nightmares again. By day he just wanted to curl up by the fire, and the rest of them were careful never to leave him alone for long, and to fill the silences when they threatened to become oppressive. Winter wasn’t any better—it was the harshest since they had come over the mountains, with howling winds and driving snows. 

“It’s like that winter when we all first met,” Eluréd remarked one afternoon, after Lossenol and Elurín returned from bringing in more firewood and stood shaking clumps of snow out of their hair by the door. “You remember?”

“How could we forget?” Elurín replied. 

“Do you remember much from that winter?” Eluréd asked Lossenol.

“Most of it.”

“It feels cozier and happier in my memory than I know it really was,” said Elurín as he curled up beside Eluréd, who had a harp on his lap to replace some broken strings. 

“I’m glad of it,” Daeron murmured. He said nothing more, but it was easy to tell that he did not look back on it in quite the same way. 

For himself, Lossenol remembered the coziness—but also the tightness around Daeron’s eyes and the way his smile wasn’t really real through most of it, though it had been impossible to recognize that until much later when he had finally seen his real smile. He remembered pain and fear and discomfort as well as the warmth of the fire and the soft music and Eluréd and Elurín’s quiet giggling when Daeron told them silly stories to pass the time. The better parts outweighed the bad, especially when added to all that came afterward, but some of the fear lingered—especially when winter storms came howling through the trees, sounding a little like wolves in the distance. 

The next year passed very quietly. Orcs crept over the mountains; Lossenol killed two and heard of others from the Ents, who also spoke of rumblings in the earth, of armies mustering, of a bitter taste on the wind when it blew out of the north. At home they made preparations to leave. Eluréd and Elurín took the goats down to Nenuial; Lossenol was glad to see them go just on principle, but made a show of being even happier than he really was so Daeron had something to laugh at. He spent his time making arrows and making sure they had enough food that could be easily preserved and carried with them. Daeron did the same, and spent a lot of time by the river, listening to whatever it might tell him—hoping, he said, for a warning before something happened. 

While he listened he carved things, little toys to give away to the children at Nenuial, charms and beads and, eventually, five delicately carved wooden leaves he turned into pendants, one for each of them. “When we leave this place, it will be forever,” he said as he gave three of them to Lossenol and the twins. “So here is a way we can carry a piece of it with us, wherever we go afterward.” The fifth he took to Nellas, when he and the twins went to visit her and Goldberry. 

When the change came, late in the summer two years after the Silmaril first appeared in the sky, even Lossenol could tell—a great wind rushed up from the southwest, and the earth trembled under their feet. A murmur swept through the forest as though the trees were all waking up—as though they might become suddenly Entish and begin to move. By the river Daeron cried out, scrambling to his feet as the water swelled, its regular rushing rhythms changing suddenly. Lossenol did not have the same connection to the Music that Daeron did—or the twins—but he could tell that they heard something new. Birds erupted out of the wood in a cacophony of calls, and Lossenol could hear other animals racing through the trees somewhere behind him.

“The Valar have come,” Daeron breathed, turning to look at Lossenol with eyes gone very wide. “They shaped the world and it knows them and they are here.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Lossenol. 

“It’s time to prepare to leave,” said Elurín. 

They made their final preparations over the next week. Then the wind shifted again and Lossenol smelled smoke. At the same time Daeron went still beside him. “Someone’s coming,” he breathed. “From the west.”

“Men,” Elurín said a second later. “Men and Orcs.”

“It’s been a dry summer,” Lossenol said. He didn’t need to hear the distressed calls of all the birds to know that the flames would spread—burning hot and burning fast. “Unless one of you can sing up a rainstorm, we need to go. Now.”

“Should someone go to Nenuial—”

“The river will halt the fires,” said Daeron. “Our plan was to go to the dwarves, and it’s too late to change it now.” They scattered to grab their things; there was no time even to take one last look at the place they’d called home for almost all of the twins’ lives, and in minutes they were racing south through the trees, following a familiar trail. Lossenol let Eluréd take the lead, and dropped to the back just behind Daeron. After a while he heard crashing through the trees behind them; they were outside of Daeron’s Girdle now, and there was nothing besides their own woodcraft to hide their passage. Lossenol drew his bow and glanced over his shoulder. 

The attack came from the front. Eluréd cried out, and Elurín lunged forward, drawing his sword with a shout. Daeron stumbled, and Lossenol caught him, pulling him away from the orcs. “Now would be a good time to break some skulls, Daeron!”

Then another sound reached them, from north and west. A loud roar and a keening cry mixed together. The orcs jeered and laughed as they kept coming. Lossenol carved through them, trying to have Daeron’s back while also watching for Eluréd and Elurín—but they were fighting in tandem exactly as he’d taught them, blades flashing in the dappled sunlight. 

Then Daeron caught his breath and spoke a few words that shivered through the air almost like blades themselves, and the orcs broke and scattered. “Come on!” he said, grabbing Lossenol’s arm. “Songbirds, let’s go!”

“What was that noise?” Eluréd panted as he ducked under a low hanging branch. “The—the roar—?”

“I don’t know,” Daeron said.

“Dragon,” Lossenol said at the same time.

Eluréd and Elurín skidded to a halt. “We have to warn Nenuial!” Elurín cried. “A dragon will cross the river for sure—”

“We’ll never make it there ahead of it,” Daeron said. 

“I can! I’m fastest, I can make it!”

“You can’t make it there and then back to the mountains before the road is blocked!” Eluréd protested. 

“I can find a way—I’m going!”

“Elurín!” Daeron cried, but he was already gone. “Lossë—”

“He’s right about one thing,” Lossenol said. “He’s fastest—we won’t catch him, and we won’t change his mind.”

“But if the dragon is headed that way—”

“What if we delayed it somehow?” asked Eluréd. “What if we—distracted it, maybe?”

“No!” Daeron and Lossenol said at the same time. “You’ve heard the tales, Eluréd,” said Daeron. “We aren’t going anywhere near that thing—we won’t stand a chance.”

“We don’t have to get near it,” Eluréd said. “If there’s a song that would—”

“There isn’t,” Daeron said. “We can’t risk it.”

“I don’t think the dragon is in much of a hurry, anyway,” said Lossenol. “And we might end up being a distraction anyway—those orcs will be back before long. Come on, birdie.”

They ran, Eluréd stumbling a little before he hit his stride again. When the dragon roared again it sounded closer. As they went Daeron chanted, half-gasping the words out in between breaths—words of shielding, of hiding, of twisting shadows and confusion left in their wake. It wouldn’t deter a dragon, but it would make it harder for the orcs to follow.

The mountains were days away. By night they climbed trees and hardly dared to even doze. Lossenol held onto Eluréd, who had not spoken since the debate over the dragon. By day they ran, pausing briefly to rest as time dragged on and they got wearier and wearier. The orcs did not catch up again, but they were never far. 

Finally, they reached the road. That morning Lossenol had wrenched his bad shoulder climbing down out of a tree, but there wasn’t time to do anything about it, so he just had Eluréd keep his bow out, and gave thanks, again and again, that he was right-handed. They stopped to catch their breath. When Lossenol looked north he saw smoke rising from the woods; he could smell the burning when the wind shifted. It was far too easy to imagine the village gone up in flames—the home they’d built falling apart into ashes. The thought made something under his ribs hurt—the ache of yet another loss in a long line of them. In the distance they heard what sounded like horns, calling and answering. “The Ents are moving,” Daeron said. 

“Can they fight fire?” asked Eluréd.

“I don’t know, but they sound angry.”

“Come on,” Lossenol said. He rolled his shoulder and winced. “We need to keep going.” He glanced up as a few ravens passed overhead, dark shapes against the hazy sky. Eluréd hesitated, looking back east along the road. “Eluréd—”

“He’s all right,” Eluréd said without moving. “I’d know if he wasn’t.”

“Eluréd,” Daeron said, and took his hand. “Come. He’ll be expecting us to wait at the pass.”

“I’m going to strangle him when he gets there,” Eluréd said. 

Traveling on the road was easier for them, but it was also easier for others. The orcs caught up again a few days later—more of them. This time Eluréd met them with words that shivered through the air and made them stumble and stagger—though he was weary and frightened and unused to using his voice as a weapon, so it did little more than buy them a few seconds. 

It was just enough. A cry went up behind them and then dwarves charged past, some on ponies, many on foot. “Come!” Lossenol grabbed Eluréd and pulled him away from the fight. Eluréd grabbed Daeron, and they found one last burst of strength to put all the dwarves between them and the orcs.

“Lossenol!” Kóri came striding down the road. “There you are—I was worried for you. But where’s Pínamrent?”

“He went to warn Nenuial about the dragon,” said Eluréd. Daeron swayed, and Lossenol caught him. 

“The dragon?” Kóri repeated in alarm. 

“We don’t kn-know where it’s—headed,” said Lossenol. He was exhausted, and his tongue felt too thick, and his thoughts were slow to reach his mouth. That hadn’t happened in a long time. 

“We heard it, though not for some days now,” Daeron said, wrapping an arm around Lossenol as he looked away back down the road. The dwarves had chased the orcs back into the trees. “How much farther?” Daeron asked.

“Not far,” said Kóri. “It’s all uphill, but we have beds ready for you, and walls that will withstand whatever the orcs throw at them.”

“Thank you,” Daeron said, offering him a small smile. “You must be Kóri.”

“And you must be Torrandir.” Kóri bowed. “At your service.”

“At yours and your family’s.” 

The last few miles weren’t as hard as they might have been—not with the surety of safety at the end. The outpost had been fully transformed, and there were many rooms both large and small prepared to house Dwarves, Men, or Elves. The ravens they had seen had been carrying messages, some to the downs south of Nenuial where they were expecting a call to arms, and some even farther east, all the way to the Dwarves who lived beneath the Misty Mountains. “Durin the Deathless sent a promise of aid when the star first rose,” Kóri told them, “and now the time has come for him to keep it. Doubtless he knows already, and our raven will find him already mustering any and all who can wield a sword or an ax. They’ll bring arms and armor too—they have mithril aplenty in the mines of Khazad-dûm, and there is no steel that can compare.”

“Will you march to war in the west?” Daeron asked.

“Most likely, but for the time being we will continue to do what we have been doing—keeping the lands west of the pass clear for any who manage to pass over the Gelion. They have been few and far between, but I suspect we will see a flood of them before long.”

“I hope there will be enough to make a flood,” said Daeron. 

The room Kóri showed them was small, plain but cozy, with a hearth and four beds attached bunk-style to the walls. Daeron eyed them and then sank onto one of the lower ones. “I am not climbing up there.”

“Me neither,” said Lossenol, slumping down beside him and resting his head on his shoulder. “Gonna be a tight—tight fit.”

“You’re both ridiculous,” Eluréd said, fond but distracted. A basin and pitcher of water had been placed in a corner, and he washed his face before coming to sit on Daeron’s other side. 

“Are you all right?” Daeron asked him, reaching out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind his ear. 

“I don’t know.” Eluréd’s voice shook a little. 

There would be nightmares, Lossenol thought, now that they were safe and able to try to get some real sleep, and to consider that Eluréd had both fought his first battle and killed for the first time. “Forget the bunks,” he said, forcing the words clumsily out of his mouth. “Let’s—on the floor.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Daeron. They rose and pulled the mattresses off of the beds and onto the floor, along with the pillows and blankets. Then they all cleaned up more thoroughly, and Daeron insisted they all eat something. When they finally collapsed onto the cushions, Lossenol and Daeron tucked Eluréd between them. Eluréd curled up with his face hidden in Daeron’s shoulder, and Lossenol wrapped an arm around him from behind, feeling him shake a little. “It’s all right, Eluréd,” Daeron murmured. “We’re here.”

“I’m afraid,” Eluréd whispered. “If Elurín…”

“He’s among friends,” Daeron said. “He’ll be all right. He’s brave and he’s strong and clever—both of you are, and you’re both going to be all right.”

“We’re all going to be,” Lossenol said. But he remembered the sound of the dragon in the distance, and remembered the sight of Elurín vanishing alone into the trees. They could speak aloud their hopes, but they could make no promises, not in war. He looked at Daeron and saw the same fear reflected back at him. Miles and armies stood between them and Elurín, now—and he would not be content to hide behind walls in safety if he thought he could make a difference. 

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Daeron was familiar with fear, and even the very particular bone-deep dread that came with being separated from someone during wartime. It was worse now than it had been even when the Falas had been besieged and he had been unable to eat or sleep while waiting for word of his parents. He had known where his parents were, and that they were together. Elurín was likely with friends, but that wasn’t the same thing, and they couldn’t know for sure. There were no cities in Eriador—there had been, once, but petty wars and what Daeron suspected was the Enemy’s influence had shrunk the little kingdoms that had arisen near the series of hills south of Lake Nenuial. The towns remaining there were yet fortified, but with wood, not with stone—not with anything that could withstand dragonfire. 

While they waited, Lossenol crossed over the mountains to see what was happening on the other side. Daeron and Eluréd offered to add their songs to those the Dwarves were already singing into the stones—both of the mountain and of the walls they were building—and the Dwarves readily agreed. Daeron poured forth as much of his power as he could, singing songs of strength and protection, songs to Aulë that he had learned long ago from Melian and also songs of Mahal that he had been taught by the Dwarves. Maybe Aulë would even hear and listen, since the Valar had come themselves to Middle-earth, even moving unseen and in strange ways.

These latter songs were what gave him away. An older Dwarf sat in a patch of sunshine mending something, and eyed Daeron and Eluréd when they stepped away from the walls. There was something familiar about him, but Daeron paid little attention until he spoke. “I thought you vanished somewhere into the far east years ago, Daeron.”

Daeron halted, and blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

The Dwarf grinned up at him, and got to his feet with a grunt to bow. “Sindri, at your service—we used to talk of music, when I would visit Menegroth with my uncles.”

“Sindri!” Daeron exclaimed, laughing in spite of himself for the sheer surprise of it—and the pleasure of meeting an old friend in an unexpected place. “Yes, I remember you—you and your harp and your lovely songs.”

Sindri bade them both sit with him for a while. Daeron was careful to introduce Eluréd as Pínfileg, but he found that it felt like a weight had been lifted from him in being recognized. He hated having to hide himself, and whatever the future brought he was growing more certain that it would be impossible to keep hiding. He was a singer, and to sing his strongest songs was to proclaim Daeron is here to whoever had ears to hear—indeed, it already had. Sindri wanted to know all about where Daeron had been and how he had ended up with a son. Daeron was vague in his answers, which was hint enough for Sindri not to keep asking. Instead he answered Daeron’s own questions, and talked of his own life and of the battles he had fought and the slow dwindling of Belegost. 

Word spread very quickly after that, that Torrandir of Eriador was in truth Daeron of Doriath. The Dwarves were all very happy to learn of it, though those from Nogrod were suddenly very easy to spot in the way that they did not meet his gaze and avoided speaking to him. That would pass, Daeron thought, for they had not the luxury of that kind of shame anymore—though he was a little glad to know they felt it, and to know that Nogrod regretted its past deeds. 

“Isn’t this dangerous, though?” Eluréd asked him when they were alone. “The whole point of using a false name…”

“It was never going to last,” Daeron said, “not if I’m going to be singing those kinds of songs. My hiding was more for your sake than my own, though. You know that. As long as no one realizes who Pínfileg and Pínamrent really are—”

“I am Pínfileg and Eluréd—neither name is more true than the other. It is also just as true that I am your son, and Lossenol’s, as it is that I am Dior and Nimloth's.”

“I know,” Daeron said, “but it’s—well, I suppose either one of those truths will put a target on your back, but it will be so much worse if it is known that Dior’s sons live, the last heirs of Elu Thingol. Maybe when this is over you’ll be able to use whatever name you choose for whatever reason you like, instead of necessity.”

“Maybe,” said Eluréd, “though if anyone wants either of us to claim whatever inheritance is left to us from Thingol, they’ll be disappointed.”

Lossenol returned after a few days, bringing news of wild storms visible in the distance, and word that a great fleet had come sailing across the Sea to anchor at Balar, carrying an army of Elves. An eagle had brought the news, so it was fresher than anything they had heard in many years. “They are led by Finarfin of the Noldor, and Ingwion of the Vanyar,” Lossenol told them. “They’ve joined with Gil-galad and Círdan, and are marching north—taking the fight to Angband at last.”

Something in the way he spoke of it made Daeron uneasy, in spite of all that Lossenol had said before about knowing his limitations. “Do you want to join them?”

“Yes,” Lossenol said, shrugging, “but I can’t—I don’t think I’ll ever be able to ride into pitched battle again—and I wouldn’t even if I could. Not with you here. But I do wish I could be there when Angband falls, just to see it. Has any word come from Pínamrent?”

“No,” said Daeron, “but I’ve been recognized. The dwarves all know Daeron is here—an old friend heard me singing, and word travels fast.”

Lossenol looked at him, brow furrowed slightly. “You don’t sound worried.”

“It was bound to happen sooner or later.” It occurred to Daeron then, though, that the Sons of Fëanor also had dealings with the Dwarves. At the very least Amrod and Amras had come often to the mountains in years past, and in Doriath Daeron had heard something of Caranthir’s dealings with them in Thargelion, but he had no idea if Celegorm had ever been involved. It was, perhaps, something to find a way to ask Sindri or Kóri if he could do it without arousing suspicion. Lossenol looked so different, though—even Hendaras who had certainly seen him in Nargothrond had not made the connection.

He didn’t know what he’d do if the Sons of Fëanor themselves arrived at the mountains. 

“Maybe,” Lossenol said, still frowning at him and unaware of the direction his thoughts had taken. “But it’s still a risk.”

“Well, it’s done, and since I have no intention of leaving these fortifications, the risk is small. At least for now.”

“I think they’ll want you to sing your songs to the walls in the west before too long,” said Lossenol. 

Daeron had expected that. “Yes, of course. I’d like to wait until we hear something from the east, but…”

“Who knows when that will be.” If scouts had been sent out, they hadn’t heard of it, though Kóri had promised to share whatever news he heard. “Nothing has been seen of the dragon?”

“No, nothing—and the woods are still burning in the north.”

It was another two weeks before a lark came fluttering over the walls. She landed on Eluréd’s outstretched hands, and preened her wing as he whistled softly to her and carefully removed the note tied to her leg. “Don’t fly away yet,” he told her as he handed the note to Daeron. “Can you take a message back for us?” As the bird chirped quietly back at him, Daeron unrolled the note, Lossenol peering over his shoulder. Elurín’s writing was tiny but neat, narrow cirth spelling out that he was safe and well, that an army was mustering and would be riding forth to clear the roads between the downs and the mountains before winter. The dragon still roamed the lands around the northern shores of Nenuial, but did not seem to be in any hurry to come farther south. No one knew why. 

The relief made his hands shake, and he handed the note to Eluréd. “He’s all right, birdie.”

“Can you write back?” Eluréd asked as he took it. “The lark will carry it.”

“Of course. Give me five minutes.” Daeron wrote out a similar letter, assuring Elurín they were safe at the mountains, and would be waiting when he arrived. There was no room for anything else; when the ink dried Daeron kissed the paper and then folded it carefully before taking it back out to Eluréd, who tied it to the lark’s leg. She lingered a little longer, resting and eating some seeds from Lossenol’s palm, before flying away back over the walls heading east. 

“Just a few more months,” Lossenol said as they watched the lark disappear.

“If the dragon stays where it is,” Eluréd said quietly. 

“If it doesn’t, we might see him even sooner,” said Lossenol.

“If he doesn’t do anything stupid—”

“He isn’t stupid,” Daeron said.

Eluréd scowled. “Yes he is.” 

As the days dragged on, Eluréd was plagued by nightmares—of both Elurín and of Elwing, and sometimes of his parents. They left him exhausted and constantly on the edge of tears, and Daeron’s songs did little to help. The forced idleness didn’t help either. Even crossing the mountains to sing their songs into the fortifications there only took a few days. Daeron didn’t even recognize what he could see of Ossiriand from the western slopes. The forests were burned, the rivers dull under a grey sky. Dark clouds obscured the northern horizon, shifting unnaturally, and when the wind blew from there it carried a bitter and sour smell. But in the west the clouds broke up, and Daeron could glimpse blue skies. He caught himself wondering what Doriath looked like, and then tried to put that out of his mind. There was no returning to Doriath, whatever happened. His own dreams were full of crashing waves and breaking stones, even as the earth under their feet trembled every so often.

Lossenol often went out to scout through the woods in the east, coming back with news of roving orcs. There was nothing organized about them—they were just there to block the road, Daeron thought, and keep whoever lived east of the Ered Luin from easily crossing over into the west. “He’s afraid,” he said when Lossenol came back battered from a particularly fierce fight with a small group of those orcs. As Eluréd dabbed a stinging ointment over a scrap on Lossenol’s back, Daeron said, “The Enemy is afraid.”

“He has always known fear,” Eluréd murmured. “Atya, I thought you were being careful when you went out.” 

“I was,” Lossenol muttered, holding himself stiffly so he didn’t flinch under their ministrations. “I’d like to see you fend of a dozen orcs when you can hardly see through the smoke.”

“You would, if you’d let me go out with you,” Eluréd retorted. Both Daeron and Lossenol had put their feet down and forbidden it. Between little sleep and little appetite, Eluréd was in no state to fight anything, or even to be of use in the woods where there were no enemies lurking.

“No arguing, please,” Daeron said. He wrapped a bandage around Lossenol’s hand, which had scraped knuckles and a cut across the palm. “Did you learn anything new?”

“I learned I don’t like the taste of leaves and mud. But nothing useful.”

Daeron tied off the bandage and cut another length for a scrape along Lossenol’s arm. He reminded himself to be thankful it was only scrapes and minor cuts this time. In the future he would be stitching up far worse—on all three of them—and it was likely he would suffer his own wounds. It seemed he didn’t do a very good job of hiding the direction of his thoughts, because Lossenol caught his hand when he finished with the bandages. “Hey. Daeron. I’m all right.”

“I know. Just—don’t go back out for a while. Please.” 

“I won’t.”

A knock heralded Sindri. “Ravens have just arrived,” he told them. “By the first snows, the first companies out of Khazad-dûm will join us. More will come in the spring—the halls of Nogrod and Belegost will be full again, at least for a time.”

“Thank you,” Daeron said. “That is good news indeed.”

“We expect Elves and Men to march with them, but the ravens did not say who or how many.”

“Even better,” said Lossenol. Sindri left them, and he added, “Odds are good that Elurín will be with them. Do you think Nellas will come?”

“I hope not,” said Daeron. “She’s safe with Goldberry—and even aside from the danger she would hate it here, surrounded by stone, away from the woods.” He wished they were safe with Goldberry, but he knew that Lossenol would not be the only one chafing at that kind of idleness. This was what he had been preparing himself for for years, and what the twins had been working toward, too. Before the Silmaril had appeared, they had yet hoped to somehow, someday, reunite with Elwing. Now they had all that grief and anger with nowhere to go but into the coming fight.

Daeron could hold his own in a sparring match with his staff against Lossenol, these days, but not much else. He was still not a fighter. All he would be able to do was wait for the three of them to come back whenever they ventured out to fight—almost useless, mostly helpless. The fear had never really gone away, but for so many years he had been able to ignore it for the most part. Now he felt like he was going to choke on it. 

They had kept the mattresses on the floor, none of them wanting to sleep alone. That night, after Eluréd fell into a fitful sleep, Lossenol rolled over and reached across him to Daeron. Neither of them spoke, but it was a comfort to know himself seen and understood. Daeron gripped Lossenol’s hand and found that sleep came a little easier.

Some weeks later, he joined Lossenol on the walls, looking east. Eluréd was elsewhere in the keep, either fletching arrows or with the healers preparing medicines and bandages. “Autumn is coming on,” Lossenol said after a little while. The air off the mountains was always cold, but it was getting colder. And they were far enough up the slopes that the snows would come early. Before them Eriador stretched out. The fires had been quenched at last, when rainstorms came sweeping up out of the south and east, but much that Daeron could see to the north was blackened and barren. To the south and farther east the woods were still green, shading into yellows and reds, with splashes of darker evergreens that would not fade away with the winter. “Will you be all right this year?”

“I think so.”

“Last year was worse than it’s been in a long time.”

“Things are happening now, though,” Daeron said. “It’s…it feels different. At the very least there are more distractions. Are you all right?”

Lossenol kept his gaze on the road. “For now,” he said. “It’s—I can hold my own in a fight if I have to, but I think—I thought I was stronger than I am.”

“Your shoulder?”

“Yes, but also—in general. It’s—it might not be a bad thing. I can’t ride out the way I think I used to or in the way I still thought I could, but I’m not entirely useless—I just have to be clever about it instead.”

“You are clever,” Daeron said. “But maybe don’t do things like put yourself in the path of a landslide, going forward.” Lossenol flashed him a grin. “All we need to do is help keep the road to the pass clear.”

“And stay alive,” Lossenol said, smile fading. “All four of us. Five of us—but I’m not actually that worried about Nellas.”

“As long as she remains with Goldberry, anyway,” Daeron murmured. “She…what’s that?” Movement down the road caught his eye, and then he saw smoke rising from the woods just north of it. Flame shot into the air, and his blood ran cold. “Oh no…”

“Dragon!” Lossenol shouted, and behind them the keep erupted in activity. 

“Lossë,” Daeron said, grabbing for his arm. “Lossë, behind it—on the road, those banners—”

“The reinforcements—”

“Elurín.”

“Oh. Oh no—”

Eluréd joined them a minute later, out of breath and armed with his bow. “He’s out there,” he gasped. “He’s—oh stars, that’s the dragon?”

It wasn’t as big as Daeron had expected, after all the tales he’d heard of Glaurung. It was fast, though, and he had no idea how anyone out there expected to get a shot at its soft underbelly. Arrows just bounced off of its hard scales, which gleamed in the sunlight, so dark green they seemed almost black. It made a terrible, shrieking noise like metal grinding on stone as it turned toward the company riding up the road toward the mountains. Behind them in the keep, Daeron could hear the dwarves mustering. He couldn’t move. He could hardly think. Lossenol had his bow out and an arrow on the string, but the dragon was several miles away still. There was nothing they could do but watch. 

“I have to go—” Eluréd started to move away, but Daeron grabbed him. “Let go, I have to—”

“Don’t you dare, Eluréd, you won’t make it in time and he—”

The dragon roared again, and now they could see figures on horseback charging around either side of it, firing arrows as they went. “What are they doing?” Daeron asked. 

“Distracting it,” Lossenol said. 

“That’s Elurín,” breathed Eluréd. “Oh, what is he doing, he can’t…” It was hard to tell which one was Elurín at a distance, but several of the riders seemed to be calling out to the dragon, trying to get its attention. One of them rose up in the saddle and shouted—and that was Elurín. His voice echoed over the trees, too far away to make out the words, but Daeron could hear the power he was putting forth. Eluréd leaned forward over the parapet, gripping the stone with white knuckles. Daeron kept his arms around Eluréd, and spared a glance at Lossenol, who was watching with his lips pressed tightly together. 

Dwarves streamed suddenly out of the gates below them, engaging with orcs who had been creeping out of the forest even though it was still the middle of the afternoon. Lossenol shifted his stance, and other archers around them prepared in case they came within bow shot. In the distance Elurín continued to taunt the dragon, drawing its attention westward. He was angering it, and more than once they watched him only narrowly avoid its claws or the jet of its flame. Daeron had no idea how he was keeping such control of his horse. His mind was just full of the word please, repeating over and over, though he didn’t know to whom he was praying or if anyone would even listen. Please protect him please don’t let him get hurt please keep him safe please keep him alive please please please—

A swipe of the dragon’s claws caught Elurín’s horse. Eluréd screamed as he flew out of the saddle, landing hard on the road. He rolled, though, and came to his feet still moving, and as the dragon finally reared up, revealing its soft underside, dozens of arrows flew to plunge into its breast. It let out one last shriek before crashing to the ground—falling toward Elurín, but in the smoke and dust Daeron couldn’t see what happened after that. 

Eluréd collapsed, knees giving out as he made an awful keening noise. Daeron caught him, kneeling with him on the stones. When he looked up he saw Lossenol with his gaze still trained on the fight in the distance. He gripped his bow with white knuckles and stood so still that Daeron couldn’t tell if he was breathing. It was impossible to tell just by sound what was happening. “Lossë?” Daeron whispered. 

Finally, Lossenol said, “He’s alive. Someone’s got him—they’re coming here. The dragon is dead.”

Daeron rose to his feet, keeping a hand on Eluréd’s shoulder. “But the orcs…”

“Routed,” Lossenol said, as the dwarves chased the last of them back into the trees. Others were moving to start fighting the fire, though Daeron feared it would take another rainstorm to do more than merely contain it. The riders from the east came racing up the road, those in the front carrying wounded in the saddle before them. Daeron couldn’t tell which one was Elurín. “They wouldn’t be rushing if he wasn’t still alive.”

Daeron knelt again. “Eluréd,” he said. “Do you hear that? He’s alive.” Eluréd collapsed against him, shaking all over as he wept, fear and relief mingling together. “Come on. The archers need the room up here—we’ll wait with the healers.”

“You go,” Lossenol said when Daeron looked at him. “I’ll join you if nothing else happens out there.”

“Please be safe, Lossë.”

“I will.” When they rose, Lossenol reached for Eluréd, wrapping his free arm around him and kissing his temple. “It’s going to be all right, birdie.” Eluréd nodded, seeming unable to speak. Lossenol embraced Daeron next. “Send for me if it’s bad,” he whispered in his ear. Daeron nodded. 

They reached the infirmary well ahead of the wounded, and found it in a flurry of activity. The dwarves welcomed them in, and Eluréd was ushered to a corner where he could sit and drink a cup of tea someone pressed into his hands to find some calm. Daeron agreed to play music once the wounded were brought in and tended to, and then went to sit beside Eluréd. The waiting was the hardest part. They didn’t speak, and when he finished the tea Eluréd just lowered his head, covering his face and letting his hair fall forward like a curtain. Daeron put a hand on his back and remained quiet, just thinking through the songs he might sing later that would help both healers and patients. He tried not to let himself dwell on what might have happened to Elurín, on how badly he might be hurt—he needed to stay calm for Eluréd’s sake, but it was hard. 

After what felt like hours they heard commotion outside, and Eluréd lifted his head as the first wounded were brought in, laid on stretchers or carried in someone’s arms. Daeron gripped his arm. “Wait, birdie. Let the healers work.” Elurín was one of the ones brought in on a stretcher. They carried him to the bed nearest to where Daeron and Eluréd waited, and carefully lifted him onto it before starting to peel off what remained of his armor—metal-studded leather that Daeron did not recognize—and the clothes beneath; they looked like they had been partly burned away. A large burn that looked like he had been splashed with boiling water splayed over his chest and his side, and his clothes and arms were stained with dark blood that smelled sharp and hot, and left similar burns behind when it was cleaned away. He was awake, but barely, and mumbled hoarsely as the healers worked. 

He seemed to be the most seriously wounded, even of those who had engaged the dragon. Daeron looked around but saw most others awake and alert, even if in pain. Mithon was there, getting a broken arm set. He glanced over and nodded, mouth quirking in a small smile. Daeron tried to smile back, but it was hard—it was not so long ago that Mithon had been a small child, barely out of babyhood and wanting to be carried everywhere, and now here they all were, having fought orcs and taken down dragons—and facing a long and hard war in the years ahead.

Finally, one of the healers turned to Daeron and Eluréd. “He’s been asking for you,” he said. 

“Is he—is he going to be all right?” Eluréd asked, voice breaking. 

“Yes,” said the healer. “Given time and rest—it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Thank you,” Daeron breathed, and when the healers left to see to others, he and Eluréd moved to either side of the bed. 

“Ada…?” Elurín opened his eyes, glazed over with pain as his head lolled on the pillow. “’Luréd?”

“We’re here, birdie,” Daeron said, smoothing his hair back from his face.

“I’m furious with you,” Eluréd choked out as he took Elurín’s hand. “That was so stupid.”

“Worked, though,” Elurín whispered. “Ada—it hurts—”

“I know. You’ve been so brave, Elurín. I’ll sing you to sleep.”

“Please—stay?”

“We’ll be here when you wake, one of us or Lossë. I promise.” Daeron kissed his forehead and stroked his hair as he began to sing, very softly, an old lullaby that his parents had sung to him and that he had sung to the twins when they were children. It had been years since they’d needed such songs, but now Elurín let out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes as his breathing evened out.

After a while, as the healers finished their work, Daeron brought out his flute and began to play—quiet songs, gentle songs, lullabies he had learned by the shores of Nenuial, and put forth his own power to ease pain and bring rest. By the time he was finished, whatever was happening outside appeared to be over, because Lossenol appeared in the doorway, having shed his weapons. 

He spotted them after a minute and came to join them. “How is he?” he asked, resting his hands on Eluréd’s shoulders.

“The healers say it looks worse than it is,” said Daeron. “I don’t think he was caught by the flames.”

“He was lucky,” Lossenol said grimly. “They all were.”

“I promised him that one of us would be here when he woke,” said Daeron.

“The next time one of us feels the need to take on a dragon,” Lossenol said after a moment, “I’m going to tie up whoever it is and throw you in the deepest cave the dwarves will let me into.”

“Noted,” Daeron said, managing a small smile. Eluréd leaned back against Lossenol. “All is well outside?”

“The orcs scattered when the dragon was slain. The fires are still burning, but the dwarves have them under control.”

Daeron left Lossenol and Eluréd to sit vigil by Elurín, and went to speak to Mithon, who was feeling the effects of Daeron’s songs but not yet asleep. “How are you?” Daeron asked him. 

“Better than Pínamrent,” Mithon said. “Only a broken arm from when my horse threw me—he got splashed with the dragon’s blood.”

“That was both very brave and very foolish, you know.”

Mithon’s smile was sleepy and crooked. “I know. I’ll be hearing all about it from Aunt and Uncle when I get home.”

“You aren’t staying, then?”

“No. If I can leave before the snows, I hope to be home before winter. I’m not a soldier—we just needed everyone who could shoot a bow to get rid of the dragon.”

Daeron found his smile came more easily now. “I’m glad,” he said. “Give Hendaras and Elenel our love when you do—and your wife and your girls.”

“You’re staying?”

“Yes. I’m not a soldier either, but Lossë is, and—we want to be helping, and the best place we can do that is here.”

Mithon reached for his hand. “We may not meet again before it’s over,” he said. “Please be careful. Whatever happens across the mountains, the world would be a darker and poorer place without any of you in it.”

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A dragon’s blood was not only hot, but acidic, and though it could have been much worse Elurín was still slow to recover. As soon as the healers approved, they moved him to their own room, where they finally picked the bedding up off the floor. Eluréd refused to leave his brother’s side, though they argued more often than not—he worried and Elurín in pain—but neither Lossenol nor Daeron tried to intervene. 

Elurín also refused to promise not to do such a thing again, even when Lossenol repeated his threat to tie him up and toss him into a deep dark cave. “We don’t know what will happen,” he told Lossenol, chin set stubbornly. “I won’t promise not to do whatever I have to.”

“That’s why I have rope at the ready,” Lossenol replied. 

“Now you know how I feel when we have this argument,” Daeron murmured. 

“That’s different.”

“It really isn’t.” Daeron leaned over to kiss the top of Lossenol’s head before he sat down to change Elurín’s bandages. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. He gets it from you.”

“I would rather not fight a dragon again,” said Elurín as he held out his arm. His burns were healing well, but they would leave scars. Daeron hummed a quiet song of healing as he rubbed ointment over them. “But I will if I have to.”

“Do you know what Nellas’ plans are?” Eluréd asked. He sat at the end of the bed, ready to cut bandages to the length Daeron asked. 

“She’ll join us in a few years, maybe,” said Elurín. “It depends on what happens—how far east the war comes.”

“It sounds to me as though the armies of Valinor are marching from Balar up Sirion,” said Lossenol. “That will keep most of the fighting at least as far west as the river.”

“How far is that?” Elurín asked.

“Many leagues,” said Daeron. “But Iarwain and Goldberry both spoke of the seas rising and the land changing. Who knows how far east the armies will be pushed by the power of the Valar.”

That was why they were there—to help keep the mountain pass clear for those fleeing both the war and the changing lands. Lossenol itched to cross into Beleriand again, to join the scouts and hunters that moved through the burned and broken woods of Ossiriand, to follow the Gelion and see what was happening. Now that things were moving he found idleness chafing. He wouldn’t go, not until Elurín was recovered, but he found himself thinking about it all the time.

Messengers came after some weeks from Gil-galad, calling upon the dwarves and anyone else gathered near the mountains to join with the Armies of the West in their march on Angband. There were none able to ride back with the messengers immediately, but the dwarves promised to send all who they could spare come spring, and promised also to continue to guard the passes. Lossenol did not see the messengers, but heard about it from Kóri afterward. “Will you go?” he asked. 

“I might,” Kóri said with a shrug. “There will be many councils held over the winter, especially once the armies of Khazad-dûm arrive, and when the decisions are made I will go where I am told. I would be very happy to witness the fall of the Enemy in the north, I confess. Will you go?”

“No.” Lossenol shrugged when Kóri looked at him in surprise. “With my bad eye and bad shoulder, I’d be more of a hindrance in open battle. I can be more useful here.” He added, with an attempt at a grin, “I’m also a very selfish creature. Daeron and the songbirds come first, always.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Kóri grinned at him. “Come with me—we’ve made a gift for Pínamrent. Most of the dragon scales and horns and things have gone to equip the warriors preparing to march north and west, but we’ve made things for everyone who took part in its slaying, and from what I hear, it would not have been possible without your lad.”

The gift was a bow, carved of dragon horn and etched with runes—and near the grip, a delicate carving of a meadowlark. Elurín was by then able to get up and move about, if he was careful, and when the dwarves presented him with the bow he took it carefully, running his fingers lightly over the carvings. “Thank you,” he breathed, eyes wide. He was not healed enough to bow properly, but the dwarves bowed deeply enough for both parties, and many words of gratitude were uttered on both sides. 

“I know all we’ve done thus far is scold you for it,” Daeron said to Elurín once the four of them were alone that evening, “but we are proud of you, Elurín.”

“I know.” Elurín sat on his bed, moving slowly. “At least now it’s easy to tell us apart.”

“That’s not funny,” Eluréd snapped. 

“It might be when all this is over,” said Lossenol. He sat down and put an arm around Eluréd, who just shook his head. “We’ll probably all end up with some new scars.”

“I hope we’ll all at least try to avoid them,” Daeron said, frowning at Lossenol. 

“I did try to avoid these,” said Elurín. 

“I was mostly talking to Lossë. He seems to like collecting scars like squirrels collect acorns.”

“Did the messengers out of the west share any news?” Eluréd asked. “Besides that Gil-galad is marching north?”

“No. Or if they did, Kóri didn’t hear of it.”

“We’ll be spending a lot of time west of the mountains in the coming years,” Daeron said quietly. “I think we’ll get all the news we could wish for, and then some.”

“I just want to know what happened at Sirion,” said Eluréd. “I want to know where the Fëanorians are, too—they haven’t been heard from in ages, have they?”

“Patience, Eluréd. I’m sure we’ll learn what they have been doing before long, too. But they are no threat to us—we have no Silmaril.”

“No,” said Eluréd, “but if anyone were to recognize us, would it not be them?”

“Maybe,” said Daeron. “I would be recognized, at least—I met the two eldest, many years ago. If, though it seems unlikely, we find ourselves needing to interact with them, I will speak to them and the three of you can retreat somewhere out of sight.”

“Why must Lossë hide?” Elurín asked. 

“They might recognize me, too,” said Lossenol. They hadn’t actually spoken before of what they might do if they encountered the Sons of Fëanor, but Daeron’s idea matched his own. “I still have no desire to remember or to return—but I doubt they’d look kindly on a deserter.”

“I think Maglor would listen to me, if I had to explain,” Daeron said after a moment, though he sounded unsure. “We were—well. I liked him. We were friends for the duration of the Mereth Aderthad, and at one time I hoped that that friendship would continue.” 

“You liked him?” Elurín exclaimed, aghast. 

“This was centuries before Doriath, birdie. It years before we learned of Alqualondë, too. I had no reason at the Mereth Aderthad to think ill of him except as a rival in skill—and I didn’t really care about that, anyway. But as I said, it was a long time ago. If we were to meet again now, it would be very different—but I still remember the music we made beside the Pools of Ivrin, and I would like to think that he remembers it too. But the chances of such a meeting are slim, I think. Whatever he and his brothers are doing—they will be fighting, not seeking to shelter in the mountains.”

That night, after Eluréd and Elurín were asleep, and Daeron and Lossenol were curled up in their bed—neither of them had ever ended up claiming the top bunk, not wanting to sleep alone even if it was a little more cramped than their old bed at home—Lossenol raised himself up on his elbow to peer down at Daeron. “Did you ever tell me before that you knew them? The Fëanorians?”

“Did I not?” Daeron blinked his eyes open, sleepy and half-frowning. “Oh, I suppose I never did. I’m sorry.”

“Could we have met before?”

“No.” Daeron offered a small smile. “I would have remembered your face if you had been with them at the Mereth Aderthad, I’m sure.”

“Maybe not. I might have just been—I don’t know, part of their guard escort, or…”

“I suppose it’s possible, but I did not speak to any of that party except Maedhros and Maglor. And really, not much to Maedhros. I left him to Mablung, and went and played music with Maglor instead. But I have a good memory for faces, and I had never seen yours before Finglas brought you to the flet.”

“Oh. All right, then.” Lossenol lay back down. “Did you really like them, as you said?”

“I liked Maglor.”

“Would you have let him ravish you in the middle of the night?” 

“What?”

“Or radish you, perhaps?”

Daeron laughed quietly, and shoved at his shoulder, though there wasn’t anywhere for him to go with the wall at his back. “You’re awful. But no, I had no more interest in such things then than I do now. He was just—well, we had much in common, and he was easy to talk to. I would have liked to call him a friend. You aren’t jealous, are you?”

“No, just curious.”

Daeron’s smile faded a little as he seemed to search Lossenol’s face for something. “This isn’t you trying to ask if I want—”

“No, of course not. I don’t want anything to change between us.”

“All right, good.” Daeron’s smile returned, small and relieved. “Neither do I.”

“You know everyone still thinks we’re lovers though,” Lossenol said after a moment, remembering how it had seemed to upset Daeron before—though that was years ago, now. So much had changed since then.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he said now, “but it doesn’t matter. It only bothered me before because—well, because anything Medlinel said was going to bother me, most likely. And everything was still so uncertain. Besides, I don’t think anyone here really cares. If they want to gossip to pass the time, that’s their business.”

“Things are uncertain still,” Lossenol whispered.

“Not between us.” Daeron pulled the blankets up so they were both enveloped in warm darkness. 

Before the snows arrived, more Dwarves did—large companies out of Khazad-dûm and other realms even farther east. They marched up the pass and disappeared into Nogrod and Belegost. At the same time the young and old and those unable to fight left those cities, passing away into the east. “Our cities will not survive this war,” Halli told Lossenol. “Already some of the deeper halls have collapsed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ah, it is what it is. At least we have ample warning—Mahal himself has sent messages to our wise ones—and it is a small price to pay if the Enemy is at last defeated. If the mountains survive, perhaps we can return and rebuild. If not, we will find other places—or perhaps we will simply join with Durin’s folk. Who knows? What will you do when this is all over?”

“Too soon to say,” Lossenol said. “Who knows what any of the world will look like when it’s over.” He thought, though, that he would like to venture east. He wanted to see more of the world—to wander the deep woods and climb the mountains and follow rivers from their headwaters to their mouths were they finally reached the Sea—and to see all of it with Daeron and Eluréd and Elurín. For now that was just a hazy maybe-someday dream—but it was something to hold onto, something to hope for.

They were warm enough, behind the dwarf-built walls, all that winter, but it was another harsh one, even more than the last one, as high up in the mountains as they were. Spring brought mud and rain and even more soldiers from the east—Elves and Men as well as Dwarves, now, crossing through the mountains and away west to join with Gil-galad and all the rest—and Daeron and Lossenol agreed to move to the western outposts with Eluréd and Elurín. It did not take long before orcs came down out of the north, either to assail the dwarves or to try to pass back into the west to attack the armies there from the east where they might not expect it. 

That was when the war began in earnest—with battles and skirmishes in the foothills of the Ered Luin, and missions down to the Gelion and the Ascar to intercept the orcs there. Lossenol led many of those, with Eluréd and Elurín ready with their bows and their songs. They set up ambushes and traps, fighting dirtier than the orcs and taking advantage of the cleverness of the dwarves who went with them. Daeron did not go out nearly as often, but his songs echoed over the hills, the power of his voice rolling out like waves to chase away the gathering darkness, breaking up the clouds and smoke to let the sun or the moon shine down on the lands again. The earth responded to his voice too, green grass reappearing in the spring and even flowers daring to bloom on the banks of the rivers. Word spread into the north that Daeron could be found on the eastern marches, but that only made the orcs wary—fewer dared come as far south as the Sarn Athrad, and Lossenol had to venture farther north and west to find the new paths they were making. 

Belegost and Nogrod emptied as quickly as they filled, with Dwarves marching away north, chanting battle songs, to a fight that they all declared would end far differently than the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. 

News trickled east—of victories, of setbacks, of the slow but steady progress up Sirion. Of the way the ground shook and trembled and cracked, of rivers running dry and new springs erupting out of the earth. Of Nevrast crumbling into the Sea and tides changing—swallowing up more and more land and never retreating as far back as they should. 

“It’s what I’ve been dreaming of,” said Eluréd after one such tale. “The Sea coming to swallow the world.”

“I wonder where the birds will come from,” Elurín said. “I still dream of them.”

“Eagles are Manwë’s servants,” said Lossenol. “We’ve seen plenty of those.”

“I do not only dream of eagles,” said Elurín. “I dream of—of sea birds? Or at least birds that fly over the waves. I recognize the gulls from some of Daeron’s songs, but not all of the others.”

Around and under them the ground trembled. Eluréd reached for Elurín. Daeron pressed his palms flat against the floor, closing his eyes. “It’s all right,” he said after a moment. But as he spoke an enormous crack of thunder sounded outside, almost deafening. Eluréd cried out, and Elurín wrapped his arms around him tightly. Lossenol reached for Daeron, whose eyes had gone wide. The thunder was followed by the howling of winds, audible even as deep in the keep as they were. 

“Well,” Lossenol said after a minute, “I don’t think any birds will be doing anything tonight.”

“Probably not,” Daeron agreed as the twins both laughed, a little helplessly, a little breathlessly. 

A few days later the first of the refugees from Sirion arrived. Lossenol avoided them when they passed through the keep, and only heard the tales they brought with them from Daeron later—which were lacking in much detail, for it seemed no one wanted to speak of it if they didn’t have to. “It was the Sons of Fëanor who attacked Sirion,” he told them, keeping his voice low. “Eärendil, the Lord of the Havens, and Elwing’s husband, was away at sea, and she would not treat with them in his absence. They chose not to wait until he returned.” 

“What happened to her?” Eluréd whispered. 

“From what I have been told, it was all confusion and chaos—the Fëanorians’ own forces turned on them, and many died on both sides. Amrod and Amras fell there.” Daeron glanced at Lossenol, who remained silent. That same feeling returned that he remembered from when they’d learned that Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin had died in Menegroth, a horrible and helpless feeling of rage tied up with grief that he didn’t fully understand. “Elwing, it is said, cast herself into the Sea with the Nauglamír.”

“So she is dead,” Eluréd said, voice flat and dull. 

“I don’t think so,” said Daeron. “The stories are confused, and have passed through many mouths before I heard them today. Whether she was really transformed into a great white bird, I cannot say—though Elurín’s dreams incline me to believe it—but what is certain is that somehow she carried the Silmaril to Eärendil at sea, and together they pierced the enchantments of the Valar and brought the Silmaril and their plea for help to the feet of Manwë himself. All that is happening now—it is because of Elwing and Eärendil.”

“But who is Eärendil?” Elurín asked. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

“But we have heard of him,” said Daeron as he came to sit beside Lossenol. “Remember the year that Hendaras and Elenel came to us—the year Nellas found us? That was the year we heard of the fall of Gondolin, and the coming of another halfelven child to the Havens of Sirion. I think that child was Eärendil, son of Idril of the Noldor, and a son of the House of Hador.”

“That does not feel like mere chance,” Lossenol said, finally finding his voice, forcing himself to think past the words Amrod and Amras fell there. 

“No more than was all our coming to Ossiriand,” said Daeron. He covered Lossenol’s hand with his.

“Where are they now—whoever remains of the Fëanorians, I mean?” Elurín asked. 

“I don’t know. Someone has a stronghold somewhere in the Amdram, though not Amon Ereb. Their numbers must now be too few for that. All I can say for certain is that neither Maglor nor Maedhros fell at Sirion.”

“Pity,” Elurín said.

“Elurín.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“We may be thankful before the end that they still live,” Daeron said. “The Silmaril is out of anyone’s reach, now, and they will turn their attention and their blades back toward the north—”

“Where they should have been turned all along—”

“I don’t disagree, Elurín. I will even say that they have done the Enemy’s work for him—but I do not believe that is what they thought they were binding themselves to when they swore the Oath, or that they wanted to act as they did either in Doriath or at Sirion. The Oath was an act of terrible and careless cruelty, both to those who swore it and to those they have slain in its pursuit, and those who have followed them.”

“You sound as though you feel sorry for them.”

“I do,” Daeron said simply. “None of us are only the worst things we have done, Elurín, and all this division and hatred serves only Angband in the end.”

“So if they arrived here tomorrow—”

“I’m not saying that I wish to join with them or even seek their friendship—but I will not hate them. Nor am I saying it is easy. Of course it isn’t. But it is the choice I have made and will continue to make—I will not let hatred rule me. I would counsel you the same, Elurín. It is poison and in the end it only hurts you.”

“Come on,” Eluréd said, rising and taking hold of Elurín’s hand. “Let’s go hit some things in the practice yard.”

“You really believe all that?” Lossenol asked when they were alone. 

“Yes,” said Daeron. “Though that likely won’t stop me from trying to break Maglor’s nose if he turns up here any time soon. Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. I don’t—I shouldn’t—”

“Lossë. You can mourn them.” Daeron brushed his hair from his eyes, hand lingering on his face. His own eyes were dark and sad. “They were your friends, your family—your people.”

“But I don’t remember them, I don’t even know who I’m grieving—”

“Your heart remembers. They were not always what they’ve become, either Fëanor’s sons or those who have followed them—you can grieve for that, and for those who have died, and for what you have lost, even if you don’t want it back. It’s no betrayal of us.”

“If I do I think it will just kill me.”

“I won’t let it,” Daeron said softly. “Just as you haven’t let my grief kill me. If you don’t want Eluréd or Elurín to see, that’s fine. But you don’t have to hide from me.” 

His eyes burned, and he leaned over to hide his face in Daeron’s shoulder. “You say it’s not a betrayal but it feels like one,” he whispered. “After what they did—what I did—”

“I know,” Daeron said, “but it isn’t. I promise, it isn’t.”

He still swallowed it all down, locked it away as best he could, and tried to put it out of his mind. Whatever Daeron said, Eluréd and Elurín would not see it the same way, and they deserved better than his misplaced grief. 

After some years Nellas arrived unexpectedly, having gotten tired of waiting and worrying. “There must be something I can do,” she said as she embraced each of them in turn. “It’s so horrible, sitting idle while people you know are putting themselves in danger.”

“We’re safe enough here,” said Eluréd. “How are our other friends?”

“They’ve removed farther east, past the crossroads—where the road splits east and south, you know. There is a town there already, though it’s growing swiftly. Many who have fled Beleriand are settling there. Everyone is fine, though even there we can feel the tremors—” Nellas broke off with a cry as the ground lurched beneath their feet. Lossenol grabbed Eluréd and Daeron as dust rained down on them; Elurín grabbed Eluréd’s other arm and Nellas, and they stumbled out away from the walls just before a few large stones came crashing down just where they had been standing. Other cries of alarm went up, as everyone ran for safety. The earth stopped shaking, but for several minutes they all waited, fearing a landslide from above, or an avalanche—for it was still early in the year and there was much snow on the slopes above them. 

Finally, one of the dwarves announced that it was safe, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. “You can let go, Atya,” said Eluréd. 

“Sorry.” Lossenol let go, realizing only then that he was holding on tight enough to hurt. He loosened his grip on Daeron, too, but Daeron did not let go of him. They were all shaking a little. “Everyone all right?”

“Yes,” the twins chorused.

“Yes,” Nellas echoed a second later, white-faced. “Does—does that happen often?”

“Yes,” said Daeron, “but not usually that strong.”

“It’s happening more and more often, though,” said Eluréd. “And—you can see the Sea if you climb up the mountains a little.”

Daeron lifted his head from Lossenol’s shoulder. “Can you?”

“I think so. There’s something there—not just the hills or plains. It shines, if there’s sunlight to reach it.”

Halli came jogging over to them. “Lossenol, scouts just returned,” he said, “there’s a party coming to the Gelion—a large one, and orcs coming up behind and from the north.”

Lossenol cursed and released Daeron. “Birdies, your bows.”

“Can I help?” Nellas asked. 

“When they get here, they’ll need friendly faces,” Daeron said. 

“Daeron, you should come with us,” Eluréd said suddenly. “I think—I think we’ll need your songs.”

Daeron blinked at him, and then nodded. “All right.”

“Bring your staff, Daeron,” said Lossenol. 

“I know, Lossë. Give me five minutes.”

They went on horseback, charging down the road. Dwarves on ponies went with them, a large company armed with swords and axes and bows. Now was not the time for stealth. Behind them came others with wagons and carts, with extra supplies and other things those fleeing the war might need before they could get to the mountains. It took several days to reach the Sarn Athrad, and they arrived just as the company of refugees—mostly mortal women and children, some elderly, accompanied by some soldiers, Men and Elves, but too few to fight off the orcs behind them—reached the far shore. On their heels came the orcs. “Archers!” Lossenol called out, drawing his own bow. At his left Elurín put an arrow to the string of his dragon horn bow. Lossenol watched the last of the wagons and the orcs behind them. Thick clouds had gathered, blocking the sun. “Fire!” he cried, and their arrows arced up and over the river, striking the ground and the first line of orcs. They fired several more rounds before the dwarves charged across the river, battle cries filling the air and drowning out the harsher voices of the enemy. 

Then another cry went up from the south, a loud voice that shivered through the air, and a small but swift cavalry thundered up the plains to crash into the orcs’ flank with a great clash of swords and loud cries and battle-songs. Their banners were bright red, emblazoned with a silver eight pointed star. Lossenol knew that star, and his heart rose at the sight of it—and at the sight of the one at the head of the charge, one-handed but fierce, Maedhros Fëanorion himself. His was not the voice that echoed, but his sword flashed in the dim light, and there was no stopping him or his company. 

The refugees hurried across the river, but their wagons could only go so quickly. Nellas joined those who waded into the water to help, and Lossenol rode closer to the bank, keeping his bow out. He couldn’t join the battle on the other side of the river, but he could pick off those orcs who escaped it and sought to chase after the women and children still struggling through the water. Elurín dismounted to help as well. “Leave it,” Lossenol called to someone struggling to get a wagon unstuck. “If you cannot carry it, leave it!”

“But the food—”

“We have food,” Elurín called to them. “I promise, you won’t go without, and we have wagons waiting for you up the road! But none of it will matter if you do not reach them!”

Something shifted in the air, then. Lossenol looked up, across the river at the battle still ongoing. Something was different just beyond the orcs, coming up behind them—a shadow. A wave of heat rolled ahead of it; steam curled up from the river to drift through the reeds. Crows had been gathering and now they fled over the river in a cacophony of wings and hoarse cries. “Lossë!” Daeron called from somewhere behind him. He sounded frightened.

He should be frightened. “Balrog!” Lossenol shouted, as loud as he could. He was no singer like Daeron or the twins, but Daeron had taught him much and his voice was suited to the battlefield. “A balrog!” he cried again, pitching his voice so it would reach anyone who needed to hear it—Elves or Dwarves or Men.

Across the river Maedhros twisted suddenly in his saddle—not toward the balrog but toward the river. What was he doing?

“Elurín,” Lossenol said, tearing his gaze from the battle. “We need light—”

Elurín immediately scrambled up onto the bank and lifted his voice, chanting words of wind and sunshine, of cool breezes off the snowcapped mountains. A moment later Eluréd, farther back, joined him. A wind swept down from the mountains at their backs, bringing a welcome chill, dispersing the mists still rising from the river and rushing over the battlefield. The dwarves renewed their battle cries, and the mighty battle-singer of the Fëanorians joined his voice to theirs as well. 

The balrog reared up, igniting—no longer a creature of shadow and heat but now of flame as well. Its whip snapped through the air and ignited dry grasses. The dwarves were driven back, but Maedhros rallied both them and his own soldiers. But he seemed distracted, and one of the orcs crept around behind him, unseen until just a moment too late. Lossenol fired an arrow and it flew true, striking the orc just before Maedhros turned to see the danger.

Then Daeron’s voice rose up, even louder than Lossenol’s, cutting through the din of battle to cry, “The Sea! The Sea is rising! Fall back—back across the river! Run!”

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As Daeron lifted a child into one of the waiting carts, he heard someone call his name. It was a familiar voice, but he couldn’t place it until he turned and found himself face to face with Oropher of Doriath, looking worn down and battered, though still armed and hale enough to have been sent as a guard for the rest of the refugees. “Daeron, is that really you?” Oropher asked, staring at him in shock. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping,” Daeron said, gesturing at the carts and the other women and children hurrying up the road. Across the river the Fëanorian forces had joined with the dwarves to battle a balrog that had arisen. Daeron kept glancing toward it, half-afraid that Elurín or Lossenol would attempt to cross the river to join the fight.

“We thought you were lost, that you’d passed into the east never to return,” Oropher said. 

“Surely you have heard more news of me lately. I haven’t been hiding.” Daeron picked up another child to lift into the cart, and then helped her mother up after her. “Now all of us must pass into the—” The ground lurched under their feet. Many cried out in alarm. 

“Daeron!” Eluréd gasped, and pointed north and west. Daeron and Oropher both turned to follow his gaze. “What is that?”

“Thangorodrim,” Oropher said, as an enormous plum of smoke erupted over the horizon. There were other things moving in it, though, birdlike but enormous, to be seen at such a distance. Tiny pinpricks of light could be seen sparking in the smoke, like—

“Dragons,” Daeron whispered. “Dragons on wings.”

“Look!” someone else cried out, and they all watched as the evening star, appearing suddenly in the middle of the day, descended—falling straight toward the plume of smoke. 

Then the ground shook again. Daeron looked back west, and his stomach dropped. “Go,” he said. “Go, go—hurry!”

“Daeron—” Oropher began.

“Run, Oropher, get everyone moving!” Daeron pushed past him and shouted as loud as he could, hoping his voice would reach even the heart of the battle across the river, “The Sea! The Sea is rising! Fall back—back across the river! Run!” It was the dream he’d been having on and off for years, a great wave rising over the land, poised to drown all the world. 

His voice did reach them. He heard Maglor’s voice ring out with the same warning, and the Dwarves and the Fëanorians broke and fled. Lossenol and Elurín remained at the riverbank with the other Dwarven archers, firing arrow after arrow at the orcs and at the balrog, who had also realized the danger. Daeron remained where he was as everyone else ran back east, following the road toward the mountains. The earth continued to tremble beneath them, and he feared they would find little safety there, either. They were caught between crumbling mountains and the rising Sea as the wrath of the Valar finally reached a crescendo. He could feel it—taste it in the air, hear it on the wind that howled down from the north. See it in the way the Gelion was drying up—

Wait. The Gelion was drying up?

“Daeron!” Eluréd had seen it too, and when they looked north, upstream, they saw why. A great rift was opening, splitting Beleriand apart, and it was heading their way—following the line of the river. “Lossë!” Eluréd cried out. When Lossenol turned he pointed northward. “Get away from the river!”

“Hurry!” Elurín shouted, and hauled Nellas up into the saddle behind him, as the Dwarves and Elves behind them splashed through the quickly draining water. “Run, run, go go go!”

“South!” someone called out. “Go south—orcs in the north!” Dwarves were racing down the road from the mountains, too, warning them not to go east. Daeron could see plumes of dust rising up from landslides and avalanches. 

Surely the Valar had not forgotten them—surely they still remembered why they were waging this war. Surely they would not allow them all to just be swallowed by the breaking world? Daeron grabbed Eluréd’s hand and they fled into the trees south of the road, following the others, abandoning the carts and wagons. The horses and ponies were cut loose, already panicking and refusing to listen to anything. If the Fëanorians made it across the Gelion, Daeron did not see it. He lost track of Oropher, too, in the chaos, but he cared less about him than about Elurín and Nellas and Lossenol. 

“Eluréd!” Elurín found them first, and Nellas and Lossenol came through a thicket on his heels, on foot now as well. 

“Elurín!” Eluréd threw his arms around him as they all stopped to catch their breath.

“Are you all right?” Daeron asked, reaching for Lossenol, who wrapped his arms tight around him. 

“Yes.”

“Nellas?”

“I’m fine. But the orcs—”

“We need to keep moving.”

“No splitting up this time!” Eluréd added.

“What about all the others?” Nellas asked. 

“I think—” Daeron cut off as an arrow flew past, thudding into a tree just above Eluréd’s head. All of a sudden he remembered just how close they were to the River Ascar—to the place where the orcs had caught up to them years before. “Run!”

They ran, Elurín taking the lead, choosing a direction more or less at random. Lossenol fell back to the rear. Daeron stumbled when the ground lurched under their feet again, and then something hit him from the side, heavy and hard, sending him tumbling down a slope that he could have sworn wasn’t there just a moment before. “Daeron!” someone screamed.

Sharp stones scraped up his arms and sides as they rolled down the hill. When they hit level ground Daeron twisted and kicked, and heard a familiar voice in the oof his attacker let out as he rolled away. The breath had been knocked out of his own lungs, and he lay gasping, trying to fill them so he could speak, or sing, or—anything—

He rolled over to try to get to his feet, but that weight slammed into him again from behind, and this time a cord was flung around his neck, tightening sharply and painfully, cutting off both his voice and his breathing. He clawed at it, rearing back, desperate for air. The back of his head hit something hard, and he heard a curse. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes; he felt something wet under his fingers as the cord bit into his skin. 

For so long he’d been waiting for death to find him, but he hadn’t thought it would come like this. 

Then all at once the pressure released, and Daeron fell forward into the dirt. He sucked in a breath, throat burning, and turned to find Nellas wrestling with Menelas. A blade flashed, and he lunged forward, grabbing for it before either of them could be hurt. He had to pry it out of Menelas’ fingers, trying to ignore the curses spilling out of his lips, all in the harsh tongue of Angband. “Menelas, it’s us!” Nellas cried. “You don’t want to do this! Stop it!”

Finally, Daeron got the knife, and he threw it away out of reach. Then he used his own weight to press Menelas into the ground so he couldn’t move, and grabbed his face, turning it so their eyes met. “Menelas,” he said, hearing his voice rasp and feeling the burn of the words in his throat but pressing on anyway. “Hear me!” He spoke the words he’d devised years before, throwing all he had against the bindings and the enchantments of Morgoth that lay over Menelas, who cried out and struggled even harder—but he was the one now at the end of his strength, battered and gaunt and sporting scars that had not been there when Daeron had last seen him. 

Morgoth’s bindings were strong, but Daeron’s desperation was stronger. He spoke the words again and he could see the moment it all broke apart, saw the flood of horror and fear come into Menelas’ eyes as he cried out, even as he went limp under their hands. Blood trickled from his nose as his head lolled in the dirt. “Menelas?” Nellas whispered into the sudden silence. 

“Nellas,” he breathed. Daeron released his arm, and he reached for Nellas, trembling fingers brushing over her cheek. “Baby cousin, you…”

“I’m here. I’m right here. It’s all right now.” Nellas took his face in her hands and wiped away the tears that had started to fall. “It’s going to be all right.”

“No, I…I can’t…” Menelas looked from Nellas to Daeron. “Daeron—”

“Shh. It’s all right.” Daeron shifted so he wasn’t on top of Menelas any longer. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I know it hurts—there wasn’t another way to free you.”

“I tried to—”

“It wasn’t you.”

Menelas took a breath, shudders wracking his body. He was so thin, Daeron could feel his bones under his hands. “I can’t—Daeron, I can’t—”

“I know.” He hadn’t really expected anyone to survive that kind of assault, not after so many years of binding and torment. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “You can let go.”

“We love you,” Nellas said, and bent down to kiss his forehead. “We love you so much.”

“Nothing will stop you from seeking the Halls now,” Daeron said. “You’re free.”

“Daeron,” Menelas whispered. “Daeron, he—not Bauglir, but his—Gorthaur. He seeks you. And—the twins. Your boys. Elwing’s boys. He seeks them. He hates them, all Lúthien’s children. You have to—”

“The war is nearly won, Menelas, he won’t—”

“He’s not there, not in Angband, he’s—he’s too clever to be caught. You have to—” Menelas choked on the words and on tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—I love you—I’m sorry—”

“It’s all right,” Daeron said. “It wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry about the boys. I’ll keep them safe.”

“I’m sorry,” Menelas whispered. Daeron could see his spirit losing the fight to keep holding onto life.

“Go to your rest,” Nellas said, stroking his hair.

“Maybe—maybe someday—we’ll meet again.” The words were hardly audible as his strength failed. “In the wild woods of the west…”

“Someday,” Daeron said. “It will be a joyous meeting, beyond all fear and pain.”

Menelas released a soft sigh, and died. 

Daeron sat back on his heels. Nellas gently closed Menelas’ eyes, and also straightened, tears falling freely down her face. They looked at one another, but said nothing. There wasn’t anything left to say. 

“Daeron!” Eluréd and Elurín scrambled down the slope. Lossenol was right behind them; they looked like they had been caught in a fight of their own. “Nellas—are you hurt? Are you all right?”

Nellas looked at Daeron, and her eyes went wide. “Daeron, your neck—”

“It’s—” His voice rasped out, and he lifted a hand to his neck, where blood was drying, sticky and uncomfortable. It hurt, now that he could spare a moment to really notice. “I’m—”

“We have to go,” said Elurín as he reached them. 

“But we can’t just leave—” Nellas began. 

“I’m sorry, Nellas,” said Lossenol as he joined them. He and Eluréd both lifted Daeron to his feet, as Elurín pulled up Nellas. “There’s no time to do anything for him.”

Daeron looked down at Menelas, who might have been peacefully asleep if he weren’t so terribly still. “He would understand,” he said, unable to do more than whisper. His throat hurt fiercely, and all of him ached. 

Nellas knelt down to kiss Menelas’ forehead one more time, before wrapping the remnants of this tattered cloak more tightly around him. She whispered something, but Daeron did not hear it. Then she rose and turned away, covering her face with one hand and reaching for Elurín with the other. Lossenol looked Daeron up and down, and then lifted him up in his arms. Daeron tried to protest, but then they were all moving, and he couldn’t do anything except wrap his arms around Lossenol’s neck, hiding his face in the folds of his cloak. 

He lost track of time as the pain of his own injuries and the worse pain of grief rose up to swallow him whole. Daeron roused himself with difficulty when Lossenol finally came to a halt, and set him down in the leaves. It was getting dark, and the sounds of fighting that had followed them were growing faint. Somewhere in the distance Daeron heard the echo of Maglor’s voice, unmistakable, but it was fading into the distance rather than getting closer. Even more distantly, he thought he heard the roar of water. But where they were, at least, the ground did not shake, and all was quiet. “Let me see,” Lossenol said softly, kneeling in front of him and taking his face in his hands so he could tilt his head back, looking at his neck. He hissed a quiet curse. “That nearly killed you, Daeron.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“No, don’t speak.” Lossenol kissed his forehead and then grabbed a water skin, using his hand to wipe away the worst of the blood. “We don’t have any bandages, so it’s just as well that the bleeding stopped.”

“We don’t have any supplies,” said Eluréd, coming to wrap his arms very carefully around Daeron. “Are you all right, Ada?” Daeron leaned against him, unable to speak to either tell the truth or to try to be reassuring. His throat burned and the skin on his neck stung, and every other part of him felt battered—not as bad as when the orcs had taken and beaten him, but not much better either. 

And Menelas was dead. He was free—he was no longer in pain, and Daeron truly did believe all the things that Melian had taught them, that there was healing to be found in the Halls of Mandos. But he would never again walk under the stars in Middle-earth, and in spite of their parting words, Daeron did not believe he would ever set foot on the far green shores of Valinor. They were sundered forever. 

“Daeron.” Lossenol rested a hand on the back of his head. “You are not going to follow him.” 

“Of course not,” Eluréd said fiercely, tightening his arms around him.

“No,” Daeron whispered, though he wasn’t sure that was a promise he could truly make. Not when the whole world was breaking apart around them and they might all find themselves in Mandos, one way or another.

He hadn’t expected such a confrontation to end any other way—but he had hoped, in a small and secret part of his heart, that he would be able to free Menelas and that they might both live to see the next dawn, that he might get to both find and keep his oldest friend. It was a fool’s hope, and he had known it, but losing it still felt like a terrible blow.

Eluréd started to hum, and before long Elurín joined them. They almost never sang songs of power without each other, and Daeron could feel it wrap around him like a blanket, soothing the aches in his muscles and bringing with it real and restful sleep. 

When he woke it was to the earth shuddering underneath them. “We’re safe for now,” Lossenol said. Daeron found that he was curled up more or less in Lossenol’s lap, like a child. Eluréd and Elurín were beside them, and Nellas tucked between them, all three asleep. “It’s been doing that for the last few hours,” Lossenol added, keeping his voice low. 

“Do you know where we are?” Daeron whispered.

“Not really. Somewhere south of the Ascar, I think. Or where the Ascar used to be.”

“Lossë…I’m afraid.”

“Me too.” Lossenol tightened his arms around him and turned his face into Daeron’s hair. “I’m sorry we had to leave Menelas.”

“Burials are for the living. The dead don’t care.”

“I’m still sorry. He deserved better. And so did you.”

Eventually the sun rose, and Nellas and the twins stirred. They had no food, but they passed around the water skins, and then Nellas said, voice almost steady, “Menelas spoke of Gorthaur, before he died. He is looking for—for Elwing’s children, he said.”

“Elwing had children?” Elurín said after a moment. 

“It seems so,” said Nellas. “Perhaps even twin sons, since he mistook you for them.”

“How did we never hear of them?” Eluréd asked.

“If they disappeared after Sirion, as you disappeared after Doriath,” Nellas said slowly, “perhaps no one knows what has become of them. But they must live, if Gorthaur is searching for them.”

“Oropher was with those who crossed the river,” Daeron said. His voice rasped and Elurín glared at him, but he ignored that. “He might know. If we can find him.”

“We need to go north again in any case,” said Lossenol. “That’s the only way across the mountains—I think if we try to go south around them we’ll just run into the Sea.”

“Let’s hope the passes are still open, then,” sighed Elurín. “But Ada, you shouldn’t speak anymore.” Daeron nodded, and turned his face back into Lossenol’s chest. He was tired and his heart ached and he didn’t want to speak much, in any case. He just wanted to go home—only Doriath was drowned and the forest in Eriador was long ago burned and overgrown. The others spoke around him, discussing routes and the potential dangers, and the issue of food. There was little to forage and nothing at all to hunt. 

As the light grew brighter, they roused themselves, and Lossenol kept his arm around Daeron as they started making their way north. Eluréd and Elurín took turns venturing ahead, scouting paths and making sure there were no enemies lying in wait. Nellas stayed close to Lossenol and Daeron, but kept her own bow at the ready. It was slow going; they were in hill country, sparsely wooded after years of intermittent darkness and fires and fighting, but with patches of thick undergrowth. They had moved quickly when fleeing south, and had covered more distance than Daeron had thought—but then, maybe the land was just changing too rapidly. Little of the lands they passed through looked familiar to him. 

Finally, the trees fell away and they could see the road ahead, past the now-trickling remnants of the River Ascar—and the abandoned carts and wagons. There were no bodies, except some orcs, and Daeron took that as a hopeful sign. “The passes look clear,” said Eluréd once they were on the road and able to see. “I think I see movement there.” He pointed toward the mountains. 

“We’re still days away, though,” said Elurín, “and Daeron won’t make it without food and proper rest.”

“I’m fine,” Daeron said, and found himself caught by Lossenol when he swayed. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Lossenol said.

“I can go ahead, and see if there’s anyone coming back this way,” said Nellas.

“No!” the twins said together. “No splitting up!” Eluréd said, grabbing for Elurín as though he might get the same idea. 

“We’ll check the carts,” Elurín said. “There might be something left behind there.” He and Eluréd each went to a different wagon, and both returned with satchels, and packets of dried food and one or two extra water skins. It was meager, but it was better than nothing.

Then Elurín turned to face west, and his eyes went wide. “Oh,” he breathed. Daeron turned to follow his gaze, and gasped. The Sea stretched out before them, vast and roiling, grey under the overcast sky. The shore was where the Gelion should have been, the edge of the land broken and jagged. In the distance, in the north, Daeron saw strange and grey shapes—land, mountains perhaps that had survived the deluge. “What of the armies of the west?” Nellas whispered. “What of all who marched north?”

“Surely the Valar would have kept them safe,” said Eluréd, though he sounded doubtful. 

“We’ll find out sooner or later,” said Lossenol. “For now we need to—” The ground shook under them again, but this time it was different. Daeron looked toward the mountains and watched them start to break apart and sink into the earth—just where the road led into the pass. 

“Lossë—”

“Daeron!” Eluréd grabbed him and pulled as Lossenol grabbed Nellas and Elurín to pull them away in the opposite direction, just as a fissure began to open under their feet. The ground split open between them—and then continued to widen as the earth trembled and shook, stones screaming as they ground against one another. 

“Get back, get back!” Lossenol yanked on Elurín’s arm. 

“Eluréd!” Elurín screamed, trying to reach across the opening. 

“Run!” Daeron cried, grabbing Eluréd’s hand. “Get back—”

“Elurín!” Eluréd stumbled backward. “Atya!”

“Get back!” Lossenol shouted at them as he practically picked Elurín up to haul him away. “We’ll find you! Get somewhere safe! Go!” His last word rolled out as a command, and Daeron found his feet moving before his mind could catch up. He and Eluréd fled, and when he looked back he saw the Sea flooding into the ever-widening opening, thundering waves rushing toward the mountains, the tides rising up to swallow all the world. 

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“Elurín, come on!” Lossenol hauled him back from the ever-widening fissure. A glance west showed him the Sea rushing in to fill it up. “We’ll find them—but we can’t do it if we drown first!”

Finally, Elurín stopped fighting him and the three of them were able to flee, racing back south toward the trees, and east away from the water. Lossenol saw other figures emerging from them, and called out, “Run! Get back!” He wasn’t sure they could hear him, though, over the roar of the Sea and the groaning of the earth as it broke and split. The mountains crumbled and crashed down in the east, and under their feet the earth heaved and shuddered. Nellas tripped with a cry, and Lossenol wasted no time in scooping her up into his arms. 

It felt like the whole world was breaking apart around them—like there would be nothing left when it was done, and no matter how far or how fast they ran they were doomed to be taken by the Sea as it swallowed everything. 

They ran until they couldn’t run anymore, and by then the worst of the shaking seemed to have stopped. Lossenol had no idea how far south they’d gone or how wide the new chasm had grown. More than a chasm, Lossenol thought as he collapsed, trying to catch his breath. Elurín and Nellas panted on either side of him. They’d just seen a new gulf open up—or a bay, or some sort of channel. He wondered if it reached to the mountains—or past the mountains. Lossenol looked up, and glimpsed the Ered Luin still rising up in front of them. Not all of the mountains had fallen, at least. 

When they could breathe enough to speak, Nellas asked, “What do we do now?”

“This minute, we rest as long as we can.” Lossenol pushed himself to sit up, but didn’t try to stand. “Then we try to find a way back north.”

“What if we can’t?” Elurín asked. “What if—what if the whole world just—”

“Then we find a boat, or we build one, or something.” Lossenol reached out to pull Elurín against his side. “We’re going to find them.”

Something crashed through the brush—out of sight but too close for comfort. Before they could find Daeron and Eluréd, they had to survive the rest of the day. Lossenol looked around, and staggered to his feet. “We need shelter. Somewhere hidden. Elurín, can you sing the shadows…?”

“Yes.” Elurín rose, and helped Nellas up. “There—those trees, we can hide by their roots.”

There was a small hollow at the base of a stand of trees. Lossenol wasn’t confident that they would be able to stay the whole night, but the trees were sturdy and their roots ran deep. He sank to the ground, and wrapped one arm around Nellas and the other around Elurín. They shared a little of the food they had found, and then Elurín sang very quiet songs of protection and hiding. It was still the middle of the afternoon, but the sky overhead was dark with clouds, and the wind sweeping down out of the north was cold—and smelled of saltwater. 

Others were moving through the woods, though none came close to their hiding place. It was hard to say whether they were friend or foe, and Lossenol did not care to try to find out. “Are either of you hurt?” he asked after a little while.

“No,” said Nellas.

“I don’t think so,” sighed Elurín. 

Of all of them, Daeron had been the worst hurt—and left defenseless, without weapons or even his voice with the injuries to his throat. And after all those discussions of not splitting up, here they were. Lossenol kept replaying those few seconds in his mind, wondering why he hadn’t grabbed Daeron or Eluréd, wondering why they had gone one way and he and Elurín and Nellas had gone the other. If there had been time for them to jump across the split before it got too wide. 

It had all just happened so fast. 

“We need to remember what Menelas said,” Nellas said after a while. “Of Gorthaur. If he is out there—we need to be careful.”

“I’m not scared of him,” Elurín said. “If he tries to come between us and Daeron and Eluréd, I’ll—”

“I meant that we should try to avoid him,” Nellas said. “Don’t forget all that he has done, Elurín.”

“I haven’t. I haven’t forgotten what Lúthien did—”

“You are not Lúthien,” Nellas said. “And even she did not face him alone.”

“No one’s facing Gorthaur,” said Lossenol. “Nor any balrogs, nor dragons—especially not alone. We need to hide, Elurín. When everything stops shaking we’ll head back and see if we can get across the mountains, and then find our way north from there. If we see any enemies, we hide first, and fight only if we absolutely have to. We can’t get to Eluréd and Daeron if we’re dead.” Elurín didn’t answer, just turned and hid his face in Lossenol’s chest. Lossenol kissed the top of his head and held him tight.

They took turns sleeping and keeping watch. Lossenol did not find much rest. By the time the next day dawned—pale and dim, and with the promise of rain on the wind—all three of them were stiff and sore and still tired. They got up anyway, ate a little, and started making their way north and east. They paused often, and Nellas sometimes climbed trees to see what she could see—which was little enough. Halfway through the morning it started to rain—driving, freezing rain that pelted them and drove them into the shelter of a jagged outcropping that Lossenol would have sworn was not there the day before. 

Less than an hour after they reached that shelter, Lossenol felt that shift in the air—that heat, that wrongness. “Oh no,” he breathed. “I thought it drowned…”

“What do we do?” Elurín whispered.

“Hope it passes us by.” Lossenol pushed Nellas and then Elurín behind a large stone, and loosened his sword in its sheath as he stepped after them. He wouldn't stand a chance alone against a balrog, but if it found them…

He saw it through the rain, moving through an open space in the trees down the slope from them. It was smoking and steaming, flickering with flames even in the heavy rain. Lossenol gripped his sword—and then let go when the Fëanorian cavalry charged through the trees, crying out loudly and swiftly surrounding the balrog. Their bows sang, and Maedhros’ sword flashed. The balrog turned to flee, and they all soon passed out of both sight and hearing. Lossenol breathed a sigh. 

“Who was that?” asked Elurín after a moment. “I couldn’t see.”

“Fëanorians. Daeron said we might be glad that some of them still lived.” Lossenol glanced over his shoulder, but Elurín had turned away. “I want to avoid them as much as you do, birdie. But I’m glad they’re the ones chasing down balrogs, not us.”

“I would very much like to never see another balrog again,” Nellas said fervently.

They stayed put the rest of that day and the next, resting and waiting for the rain to pass, huddled under shared cloaks to try to stay as warm as possible. Nellas, smaller than either Lossenol or Elurín, fared the worst, and couldn’t stop shivering. Finally, the skies cleared, and they were able to make their way north—only to find the way blocked by the Sea. Or at least part of it—a new bay had opened up, and when Lossenol followed its course from west to east he saw that even more mountains had crumbled than he’d thought, vanishing beneath the new waves, and the water had flowed far past them, replacing the passes, miles wide. Elurín looked, and breathed a few curses. “Now what?”

“We follow the water east,” said Lossenol. “There’s miles between it and the mountains now, see? So it should be easy enough. It’s got to end sometime. We’ll go around and then find Eluréd and Daeron. Bet you anything they’ll have had the same idea.”

“If the whole world doesn’t split apart again while we’re between the mountains and the Sea,” Nellas said. 

“It’s that or we try to swim,” Lossenol said, gesturing at the water. It was choppy and turbulent, foaming as it splashed up against the newly broken shoreline. “I’d rather take my chances on land.” They had to find Eluréd and Daeron—the sooner the better. Lossenol wasn’t as worried about Eluréd—he was young and strong and mostly unhurt—but Daeron was weakened and wounded. “If we’re all lucky, we’ll find friends on both sides of this. Do either of you know what happened to Kóri?”

“No,” said Elurín as Nellas shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to anyone.”

“Keep your eyes open,” said Lossenol. “We need to move quickly, but we can’t be careless. Elurín, keep to my left?”

“Of course, Atya.”

They started walking again, keeping the shore in sight but not daring to get too close. Lossenol looked west a few times, unsure if he was really seeing sails on the horizon or if he only imagined it. It was very quiet, except for the rush of the water and, after a while, the cries of gulls and other sea birds. Elurín stopped once to watch as a large flock of them swooped past. “Your dreams?” Lossenol asked him. 

“I don’t know. Maybe. I think…I think what I dreamed of—we weren’t there to see it come to pass. I wish we knew what was happening.”

“Me too.” 

The days dragged on. They drew nearer the mountains, and found things less stable there. Stones and boulders slid down the new slopes, and the land between the base of the mountains and the new waterway was littered with debris, stones and broken trees, jagged and treacherous. There was precious little freshwater to be found, and nothing at all even to forage. They saw no sign of anyone else as they went, carefully picking their way. Sometimes Elurín ventured closer to the water’s edge, trying to see what lay on the other side, but the days were filled with fogs and mists, swirling oddly and turning boulders into enemies, and making sounds echo oddly. 

Nellas tripped and fell with a cry, and then couldn’t put weight on her ankle. Lossenol hoisted her onto his back, but his bad shoulder ached, and not having his hands free made him even more nervous than he had been before. Nellas was careful of his shoulder, but every time they heard some strange noise through the mist her arms tightened around him. He tried to think of something reassuring to say, but most days none of them spoke at all—and he was tired enough that his head ached more often than it didn’t, and speaking grew sometimes difficult. 

The orcs caught them in the shadows of the Ered Luin. Elurín had ventured ahead, and Lossenol heard him cry out a warning two seconds before an orc leaped from a boulder toward him. He dropped Nellas, who rolled out of the way as he drew his sword, meeting the orc’s blade just in time. Others melted out of the mists, and before long he was unable to keep track of Nellas at all. It was just instinct and movement and a desperate need to get out of the fight alive. 

Then a Dwarvish battle cry rang out, and he was joined by a dozen Dwarves all armed with axes and swords that flashed in the pale light. The orcs scattered, pursued by the Dwarves, and Lossenol fell back against a stone, trying to catch his breath. “Pínamrent?” he called. 

“Here!” Elurín scrambled around some other boulders, unhurt. “Where’s Nellas?”

“Here.” Nellas pulled herself out of a small crevice. “Are they gone?”

“Think so.” Lossenol sheathed his sword and tried not to imagine what Eluréd and Daeron were navigating.

The Dwarves soon returned. “Where are you trying to go?” one of them asked, looking the three of them up and down. “It’s dangerous here by the mountains—orcs and things are lurking about, and the lands are not yet stable. They won’t be for some months—years, maybe.”

“We need to find a way to the northern shores,” said Elurín. “How far does the water go?”

“Some miles past the mountains. You’ve a long walk still if you want to go around—and you won’t get much farther today.”

The Dwarves insisted they return to their own encampment—still dangerous, with the way the mountains were crumbling, but safer than sleeping out in the open. Lossenol hoisted Nellas onto his back again, and Elurín took up the rear, bow out, alongside a few of the Dwarves. The others led the way, finding an easier path through the boulders and fallen trees, until they came to a cleared out space, with a fire already going and even more Dwarves, armed and alert and watchful. There were some who recognized Lossenol and Elurín, though neither Halli nor Kóri were among them. “But where are Daeron and Pínfileg?” someone asked as Lossenol carefully lowered Nellas to the ground. 

“On the other side of the water,” said Elurín. “We were separated when the earth split.”

“Terrible luck, that,” said one of the Dwarves. “But you can’t find them again if you get yourselves killed. Rest up, and we’ll show you the best paths we’ve found past the mountains. It will be easier once you are in Eriador proper.”

“Thank you,” Lossenol said, and dropped to the ground himself, very happy to leave the watching to someone else for a while. He hadn’t even realized how cold he was until they’d come to a fire. Elurín sat beside him, and Lossenol wrapped an arm around his shoulders to pull him in closer. “All right?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.” Elurín leaned against him. “Nellas?”

She curled up on Lossenol’s other side, and he tucked his cloak around her shoulders. “I’m fine.”

They sat and listened to the Dwarves talk to one another in their own language as evening drew on. Lossenol looked up, seeking the stars, but the sky was dark with clouds that threatened even more rain. His head ached dully. He thought of Daeron and Eluréd and hoped they had found somewhere to shelter for the night. That they were making for the east, too. He thought of the Sons of Fëanor, fierce and fearless, and hoped that they had slain the balrog and gotten away with their lives. 

He didn’t notice when he fell asleep, but he woke to clearing skies and a stiff breeze from the west that smelled of salt and carried the sound of distant voices. Singing voices. “Ships are coming in,” said one of the Dwarves as Lossenol sat up. “Carrying the armies of the West. One nearly capsized when a part of the mountains slid into the water, but those Elvish mariners out of the west are nimbler than goats climbing up a mountainside.”

“Do you know anything of what happened in the north?” Elurín asked. 

“Victory,” another Dwarf said. “The Dark Lord has been cast from his throne—but more than that, we cannot say. When the armies disembark they will have stories to tell, I am certain.”

The Dark Lord was defeated. It was over. Lossenol looked at Elurín, who stared back at him with wide eyes. When he looked at Nellas he found her equally speechless. It was almost impossible to fathom, this thing they’d been hoping for for so long. “Well,” he said after a moment, after the Dwarves left them alone again, “that’ll be some good news to share with Pínfileg and Daeron, if they don’t already know it.”

“We need to hurry,” said Elurín. 

The Dwarves splinted Nellas’ ankle for her; it wasn’t broken but it was badly sprained, and this time Elurín hoisted her onto his back. They followed the Dwarves for miles, all the while achingly aware of the mountains looming over them, and the waters still eating away at the coastline. The gulf was narrower there than it had been farther west, but Lossenol did not trust that it wouldn’t continue to widen. 

When they did draw within sight of the water they could glimpse the ships that the Dwarves had spoken of, moving slowly through the waves. Lossenol found himself wondering if there was anyone on those ships he had once known. The thought made him pull up his hood to hide his face. As the waters continued to narrow, they could see the far shore—they could see figures moving along it, heading east just as they were. They met others on the southern side, too—some familiar faces, all heading for the place where everyone assumed the armies would disembark to make their camp, some moving faster than others, all of them caught on the knife’s edge between fear and hope. 

Then, late one night, Lossenol woke with a start, though he wasn’t sure at first what had woke him. Elurín also sat up with a gasp. After a moment they heard it again—a voice ringing out, somewhere still many miles away, but unmistakable. “Daeron,” Elurín breathed. 

“He’s not strong enough for that,” Lossenol said, scrambling to his feet. But it was impossible to tell where the voice was coming from. Another joined with it, also familiar. The ground trembled under his feet, and somewhere he heard a great roar of water, but they were far enough from the gulf that there was no danger, and it sounded as though it was farther east. 

Daeron’s voice cut off abruptly. 

“Lossenol?” Nellas had woken more slowly. “What was…”

“We need to go.” Lossenol grabbed his things as Elurín helped Nellas. “I don’t know what that was, but it wasn’t good.”

“El—Pínfileg was singing too,” Elurín said, as the Dwarves with them started to wake. “But if—”

“We’ll find out.” Lossenol pulled him in and kissed his temple. They were both shaking, and fear had gripped Lossenol’s heart with an icy fist and he did not think it would let go any time soon. “Don’t try to make guesses—we don’t know enough. But we didn’t all make it through this war just to fall now. They’re going to be fine.” 

Even as he spoke something came swooping low over the ground—something enormous, with dark wings and a terrible cry. He could feel its attention focus on them, and without thinking he pushed Elurín down, rolling on top of him just as the creature reached them, talons extended. They raked up his back leaving lines of fiery pain behind, but the creature did not stop, and after another few seconds it was gone, leaving the Dwarves cursing behind it in their own language, before they started scrambling to pack up the camp. 

“Lossenol!” Nellas scrambled over to them as Lossenol rolled off of Elurín. 

“Lossë?” Elurín sat up and saw whatever mess had been made of Lossenol’s back, and hissed a curse. “Don’t move—”

“I’m—” Lossenol started to sit up, even though his back hurt, like lines of fire had been drawn across it, but Elurín pushed him back down. “It’s fine, we have to—” His arms gave out and he hit the ground, vision wavering. “Birdie—”

“Just lie still,” he heard Elurín say, though it was difficult to make out the words past the sudden roaring in his ears, before everything went silent and dark.

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Daeron and Eluréd ran until they couldn’t anymore—and then they kept going. Behind them the land crumbled away, falling into the Sea as it rushed in, hissing and steaming, to fill the void. Daeron did not dare look back; he kept his gaze on the ground ahead and on Eluréd’s back, and tried to focus on just breathing. 

Finally he tripped, and when he fell he couldn’t get up. “Ada!” Eluréd came back for him, but slipped and sat down hard in the dirt beside him. “I think—I think we can stop,” he said after a moment, after he caught his breath a little. “I think it’s stopped. For now.” 

The earth did not feel like it was shaking, but Daeron himself was shaking so hard that he wasn’t sure he could really tell. He rolled over and with effort raised himself up on an elbow. In the distance he saw waves crashing against newly broken stones, sending spray high into the air. And somewhere on the other side of it were Lossenol, Elurín, and Nellas. 

“So much for not splitting up,” Daeron said, voice coming out a hoarse half-whisper. 

“At least it’s not our fault,” Eluréd said. “You shouldn’t be talking.” Daeron looked up at him, but Eluréd hadn’t taken his gaze away from the Sea. When Daeron reached for his hand, though, he held on tight. For some time they stayed like that, watching the water and listening to the distant winds and the rushing waves. Eventually, Daeron was able to sit up fully, and then he pulled Eluréd over into his arms. They stayed like that for a while longer, not speaking; Daeron was too worn out even to think about much. 

They were exposed, though, on that hillside, and at last Eluréd stirred. “We need shelter,” he said, and helped Daeron to his feet. “And then…”

“East,” Daeron whispered, pointing toward the opening in the mountains. They had fallen into the new opening in the earth, but he thought there must be some traversable land in between the water and the remaining slopes. It was the only sure way they could expect to eventually reunite with the others. Surely the entire world had not been split north and south—there would be an end to the water. There had to be. 

“Better get moving, then.” Eluréd paused then to take stock. He had the satchel of rations, and they both had water skins; Eluréd had a sword and his bow, and had somehow rescued Daeron’s staff, which he’d dropped sometime during his encounter with Menelas. Now he handed it back. “Does your neck hurt?”

“It’s fine.” 

“That’s not an answer.”

“It does hurt, but it’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine,” Eluréd said, but without heat.

“I’m sorry.” Daeron reached for him again, and Eluréd leaned against him for a moment, head on his shoulder. The last time Eluréd had been parted from Elurín, it had ended in the fight against the dragon, and Daeron knew they were both remembering it. “We’ll find them, birdie,” Daeron whispered. 

“I know. Just—stay close to me, all right? We can’t be parted, especially not now. This is—I don’t know what’s going to happen, but there are shadows looming between us and where we have to go.”

“We won’t be. Don’t despair, Eluréd.”

“I’m not despairing. I’m just—frightened.”

“I am too.” Daeron took Eluréd’s face in his hands and kissed his forehead. “I love you. We’re going to be all right. Let’s go.” 

They started walking, moving carefully and slowly, hand in hand. Daeron glanced back a few times toward the water, but the southern shore was too far to see from where they were, and they did not dare move closer. He could hear the crash of the waves, and the whisper of the wind over the stones around them, but besides that it was very quiet. Eerily so, after the terrible noises that the rending earth had made. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he kept glancing over his shoulder, fearing that they were being followed, or watched. But there was never anything or anyone there.

It was slow going. They sheltered where they could at night, and by day kept moving—even when it rained for several days straight. It was a cold rain, and when it ended fog descended instead, making the going more treacherous as loose earth turned to slick mud. Eluréd was surefooted, however, and hummed as he walked, both to keep time with their steps and fill the silence, and to wrap them both in songs of hiding and of safety and of strength. They were all songs that Daeron had taught him, and he would not let Daeron try to join. 

They came to the mountains, where the land was even more treacherous, still shifting and breaking apart. They had to climb over the remnants of landslides, and once Daeron placed his foot wrong and nearly caused another that would have taken him down into the sea if Eluréd hadn’t been there to haul him back. There was also another landslide that they had to race out of the way of, lest they be buried. “Was that what it was like when Elurín and I…” Eluréd ventured after they’d caught their breath.

“This was bigger.” Daeron had been trying, and failing, not to think about it. “And Lossë and I didn’t actually get out of the way—there was a tree big enough to shelter us until the worst had passed.”

“That’s not what Lossë said would happen. Or how he talked about it after.”

“I’m not sure it was planned.”

Eluréd laughed a little breathlessly, a little mirthlessly. “Looking back, I don’t think he had much of a plan at all. He just—he just talked about it as though it was obvious that it would work, and Elurín and I just believed him.”

“He didn’t want to frighten you.” Daeron looked back at the dirt and stones strewn across the land behind them. There were no trees—those had all been knocked down already, and were probably at the bottom of the Sea. He looked beyond it and saw shapes on the water in the far distance. “Look—are those ships?”

Eluréd got to his feet, gazing west. “I think so. Do you think they’re making for the same place we are?”

“Maybe.” Daeron pushed himself up. “I hope so. I would like to know what happened.”

“They must have healers among them,” said Eluréd. “You still sound awful.”

“I’m just tired.” His throat didn’t hurt much anymore, though the skin around his neck was still bruised and tender. At least he could speak more or less normally. “I’ll be fine once we find the others—that’s more important than getting news, or finding a healer.”

“Ada—”

“Find them first, then find out what’s happened.” And then—well. What they did next depended on what they learned. Daeron did not want to linger among the armies, though. If it was really all over, then it wouldn’t matter so much if Eluréd and Elurín were recognized, but there was also too high of a chance that someone would see and recognize Lossenol. There were few among either those from Valinor or those from Middle-earth who would be either merciful or forgiving, Daeron thought, even when it became clear that Lossenol did not even remember all that he had done. It was a risk they would have to take, and they would just have to hope that no one who spoke to them would realize the truth, or ask too many questions that they did not have answers for. He still hated it.

“Find them, then find a healer, and then ask for news,” Eluréd said firmly. 

They went on, moving a little more quickly. The rations Eluréd had retrieved from the wagon dwindled swiftly, even being careful. They found freshwater springs at least, sweet and clear and very cold, that let them refill their water skins and drink their fill. They saw no one else, either friend or foe, but as they finally left the mountains behind Daeron grew uneasy. They were back in the burned out woods of Eriador. Some growth had returned after the dragon had passed through at the start of the war, but little enough—and now most of it had been disrupted and reshaped, and it was odd and barren and alien, unfamiliar and strangely unwelcoming. There were trees, but they grew in ragged clumps, and the shadows underneath them were threatening and dark.

The third time he thought he saw movement, late in the evening as they were starting to think of where to stop for the night, Daeron stopped and grabbed for Eluréd. “We’re being followed. I’ve thought so for days, but now I’m sure. There’s something out there.”

“Orcs?”

“No. They would not track us this long.” 

Eluréd loosened his sword in its sheath. “I don’t like this,” he murmured.

“Neither do I.”

“Let’s move closer to the water. It’s more open but at least we’ll be able to see—” Before Eluréd could finish, wolves leaped out of the shadows at them. He drew his sword and killed the first and then the second, but others came on their heels. Daeron swung his staff, but even years of practice with Lossenol hadn’t given him the skill or the strength necessary to kill such beasts. Eluréd then shouted a few words that sent the wolves scattering back into the darkness. Eluréd then grabbed Daeron’s hand and they ran for the water’s edge, where at least they would have it at their back when the wolves returned. The waves crashed against the jagged stones; the spray that flew up over them was cold, and Daeron could taste the salt on his lips. 

The last time he had been so close to the Sea, the world had been lit only by stars, and the shores had been sandy and soft-edged, worn down by years uncounted of wind and waves and storms. He had gone out diving for pearls with Mablung and Círdan, and had declared that he never wanted to leave the boat when they were out on the water, where it had felt like they were floating through the heavens with stars above and below, where their reflections seemed to dance on the water’s dark surface. Mablung had laughed at him. 

Oh, how he wished Mablung were there now. 

“Ada,” Eluréd breathed. He wasn’t looking at the water, but back where they’d come from. It was very late now, and the moon was westering. When Daeron turned to follow Eluréd’s gaze his breath caught at the sheer size of the wolf now stalking toward them, eyes gleaming fire-red in the darkness. Power rolled off of it, familiar in a tainted, twisted way. Like Melian's, but not. “Is that…” Eluréd whispered. 

“Gorthaur.” He had been looking for them—for Eluréd and Elurín, thinking them Elwing’s children, knowing them to be of Lúthien’s line. Daeron swallowed the fear that threatened to choke him and tried to think, tried to remember all the songs he had ever learned or ever written, all the things he could call upon to help them. Would the Sea listen, if he called on the waves? The Sea did not know him, not the way the Lhûn might, or the way the Esgalduin had once. Would the earth listen, if he called out to it, or was it too freshly broken?

Eluréd drew his bow and shot first one wolf, then another—then Sauron himself. The arrow struck true, and the great wolf staggered back a step—and then changed, transforming in the blink of an eye to a man, tall and cloaked in shadows, with those same terrible eyes and his teeth bared in something between a snarl and a sneer. “At last—I have been looking for you, son of Melian. Where is your brother? Drowned by the carelessness of the Valar?”

“Don’t answer him,” Daeron whispered, grasping Eluréd’s arm. “Don’t rise to it. Your brother is fine.” 

Sauron’s gaze fell on him, then, and it was terrible, piercing and hot and cold and blinding all at once. Daeron raised his chin and met that gaze, trying to ignore the frantic pounding of his heart. “You should not have left your forest glades, minstrel.”

“Nor you your shadowy lairs, Lord of Werewolves,” Daeron said, and was shocked to hear how steady his voice was, and how strong. “The war is over. Your master has fallen and he will not rise again—be gone from here if you will not surrender.”

Sauron laughed. It was a sound like crackling fire. Daeron tightened his grip on Eluréd’s arm. Wolves flanked Sauron, several on either side, all black and enormous with eyes that glinted in the starlight. On the wind that swept up from the Sea Daeron could hear fairer voices calling to one another and singing, but they were yet very far away. 

“Surrender? Who will make me? You?” Sauron’s eyes glinted. “Do you think yourself mightier than Finrod Felagund who perished in my dungeons?”

“Finrod Felagund had the victory in the end,” said Daeron. “He kept his faith—you know nothing of such things, faithless and craven and—” 

Sauron seemed to grow in stature, looming over the two of them as his eyes flashed. “You think to call me craven, Daeron of Doriath?”

“Daeron,” Eluréd whispered. “What are you—”

“Stay behind me.” Daeron stepped in front of Eluréd, feeling suddenly, strangely, calm. He recognized the currents in the air around him, as Sauron gathered himself and prepared to demonstrate his might—through song. Daeron had never been a warrior, not even with his voice, but he had learned much over the last fifty years—and he was no weaker now, surely, than Finrod Felagund had been in the halls of Tor-en-Gaurhoth. 

It was Eluréd, Daeron was sure, who Sauron truly wanted to ensnare in such a battle. But if Sauron underestimated what the two of them might do together, then maybe they might stand a chance. 

When Sauron began his chanting it was not what Daeron had expected—it was not loud, not a torrent of sound and fury accompanied by the howling of wolves. Instead it was a low sound, like the rumble of distant thunder or the crackle of flames. Daeron felt the force of it in his bones and for a few beats he was struck dumb, frozen and unable to think past the blank terror that enveloped him—past the images of the Esgalduin running red through the snow or the look on Lúthien’s face as she turned away from him for the last time, vanishing into the shadows of Hírilorn. Of the friends he had left behind, who had died one by one, who he had forgotten and betrayed and did not even try to save.

Then he realized—none of this was new. None of Sauron’s words were any worse than what he had said to himself. None of this was anything that Sauron could use against him because he had already used it. With this thought came new strength, and Daeron stepped forward and lifted his own voice, singing of bright things—of new stars appearing in the sky, of the ending of years of war and centuries of fear, of the sun coming out from behind storm clouds, of bright spring that followed every winter no matter how endless it seemed.

Sauron countered with the rise of Angband after the fall of Utumno—of the night that fell after every day, of the Lamps that had been made and destroyed long before Elves ever awoke, and of the Trees that had grown to glory before being sapped of light and life. Over and over the Shadow rose, he chanted, and ever the light failed. 

But ever the light returned. The songs swayed back and forth for what felt like hours. Daeron felt the burn in his throat, and he tasted blood on his tongue, but he did not stop. After a while Eluréd put his hands on Daeron’s shoulders and added his own voice to the song, bringing the nightingale beauty of Lúthien’s voice and the power of Melian into the song. It was he who called upon the earth to reject all that Sauron was and all that he did—he that called upon the waters, too, just when Daeron felt himself start to falter. 

He felt the change before he heard it. The earth shifted; the Lhûn heard Eluréd’s call, and it responded. The river changed its course and came thundering down toward the Sea. Eluréd grabbed Daeron and threw them both out of the way just before the floodwaters hit. Daeron did not see whether Sauron was overtaken, but his song cut off as abruptly as theirs, his power withdrawing all at once. It was like a great weight had been lifted off of his chest. But there was no time for relief—they scrambled toward higher ground, out of the way of the river as it coursed over the broken stones to meet the crashing waves behind them. 

“Daeron, look out!” Eluréd cried suddenly. Daeron turned just in time to see a wolf leap toward him. He fell backward as he threw his arms up to try to protect his face. The wolf landed on top of him, and teeth sank into his arm. “Daeron!” Eluréd screamed. Daeron found himself rolling with the wolf down the hillside toward the water, and until they reached the waves there wasn’t anything he could do to dislodge it. Once they did hit the water—so cold it took his breath away—the wolf released him, and by then it was too late. The current caught him, and Daeron couldn’t grab anything that might hold him. He got his head above the water for a moment but he couldn’t cry out. The saltwater burned his mouth and his throat and his eyes, and he couldn’t even hear Eluréd past the roaring of it in his ears. 

The next thing he knew—he did not know how long he had been in the water—he was being hauled out of it by several pairs of hands, and strange voices were speaking around him in a dialect of Quenya that he couldn’t quite understand. Only with a great effort could he open even one of his eyes—the other didn’t want to, for some reason—and he glimpsed silver hair and shining eyes. “Lossë—” he tried to say, but no sound came out of his mouth. Everything hurt, and his throat still felt like it was burning. 

Then, in accented Sindarin, one of the silver-haired strangers said to him, “It’s all right. You’re safe. We’re going to take care of you. What is your name?” Daeron tried to answer, but he couldn’t make his throat work, he could barely make his tongue work. 

“I know who that is,” someone said. “That’s Daeron—Daeron of Doriath. He was the one we heard singing before that river flooded.”

There was something he needed to do. Daeron tried to sit up, but hands held him down. Someone was peeling away his clothes; the air was biting cold. But he couldn’t keep still, he had to—he had to find—

“Daeron.” Another figure knelt beside him. Daeron managed to focus his gaze on their face, and found that he knew them. It was Celeborn. He looked weary and worn out, and behind him loomed another with hair as golden as his was silver. “It’s all right,” Celeborn said. “You are among friends.”

“Give him some water—fresh water,” someone said. “He’s swallowed too much seawater.

“He’s sung his voice away,” said someone else. Daeron jerked in Celeborn’s grasp, struck suddenly with the fear that he’d sung it away for good. What was he going to do if he couldn’t speak? If he couldn’t sing? He wasn’t anything without his voice, he was—

Something was brought to his mouth, and in his panic he remembered only the terrible and bitter draughts of the orcs. He turned his head away and tried to look around. If Eluréd—where was Eluréd? He had to be there. Daeron had to find him, had to make sure he wasn’t alone—

Someone picked him up—it might have been Celeborn, but he wasn’t sure. The movement hurt, though, and Daeron had no warning at all before he fainted away. 

Things were confused and strange after that. He was only vaguely aware of voices and hands, of movement and strange smells—and pain, always there was pain, only slowly easing. When next he woke fully he was tucked under blankets, and someone was arguing loudly nearby. That was Eluréd’s voice. Daeron forced his eyes open. “—let me see him! I don’t care whose orders you’re under, he’s my father—”

Celeborn sat beside Daeron’s cot, and with him was Oropher, looking slightly worse for the wear. “Pínfileg,” Daeron managed to rasp. “He—”

“Daeron?” Oropher leaned forward. “Don’t try to speak. You’ve torn up your throat and you’ll only make it worse.”

He didn’t care. “Let him in,” he whispered. “Please—”

“He claims to be your son,” Celeborn said, sounding deeply skeptical, “but you’ve never—”

“No, he—” Eluréd resolved his fight by simply pushing past whoever was guarding the tent. He ducked inside, dirty and bedraggled, bloody and scowling, but alive. “—he is my son,” Daeron finished, somehow forcing himself upright on the cot just as Eluréd stepped into the tent. 

Upon seeing Daeron his expression broke open. “Ada!” Eluréd rushed over, and Oropher moved out of the way just in time. Daeron wrapped his arms around Eluréd and closed his eyes as they burned with sudden tears, shaky with relief. He was all right. They were both going to be all right. 

Then, before either Oropher or Celeborn could say anything else, other voices reached them from outside—familiar and almost frantic, and then the tent opened again to reveal Nellas, followed a second later by Elurín and Lossenol. They were all nearly as battered looking as Eluréd—but they were there.

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It was several days before Elurín would let Lossenol stand up, let alone move. By then Nellas’ ankle had recovered enough for her to walk, though she still had to be careful. The Dwarves remained with them, except for a few that went to see where the fleet out of the west had landed. They came back to report a large encampment being set up at the end of the new gulf. “Closer to us than the northern shore—the Lhûn has changed its course, and flows now into the Sea, and much of the land around it is flooded.”

“Did you speak to anyone?” asked Elurín. 

“No, we didn’t get that close—they’re still setting up the tents and scouting out the land. Someone will come upon us sooner or later. There are Dwarves there too, doubtless—I don’t envy them, having had to sail all the way from the Enemy’s doorstep!”

Lossenol thought he would have vastly preferred a ship to the treacherous lands they’d had to traverse. He glanced around and then glared at Elurín. “Where’s my sword, birdie?”

“I have it, don’t worry.”

“Yes, I know you have it—why don’t I have it?”

“Because you can’t lift your arms,” Elurín said flatly. 

“And if we’re attacked again—”

“You wouldn’t be able to do anything even if you did have it. I’m not giving it back, I don’t care how you glower at me.”

“You’re as bad as Daeron!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment!”

“It’s really not—”

“Please don’t argue,” Nellas said, a little plaintively. “Lossenol, he’s right, you can’t lift your sword anyway—and with the Armies of the West right there, surely there will be no enemies—”

“What about the thing that got me in the first place?” Lossenol demanded. “That didn’t seem like something that would be scared away by an army!”

“It was scared away by Daeron,” Elurín pointed out. “I’m certain that was what he was trying to fight with those songs. He and Pínfileg. One of them called the Lhûn, I’m sure of it. They must be there in the camp already.”

“Should I go ahead, maybe, and find out?” Nellas asked.

“No!” both Elurín and Lossenol chorused. “No splitting up,” Lossenol added firmly. “We’ve had quite enough of that, between all of this and the dragon back at the start.”

“I’m still not going to apologize for that,” Elurín muttered. 

“No splitting up,” Lossenol repeated. “Whenever we find Daeron and Pínfileg I’m not letting any of you out of my sight again.”

Finally, Elurín declared that Lossenol could get up and walk, though he still refused to hand over his weapons. They had to go slowly; with regular patrols going out from the camp there was less danger, and the Dwarves soon left them to rejoin their own people. Lossenol’s back hurt fiercely in spite of the songs Elurín had been singing, and the skills of the Dwarven healers with them, but he just gritted his teeth and pushed through it. The sooner they found Daeron and Eluréd, the happier he would be. And he would be happier still when they left the army encampment behind. There were too many people—people who might recognize him or the twins, or…

“Atya,” Elurín said quietly, dropping back to walk beside him—on his right, where Lossenol could easily see him. “I know songs of concealment—of disguise. They won’t change anything about you, but no one will recognize you.”

“How did you know—”

“It just makes sense, doesn’t it? That someone there might have known you long ago?”

“I’m already greatly changed,” Lossenol said doubtfully. “And if Daeron or—”

“They’ll see right through it—and Nellas and I will be with you. Just—we’ll be there soon. I’d rather not risk it. Even if nothing bad happens, it will make everything more complicated.”

“I…yes, all right, sing your songs. Is it going to affect whoever comes to heal me?”

“No. They’ll be looking at your back anyway, not your face.”

Elurín chanted his verses; afterward Lossenol didn’t feel different, and Nellas declared that he didn’t look different, but Elurín insisted that no one would look twice at him. “I can’t hide that you come from across the Sea,” he said, “but you won’t attract notice, even with your scars. Everyone’s gazes will just sort of slide off of you, unless they’re really trying to pay attention.”

They were stopped by guards when they came to the edge of the camp, who asked their names, and where they had come from. Elurín spoke for them, naming himself Pínamrent and saying they had lived in Eriador but had been fighting on the eastern marches of the war. By then Lossenol’s back hurt so badly he could hardly stay standing, and when he swayed Nellas caught him. “Please, Lossenol needs a healer,” she said, interrupting the guards before they could say anything else.

“Of course,” said one of the guards. He was a golden-haired Vanya and spoke Sindarin with a musical, lilting accent. “I will take you. Can you walk just a little farther, or shall I send someone for a stretcher?”

“I can walk,” Lossenol said, though when Elurín took Nellas’ place he had to lean heavily on him. 

“We have many wounded, and only so many tents,” the guard said as he led them down a churned up and muddy path between tents and wagons and other various bits of army camp detritus. “The big ones are all filled, so you may have to share with—”

“—don’t care whose orders you’re under, he’s my father—” Eluréd’s voice, sounding unusually angry, reached them above the general din and bustle of the camp, and not far ahead Lossenol saw him push past someone to enter one of the smaller tents. Nellas darted forward, and Elurín grabbed Lossenol’s hand, both of them running after her. Lossenol forgot all about his torn up back as he ducked into the tent just behind Elurín, just in time to see Eluréd and Daeron turn toward them, eyes wide with surprise. 

“Ada!” Elurín crossed the tent in two strides to fall into Daeron’s arms, and at the same time Eluréd cried, “Atya!” and launched himself into Lossenol’s. It hurt but Lossenol pulled him close, relief making his eyes burn. Eluréd was already weeping. 

“I’m here, birdie,” he whispered, ignoring the other two people in the tent, who Nellas at least seemed to know. “We’re here, I’ve got you, it’s all right.”

After a minute, Nellas managed to get the other two strangers out of the tent, and Lossenol was able to get to Daeron, who reached for him with trembling hands. Daeron was heavily bandaged and did not speak, which was alarming even after Eluréd explained that he’d strained his voice in song. 

“We heard it,” said Elurín. He and Eluréd sat on the floor by the cot, holding onto one another the way they used to when they were small. Nellas sat on Daeron’s other side, leaning her head on his shoulder. “We heard you both singing—and then the river—”

“That was me,” Eluréd said. 

“And then that creature that came flying out of the dark,” Nellas said. “Lossenol, you still need someone to look at your back—”

Eluréd’s head jerked up, and Daeron drew back from Lossenol, face going white. “I’m fine,” Lossenol said. “It hurts, but—”

“That wasn’t a creature,” Eluréd said. “That was—that was Gorthaur.”

Daeron pushed at Lossenol’s shoulders until he turned around and let his shirt be lifted up. He didn’t know what the bandages looked like, but Daeron made a soft, pained sound at the sight. “That’s why they aren’t healing as they should,” Elurín muttered. “Here—there’s another cot, Atya, you should lie down—”

Lossenol let himself be manhandled to the other cot, though he didn’t like being out of reach of Daeron. He lay on his stomach and pillowed his head on his arms, glad that at least he could look over and see everyone. Nellas slipped out of the tent, saying something about going to speak to Celeborn—whoever that was. Elurín and Eluréd returned to the floor, Elurín leaning his head against Daeron, who had curled up on his side and was stroking his hair. “Tell us what happened, Eluréd,” Lossenol said.

Eluréd told the story haltingly—how he and Daeron had made their way east, assuming and hoping that they would all have the same thought. They had gotten past the mountains with little trouble, but as they reached the easternmost point of the new-made gulf they had been set upon by wolves—and by Sauron. “I suppose he turned himself into that winged creature and flew away—I didn’t see. But the wolves were still there, and one leaped on Daeron and knocked them both into the floodwaters, and I couldn’t reach him before he was swept out into the open sea. I don’t know how he came to be rescued.” He glanced at Daeron as he spoke, but Daeron shook his head. He didn’t remember either. “And then I had to get away from the wolves myself, and it took me days to come back here, and—well. You arrived at the same time. Don’t,” he said when Daeron opened his mouth. “You’re not supposed to be talking.”

There were voices outside of the tent, then, and then someone stepped inside. Elurín rose halfway to his knees before freezing, mouth dropping open. Eluréd turned and also went very still. Lossenol ignored the pain to twist around to see who it was—and had to blink a few times. It might have been one of the twins standing there with a basket in his arms, except he was dressed very differently, and his hair fell only just past his shoulders, half of it tied neatly back out of his face. He stared at Eluréd and Elurín too, eyes almost comically wide, before he recovered and said with a sudden smile, “…Well, I suppose that’s why Lord Celeborn insisted I be the one to come see you. Am I to call you Pínfileg and Pínamrent, or can I call you my uncles, instead?”

Eluréd seemed suddenly overcome, and turned to bury his face in his arms against Lossenol’s cot. Lossenol rested a hand on the back of his head, feeling him trembling. 

Elurín got to his feet. “You’re—you’re one of Elwing’s…?”

“I am. My name is Elros. My brother is Elrond, but he’s busy with Gil-galad.” Elros set the basket down and held out his hands to grasp Elurín's. “I think we all have many questions and tales to tell—but I am here first as a healer. Who among you is most badly hurt?”

“Daeron has been seen to already,” said Elurín. “I’ve been unable to tend Lossenol’s wounds as well as they need.”

“I’m fine,” Lossenol said immediately. “See to Daeron—” At this Daeron glared at him, and Elurín and Elurín chorused, “No, Lossë!”

“I just got clawed up a little—”

“By Gorthaur,” Elurín snapped. 

“And Daeron did actual battle with him, so—”

“All right, enough!” Elros said, silencing them all with surprising authority. “Daeron has been seen to, so I’ll look at Lossenol’s wounds first—it won’t take long, if they’re as inconsequential as you claim.”

“They’re not,” Elurín muttered. 

“And while I look,” Elros went on, “Uncles, will one or both of you tell me what happened? I had not heard that Sauron Gorthaur was so close.”

“He’s not close now,” said Elurín. He described, briefly, what Eluréd had told them of the song battle, and then what had happened afterward. As he spoke Lossenol buried his own face in his arms and tried to ignore the way it hurt when Elros carefully peeled the bloody bandages off of his back. “We didn’t know what—or who—it was until just before you arrived,” Elurín finished. “Otherwise I would never have let him walk all this way.”

“For the best that you’re here, though,” Elros said. “I do not think there are any terrible enchantments or poisons, at least—those would have been made obvious sooner. Let me fetch a few things, and perhaps Elrond if he’s free, and I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” he added to Lossenol. 

“Wasn’t planning to,” Lossenol said, and turned his head as Elros left the tent. “You all right, songbirds?”

“Yes,” Elurín said.

“I don’t know,” Eluréd said. Elurín knelt beside him, and Eluréd turned to bury his face in his brother’s shoulder instead. “But they’re all right. Elwing’s boys—they’re more than all right.”

“But you were recognized,” Lossenol said quietly. “By—what’s his name, that Elros mentioned?”

“Celeborn,” said Nellas. She had been sitting quietly in the corner by Daeron. “He is your kinsman, Eluréd and Elurín—your mother’s uncle, and also a nephew of Elu Thingol. That is not the same as the Enemy finding you.”

“But they’ll expect things of us,” said Elurín. 

“And you can say no,” said Nellas. “But before you start panicking, speak to Elrond and Elros. And—I do not know Celeborn, or Oropher who was also here when we arrived, except by sight, but I cannot imagine them being anything but glad that you are here, that you’re alive. Especially Lord Celeborn.”

“Daeron, did you know them well?” asked Elurín. Daeron made a face and sort of shrugged—not easy while lying down.

“They didn’t believe me when I said I was Daeron’s son,” Eluréd said quietly. “They almost would not let me in here to see him. I don’t really care who Celeborn was to our mother—he’s no one to us now.”

“They didn’t know the circumstances,” said Nellas, “and I would be surprised too, if I were them, to encounter someone who claimed to be Daeron’s son.”

“Don’t just dismiss them out of hand, Eluréd,” Lossenol said. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“It didn’t have to be—”

Elros returned, with his own twin brother. Seeing Eluréd and Elurín beside Elrond and Elros felt a little like seeing double; he had to keep blinking. Elrond stopped and stared for a few seconds, caught off guard even forewarned, but then he smiled and stepped forward to embrace Elurín and then Eluréd. Both Elrond and Elros were businesslike in the beginning, acting as healers before nephews. Lossenol had his wounds properly stitched and smeared with some fragrant salve that felt cool and then numbed the skin. All the while Elros hummed as he worked, wrapping it all up in healing power that matched anything Eluréd or Elurín could do. Elrond went to Daeron, examining his wounds carefully, and especially his throat. He sang many more songs than Elros. Daeron sat very still, with his eyes closed, but Lossenol could tell that it hurt by the way he gripped the blankets in white-knuckled fists. 

When Elrond finished he said kindly, “You should try not to speak too much the next few days, except in whispers if you’re careful, but only if you really must. If it hurts at all, don’t try. I’ve brought some teas for you—I promise they don’t taste terrible. You might have had one or two of them before. The heat will also soothe your throat.” Daeron nodded. He didn’t look surprised by any of it, and when he picked up one of the small bags of tea to smell it, his expression brightened a little.

“Will he recover fully?” Eluréd asked.

“Oh yes.”

Lossenol was exhausted by then, suddenly feeling the effects of the last weeks—of the last decades. He let his eyes fall shut as Elrond and Elros settled down to speak with Eluréd and Elurín. They all had questions for one another, but Lossenol did not hear any of the answers before sleep rose up to claim him. It was the most restful sleep he’d had in months if not years, and when he woke he found it was very late. Daeron was awake, sitting up and watching Eluréd and Elurín where they were curled up with each other on the floor. Nellas was not there. “Daeron?” Lossenol whispered.

“Lossë.” Daeron looked up. His eyes glimmered like distant stars in the shadows of the tent.

“I missed you.”

Daeron’s smile was small and fleeting. “Missed you too.” His whispers were very quiet, and only the silence of the tent allowed Lossenol to hear them at all.

Suddenly even the few feet of distance between them was unbearable. Lossenol pushed himself up, finding that it didn’t hurt as much as he expected, and went to join Daeron on his cot. Daeron moved over immediately, and lay down so Lossenol could tuck himself up against his back. He immediately felt much more comfortable and, somehow, much safer. He buried his face in Daeron’s hair and closed his eyes. “No more splitting up,” he said. “Next time the earth splits in half we get on the same side.” He felt Daeron nod. He also wanted to say that they should leave the encampment as soon as they were both able—but he didn’t. That was only his own fears, and it would be horribly wrong to take Eluréd and Elurín away from the nephews they had only just found. 

Daeron sighed, and turned his head a little so his face was partly hidden in the crook of Lossenol’s arm. “I’m so glad you’re here, Lossë.”

“Me too.”

They both drifted off to sleep, and Lossenol woke in the morning when Daeron moved, to the smell of cooked food—what a luxury that seemed like, after weeks of dwindling travel rations—and Nellas’ voice joined with Eluréd and Elurín. “You weren’t supposed to move, Atya,” Elurín said when Lossenol sat up with a grunt. The numbing had worn off during the night, and every move made his back flare with pain.

“I didn’t move much. Will you stop fussing?”

“I’ll stop fussing when you stop almost dying.”

“You’re one to talk,” Eluréd muttered. 

“Enough,” Daeron said, still in a whisper but with a look that quelled all of them. He accepted a mug of fragrant tea from Elurín, and inhaled the steam deeply before taking a sip. No one spoke much as they ate breakfast and drank tea—it was sweet and floral, and seemed to do a lot to soothe Daeron’s throat, which was suffering as much from swallowing saltwater as from his singing. After breakfast Elrond came to visit with them for a while. There was much being discussed among the leaders of the armies—Elves, Men, Dwarves—and Elros was busy with one such meeting. Elrond looked both Daeron and Lossenol over, but very quickly, and he did not seem worried. Once or twice, though, he looked at Lossenol with a slightly furrowed brow. It made him nervous, though he wasn’t sure why. 

Finally, Elrond asked Eluréd and Elurín how it was they had survived Doriath. “You told us last night you’ve been here, east of the Ered Luin, but how did you get from Menegroth to the mountains?”

“An Ent found us in the snows and carried us to Ossiriand,” said Eluréd. “Daeron and Lossë were there already—and the next spring we crossed over the mountains. The Ents heard of others who escaped down Sirion, but they were only rumors, and Daeron thought it would be too dangerous to try to make it that far.”

“It was dangerous enough just trying to get to the pass,” Elurín said, glancing at Daeron, who was rubbing absently at his neck. Lossenol looked at the line from the cord there, still red, and thought with a sinking feeling that it was going to scar. “We grew up—well, not really that far from here. Just north a ways, up the Lhûn and near the hills that follow the eastern shores of Lake Nenuial. But we came back south to aid the Dwarves as we could, while the rest of you marched on Angband.”

“Why did you not join us?” Elrond asked.

“Someone needed to help keep the passes clear, for everyone who could not join the fight and needed to flee,” said Eluréd. “Especially as the Sea started to overtake the land.”

The tent opened, and Elros stepped inside. “I thought you were with Gil-galad,” Elrond said to him. 

“Eönwë wishes to speak with us,” said Elros. 

Elrond rose to his feet. “Is there news of—”

“No—it’s something to do with our parents, I think. Uncles, he asked me to bring you as well.”

Eluréd and Elurín exchanged a glance, and then got to their feet. “Who is Eönwë?” Eluréd asked. 

“One of the Maiar—Manwë’s herald,” said Elrond. “We’re used to him by now, but he may be a bit…much. Still, if he wishes to speak to all of us it must be important.”

Eluréd looked at Daeron, who nodded and gestured for them to go. “We’ll be back soon,” he said. 

“We’ll be here,” Lossenol said. He hadn’t really been serious when he’d said he wouldn’t let any of them out of his sight ever again, but he still had to swallow down the fear as the tent flap fell closed behind them.

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Daeron watched Eluréd and Elurín leave with their nephews, and felt a sinking feeling in his chest. It was just being parted from them so soon after they’d all been reunited, he knew—even though he knew they were not going far, and they would be as safe as it was possible to be, in the company of one of the most powerful of the Maiar. He wondered, vaguely, if he should try to learn what had become of Melian—if Eönwë knew, or if he would tell him. 

Nellas stirred where she was sitting on the cot that Lossenol had vacated the night before. “There’s talk of the way west being opened,” she said. “The fleet out of Alqualondë will be leaving soon, and all the soldiers who came with it will go back home—but anyone else who wants to might join them, and even afterward, the way will be open for other ships. For Elves, anyway. I think there are some other plans being laid for the Edain, but I wasn’t really paying much attention to that.”

Daeron didn’t have to ask to know what Nellas was thinking of. It seemed like years instead of only weeks had passed since Menelas had breathed his last words. He was not the only one to come to Daeron’s mind, either. Caladorn and Togamel would someday return from Mandos too. Daeron imagined being there when they did, imagined getting to see his parents again, and something deep inside him ached with longing. 

After a long moment Lossenol said, “I don’t want to leave. But I go where Daeron goes.”

“I don’t want to leave either,” Daeron whispered finally. In spite of his longing—it wasn’t time yet. Not for him. He did not want to go west just to wait before the doors of Mandos for years uncounted. When he did go, he wanted to be able to hope for familiar faces awaiting him in the harbor. “And…the songbirds, I don’t know if…” He knew that Elwing was there, but he did not know if she and Eärendil had been made exceptions of whatever fate would rule the halfelven. They still did not know what that fate would be. 

“I want to go,” said Nellas. “Everyone I ever knew except for you is gone, and…I know that the war is over, and Bauglir is gone—but his servants remain, and I’m frightened. I want to be able to wander the woods without fear, and I don’t think I can do that here any longer.”

“Then you must go,” Daeron said. “Someday, the time will come for all of us to leave these shores, I think. The time is here for you, but not yet for us.”

Nellas rose and came to embrace Daeron, holding him very carefully. “If I can make it back from Goldberry in time,” she said, “I want to leave with the fleet. There’s nothing but you all keeping me here, and—and if I can be assured that we’ll meet again one day, I’ll be content.”

“Someday,” Lossenol said as Nellas turned to him, holding on as gently. “You’re leaving for Goldberry now?”

“Yes. It’s not too far, and I travel fast.”

“Be safe, Nellas,” Daeron said.

“I will. Goodbye for now. Tell the twins I’ll be back soon.”

When they were alone, Daeron let himself slump against Lossenol. He felt much better than he had upon first waking in that tent, but that just meant he was able now to think of what lay beyond it. Who lay beyond it. “There may be some here who will know you,” he said after a moment. “Who will recognize you, even changed as you are.”

“Elurín took precautions.”

“There are some who might see through them.”

Lossenol slipped his arm around Daeron and kissed the top of his head. “I’ll stay out of sight, then. I don’t really want to go mingle with anyone, anyway.”

There was nothing they could do that would not bring questions. Daeron wasn’t sure what he would say to Celeborn or Oropher when he had to speak to them again. He dreaded having to speak to Galadriel. “We could leave,” he said after a moment. “Slip away—not too far. The songbirds shouldn’t have to choose between us and their nephews. But we can find a place to stay a while in the woods.” 

“Don’t talk so much,” said Lossenol. “But that sounds good to me, except neither of us are really in much of a state to do much of anything, let alone keep ourselves alive in the woods.” 

He hated that that was true. They needed to get away from there. When Daeron lifted his head to look at Lossenol, he saw the Oath still lurking there behind his eyes. It was quiet, asleep still, visible to him only because he knew what to look for, but with Morgoth defeated—the Silmarils had to be somewhere, and Daeron needed to get Lossenol away before someone made the mistake of speaking of them in front of him. 

“What’s wrong?” Lossenol asked. 

“Just—if you fear your past coming back for you, this is where it is most likely to happen. But if you—”

“You don’t have to keep asking. I don’t want to remember—I don’t want to go back to being who I was. As long as we’re here, I’m going to stay out of sight. If someone recognizes me, I won’t have that choice anymore. I don’t think anyone will understand.”

“I just don’t want you to ever think that I won’t stand by you, whatever you choose,” said Daeron. He swallowed his fear of what would happen if Lossenol did decide that he wanted to face his past and said, “You can change your mind and I will do what I can to help you—and I will speak for you afterward, whatever comes of it. My name is still remembered and my word will mean something, even now.”

“I know all that,” said Lossenol. “But I really, really don’t want to. I—I told you before I think it would kill me. Nothing’s happened to change that. I lost everything even before I forgot myself, and I don’t…it feels like a blessing, that I don’t remember any of it, that I get to be here with you instead. Now stop talking, you’re supposed to be resting your voice.”

Daeron sighed, but nodded and said nothing more. After a few minutes he lay back down, feeling tired, and when Lossenol curled up around him he almost wanted to weep for the sheer relief of it—of his familiar warmth and the solid strength of his arm over Daeron’s. Everything still ached, and his throat was sore, but that would pass. And whatever lay before them… Please just let me keep this, he silently prayed, though he was never sure who, if anyone, was listening. Please just let us stay together. Let the past remain behind us. Please.

He dozed off, and roused sometime later when Eluréd and Elurín returned. “What’s wrong?” he heard Lossenol ask, and opened his eyes to see the twins looking pale and almost frightened. “What happened?” Lossenol asked, sitting up with what seemed like a great deal of effort.

“He…Eönwë, he…” Eluréd looked at Elurín. 

“They gave Elwing and Eärendil a choice, when they reached Valinor,” Elurín said. “Because they did not know what to do with them—because they were both halfelven. So they…they had them choose. And now we have to choose—and Elrond and Elros, too.”

Daeron sat up, and when he and Lossenol held out their arms both twins rushed forward into them. “When must you choose?” Daeron asked. 

“He asked that we choose before he returns to the west—with the fleet, I think,” Eluréd said into Daeron’s chest.

“I don’t need that long,” Elurín said, “but…” 

“I asked him what happened to our father,” Eluréd said. “He said that he did not know. But Elwing—Elwing chose the life of the Eldar, and Eärendil chose alike.”

“Do not make your decision now,” Daeron said. He knew what frightened them both the most—they feared that the other would choose differently, and that they would be sundered forever.

“Take the time he gave you, and talk about it, and maybe talk to your nephews,” added Lossenol. “Whatever you choose—we’ll be here.”

They did not speak of the choice again for some time. Daeron slept a lot, and he drank the hot tea that Elrond and Elros had given them. One of the blends was achingly familiar—it had come out of Doriath, which Daeron had missed but hadn’t ever known how to mix himself. Maybe he should find out, he thought as he sipped at it one morning, before they left. They’d spoken a little more of it, leaving, and the more they did the more Daeron wanted to be gone. As much as he wanted to keep Lossenol from discovery, he wanted to be away. There were too many people, and a single small tent did not feel like enough privacy. The mountains had been crowded but at least they had had a real room to retreat to, with thick walls.

Eluréd and Elurín also seemed uncomfortable. There was no hiding the fact that they and Elwing’s sons were kin, and word had spread quickly that Dior’s sons lived. “Sindar keep coming up to us, wanting to speak to us—wanting to know what our plans are,” Elurín said now, wrinkling his nose. “It feels like they’re halfway to planning a coronation, whatever we say against it.”

“Elrond’s been laughing at us,” Eluréd said. “He said as long as they’re looking at us they aren’t looking at him.”

“And Elros?”

“Elros is already hailed as a lord among the Edain,” said Elurín after a moment. “Well, they both are, but he has embraced it. They…they haven’t shared with us, but I think I can guess how Elros, at least, will choose.” There was already grief in his voice at the thought. Even Daeron and Lossenol had heard by then of the plans being made for the Edain—of a land of their own somewhere over the Sea. Should Elros choose that path, it was likely he would set sail, and they would have to say farewell long before he died. If Elrond chose differently, Daeron wasn’t sure which would be crueler—to part early or to be able to stay together until the last. 

As they finished breakfast, someone came seeking Daeron. “Lord Celeborn wishes to speak with you, now that you are able,” said the young elf who spoke with an accent out of Doriath, but who Daeron was sure he’d never seen before.

He swallowed a sigh. “Yes, I will come.” He got to his feet, and spared a moment to be thankful that clean clothes had been found for them, and that he’d gotten to at least wash his hair. He was still a very far cry from the bright singer who had come before Thingol to perform, adorned in amethysts and pearls and brightly-dyed silks and linens. “What is your name?” he asked as they wound their way through the tents and through the many others going about their business in the encampment. 

“Lindir,” said his guide, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. “I remember you—though you won’t know me. I was still quite young when you left Doriath.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Did you really challenge Gorthaur to a battle of songs—like they say Finrod Felagund did?”

“Not exactly,” said Daeron, hearing the lingering rasp in his voice. “I fought him—but I would not have if there had been another choice.”

“Well, unlike Felagund, you were the victor.”

“No,” said Daeron. “The victor was the river, in the end. I just got lucky.”

Lindir led Daeron to a larger tent, plainly but comfortably appointed. A table was set in the middle with a scattering of papers across it, and Celeborn was there with Oropher. Galadriel was absent, to Daeron’s relief. “Daeron.” Oropher rose and to Daeron’s surprise, came forward to embrace him. “You look well—much better than when last we saw you. Come sit. We have much to speak of.”

“Do we?” Daeron asked as he sat, across from Oropher, and to Celeborn’s left where he sat at what would have been the head of the table, were the setting a little more formal. “I confess, I’m not sure what you could want from me.”

“To offer gratitude, for a start,” said Celeborn, watching Daeron both carefully and thoughtfully. “But also to ask for answers. How did my niece’s children come to call you their father? And who is your companion—the Noldo who they also call father?”

Daeron had expected the questions, but he still took a moment to try to order his thoughts. It had been such a long time since he had been truly answerable to anyone—especially anyone from Doriath—and he found that he did not like the feeling. The awareness of how careful he also had to be weighed on him. “That winter, I was called back west of the Ered Luin, and I found myself in Ossiriand,” he said finally.

“Called?” Oropher asked.

“I had—dreams. Strange ones, uneasy ones—I just felt that I needed to return to Beleriand. I met Lossenol there in Ossiriand. Then, after—I don’t know exactly what happened, for I think their memories of that time are a little muddled—but after Doriath was attacked, Eluréd and Elurín were found in the forest by Fladrif, an Ent. He brought them to Ossiriand, and there found us.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly—Finglas had brought Lossenol to Ossiriand before the twins. 

“But who is he?” Celeborn asked. “Why would you trust one of the Noldor with—”

“I imagine for reasons similar to why you married one,” Daeron said, not quite snapping.

“That is not the same thing,” Celeborn did snap. “Galadriel is not a kinslayer.”

“And she alone of all the Noldor can claim that distinction? Yet you are very quick to assume that Lossenol—”

“I only find myself wondering how he came to Ossiriand at almost the same time Eluréd and Elurín did—I wonder if he too was fleeing from Doriath, and the blood he spilled there.”

“He has killed only servants of the Enemy since I have known him,” Daeron said, “and always in defense of us. Neither of us asked the twins to call us their fathers. They chose that—they both are burdened with foresight, especially Eluréd, and they have been convinced from the start that we four were meant to find one another.”

“Why did you not seek the Havens?” Oropher asked. 

“To journey from Ossiriand to Eriador was dangerous enough,” Daeron said, clenching his fists in his lap against the memory of it, resisting the impulse to reach up and touch his still-healing throat. “We could not have crossed all of Beleriand—not chasing only the vaguest of rumors that others had escaped down the river. We heard years afterward from the Dwarves of Belegost that remnants of both Doriath and Gondolin had come to the Mouths of Sirion, but by then the passage was made even more impossible. If I could have found a way to reunite them with their sister, I would have. They were devastated to learn what happened there.”

“What do you intend to do now?” asked Oropher. 

“I don’t know. Eluréd and Elurín are relieved to know that Elwing lives, and grieved that she cannot return to these shores. They are very glad to have the chance to know their nephews—but neither of them will accept any crown you try to offer them.”

“They are Thingol’s heirs,” Celeborn said quietly. “Had they come to Sirion, or to Balar, they might be better prepared—”

“If I had tried to bring them across all of Beleriand, we would not be having this conversation,” Daeron said flatly, “because we would have been killed or worse. There was a price on my head out of Angband, which was bad enough—if he had learned that Dior’s sons still lived—”

“I did not mean to blame you, Daeron. That they are here at all is thanks to you—”

“And Lossenol.”

“To both of you,” Celeborn allowed, though he didn’t seem happy. “But you cannot decide for them that they should not take up—”

“I would never do such a thing,” Daeron snapped. “They were saying just this morning that they are weary of the attention they’ve been getting, and Eluréd has said before quite plainly that neither he nor Elurín would accept any crown that was offered to them. They do not want it. Doriath is no more, and there is no remaking it.”

“No one wants to remake Doriath,” said Oropher, “but there are enough of us left who do not want to submit to the King of the Noldor, either.”

“Are you not princes yourselves? Build your own realms and submit to no one.”

“Daeron—”

“If you care about them as you claim, you will respect their choices—will you not?”

Celeborn’s fist clenched on the table. “They are my nephews, Daeron,” he said shortly. “I have mourned them for nearly eighty years. Do not accuse me of not caring.”

“And they are my sons—I have loved them since they were six years old, and everything both Lossenol and I have done has been to protect them. I will not stop now. Speak to them, if you must, of crowns and inheritances, but be prepared for their refusal—and for words much harsher than my own.”

“No one wants to begin this new age with new rifts,” said Celeborn as someone came into the tent. Daeron glanced over, and had to dig his fingernails into his palms against a spike of panic as he recognized Galadriel. 

When last he had seen her she had been adorned in gems and gold and silver, a bright jewel in the setting of Menegroth's court. Now she was dressed plainly and practically, in a loose-fitting tunic and dark pants ducked into boots splashed with mud. Her hair gleamed like rich gold where it was twined around her head in braids. Her smile, when she turned it on Daeron, was kind. “Oh, Daeron—I hoped I would find you here.”

“Lady Galadriel,” he said, inclining his head, hoping he was not expected to rise. 

“What is it, Galadriel?” Celeborn asked, seeing something in her face that Daeron did not. 

“The searchers have returned—we have been seeking for the lost and the dead,” Galadriel added to Daeron. “They have brought back a body that I recognized—that of Menelas of Doriath. You were once his close friend, were you not?”

“Menelas died in the Bragollach,” Oropher said after a moment, sounding puzzled. “How is his body—”

“He was taken,” Daeron said quietly, “not slain. I already knew that he was dead, Lady Galadriel—Nellas and I were with him in his last moments, on the day the earth split, but did not dare linger long enough to bury him as we should have.”

“You did right, Daeron—it was better that you fled while you could. He will receive a proper burial now, tonight when the stars are out,” Galadriel said. Daeron wished she would not speak so gently. “Will you attend?”

“Nellas has gone on an errand and will not be back in time, but—yes, I will attend.” Someone needed to—someone who had really known him.

“Someone will come for you when it is time,” said Oropher. “I’m sorry, Daeron. But it seems he escaped at the last—”

“He didn’t.” Daeron’s hand finally rose to his neck of its own accord, feeling the skin there that was even then still tender. It would leave a scar, and he hadn’t yet decided how he felt about it. He was aware of the sudden keen attention of all three of the others. “I broke through the enchantments of Angband—but they kept him chained to life as well as enthralled.”

“His spirit is free now,” Galadriel said, “and will find rest and healing in Mandos. It was a kindness, Daeron.”

“It does not feel like one.” Daeron rose without lifting his gaze. “Please excuse me, my lords, my lady. I am meant still to be resting my voice when I can.”

He kept his composure until he reached his own tent. Eluréd and Elurín were gone again, off with Elrond and Elros, and Lossenol was sorting through some of the supplies they had been given. He looked up and immediately set them aside. “Daeron, what is it?”

“They found Menelas’ body. He’s—they’re going to bury him properly tonight.”

“Oh. That’s—that’s good, though.”

“Yes. Just…” Daeron sat down. He felt numb, and he realized that in spite of everything it hadn’t felt real until that moment. That Menelas was dead. That— “I killed him,” he whispered.

“No you didn’t.” Lossenol pulled Daeron over so he was practically sitting in his lap, the way he sometimes still held the twins even though they were much taller, rubbing a hand up and down Daeron’s spine. “Morgoth did. You just set him free.” Daeron turned to hide his face in Lossenol’s chest. He was very warm, and Daeron realized suddenly that he felt very cold. 

He did not, though, feel like the grief was going to kill him. It hurt, sharp as knives, but it was survivable. 

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Menelas was one of many to be buried that evening, in a long row of graves dug some distance from the camp, near the edge of the woods that had survived. A chill wind blew from the Sea, as it always seemed to, and Lossenol kept the hood of his cloak raised. Daeron hadn't wanted him to come—he was even more afraid of someone recognizing him than Lossenol was himself—but he’d insisted, and so had Eluréd and Elurín. This wasn’t something Daeron should face alone.

There were few words spoken. Some sang ancient songs for the dead, following traditions of all kindreds of the Elves and of the Edain. Daeron remained silent as Menelas’ body, carefully wrapped in what looked like sailcloth, was lowered into the ground, though he stepped forward to help build the cairn. There were a handful of others from Doriath, though as far as Lossenol could tell none of them knew Daeron well, though he wasn’t sure whether they had known Menelas. When the last stone was placed Daeron stepped back, and Lossenol pulled him close. He could feel eyes on them, but he ignored them.

Back in their tent, Daeron remained quiet, but it wasn’t the sort of quiet that had worried Lossenol in the past. He did not seem to be in any danger of fading, in spite of having spent most of his strength first freeing Menelas and then fighting Sauron, all while trying to survive the world breaking apart around them. As Lossenol thought of it the ground shook beneath them, just a little. Next to him Daeron stiffened. 

“I think it will be doing that for some time,” Eluréd said after it settled. He pressed his palms to the ground. “I spoke to Kóri today and he said the earth is still trying to settle into its new shape.”

“Kóri is here?” Lossenol asked. “Is he all right?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, Lossë, I thought you knew. The dwarves are all preparing to leave in the next few days—some will come back to help build the city that Gil-galad and Círdan are planning for this spot, or to build new settlements of their own in the Ered Luin, but Belegost and Nogrod are no more, and they want to establish their own new homes first. Most will go to Khazad-dûm, though Kóri seems to think some will venture even farther east.”

“I’ve never seen the Misty Mountains,” Daeron said after a moment.

“Do you want to?” Lossenol asked. 

“I want to,” said Elurín. “And what lies beyond them. And what lies beyond Nenuial, and south of the Road, and…”

“But what of your nephews?” Daeron asked. 

“We do not want to go so far so soon,” Eluréd said, nudging Elurín with his elbow. “Elros—he has chosen the Gift of Men, and when there are enough ships he will depart these shores for the island that the Valar are preparing for any Edain who wish to go.”

“What of Elrond?” Lossenol asked.

“He has chosen the fate of the Elves, and he will stay here in Gil-galad’s service,” said Elurín. “All the great lords from Doriath are very frustrated with the lot of us—the only one willing to take up any crown at all is Elros, and he will be ruling a kingdom of Men far away over the Sea. Elrond has refused the Sindarin crown on the grounds that he is as much a Noldo as he is a Sinda—he and Elros are descended from all three kindreds of the Eldar, you know, and all three Houses of the Edain. He refuses to claim one over another.” He sounded both approving and proud. 

That would be hard for both Elrond and Elros, Lossenol thought. To be parted forever—and so much sooner than if Elros had chosen to remain in Middle-earth at Elrond’s side. He wondered if that would make the final parting easier, when the end of Elros’ life came. He wondered how either of them could bear it. Whatever Eluréd and Elurín choose, Lossenol knew they would choose alike, and face it together.

“Have you chosen, birdies?” Daeron asked softly. 

“Yes,” said Eluréd, exchanging a glance with Elurín. “We’ve both chosen the fate of the Elves. Someday—not yet, but someday—we will take ship into the west to find Elwing, and our mother.”

“And you are both at peace with this choice?” Daeron asked, looking between them.

“Yes,” said Eluréd. “And it’s over and done—we spoke to Eönwë this morning. It—it was hardly a choice at all. I knew what I wished to choose even before he finished telling us of it.”

“What if we went to stay with Goldberry for a while?” Elurín asked. “It’s not that far—and Eluréd and I can come back easily enough to see Elrond and Elros, and you said Nellas is already there.”

“Nellas is not going to stay,” said Daeron. “She is going to sail with the fleet.”

Their faces fell. “Oh…”

“Don’t worry—she’ll be back in plenty of time for us to say our farewells. And as you said, someday we’ll all take ship ourselves, and we will see her again. It will be goodbye, but not—not forever.” Daeron sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as much as the twins. Lossenol hooked his arm around his waist, and felt Daeron slump against his side. For himself, Lossenol wasn’t sure whether he ever wanted to return to the west. He had no memory of it, and none of the tales he’d heard had stirred any great desire to see those shores. There was enough to see here, enough to do—especially now that they could do so in freedom and relative safety. Maybe he’d change his mind someday, but it felt a little like his lost memories—it was in his past, and he wished for it to stay there. If Daeron had wanted to take ship, Lossenol would have gone with him—but he was very glad that Daeron wanted to stay too. 

“So maybe after Nellas departs,” said Elurín after a moment. “Then we’ll go stay with Goldberry. I want to introduce both Elrond and Elros to Iarwain sometime, too—I think they would like him.”

“Elros said to us this afternoon that he and Elrond would like to learn from you, Daeron, if you’re willing to teach them,” Eluréd added. “They said that Maglor spoke of you sometimes.”

It had felt very strange to hear that Elrond and Elros had been taken from the ruins of Sirion by the last Sons of Fëanor, and then to hear that they had been raised by them—and raised well, obviously—and that they had great love for Maglor, at least. It had been more difficult to tell what they thought of Maedhros. It made some part of Lossenol want to seek them out in spite of his misgivings and his desire to leave his past as far behind him as he could. The desire wasn’t strong enough to act on, but he kept finding himself thinking about it, wondering where they were.

“He did?” Daeron said now, startled. “I would not have thought…but yes, if they want to learn what I know of music, or whatever else I can teach them, of course I will. Only I don’t have any instruments. I think my flute must be at the bottom of the Sea by now—I left it behind when we left for the Gelion the last time. I haven’t had a chance yet to make another one.”

They’d been many days in the camp already, and Lossenol missed the woods—he missed being far away from other people. Waiting a little longer to say farewell to Nellas wasn’t any real hardship, but he felt an itch under his skin. He felt like there was something he needed to do—and that feeling came with those old dreams, the ones of light. He hadn’t had any since Gil-estel had first risen, but that night he dreamed that he was trying to reach a pair of stars, that they seemed to be just within his reach, but every time he stretched out his hand they were yanked away—and he knew at the same time that if he did manage to catch them it would only harm him. But not trying would be worse. He heard someone calling out to him from behind, calling a name that in the dream he knew to be his, but it slipped away when he startled awake, sometime in the dead of night, to Daeron’s hand on his face. 

“You were dreaming,” he whispered. “What was it?”

His head ached fiercely, and Lossenol turned to bury his face in Daeron’s shoulder. “Light,” he whispered. “The same light, that…”

“I see.” Daeron stroked his hair and hummed a quiet song. He wasn’t meant to be using any power at all, but Lossenol couldn’t bring himself to protest, not when it worked almost in an instant to ease the pounding behind his eyes.

“There’s something I need to be doing,” Lossenol whispered when he could make his tongue work. “But I don’t…I don’t know what. Just—if I don’t, then…”

“There’s nothing,” Daeron said with sudden and surprising fierceness, and his words seemed to sink under Lossenol’s skin the same way his songs did, chasing away the itch, though not quite banishing it entirely. “There’s nothing you need to be doing except to keep recovering your strength, and to be here with us.”

“But it—what if it’s like—when you said you felt you should cross the mountains—”

“It did not hurt me,” said Daeron. “It made me uneasy—it was just an awareness. Not like this, this is just a nightmare. Try to go back to sleep, Lossë. I’ll sing the dreams away.”

“You shouldn’t—”

“I’m fine. I know my limits.” Daeron kissed his forehead and kept stroking his hair. “Just let me—” They both stiffened when an alarm was sounded, somewhere in the distance. Lossenol sat up so quickly he almost knocked Daeron off of the cot, and both Eluréd and Elurín jolted awake. “What’s—”

“I’ll go see,” said Elurín, grabbing his sword as he rolled to his feet.

“Elurín—” Eluréd started to protest.

“I won’t get involved, I promise.”

Lossenol had the sudden, overwhelming need to go after Elurín, to stop him from getting closer to whatever it was, and to—to do something else, but he didn’t know what. He didn’t move, hardly breathed, mostly because Daeron had moved so he was practically sitting on his lap, and his grip on Lossenol’s arms was hard enough to bruise. Eluréd went to the tent’s entrance. Lossenol heard him speaking to someone outside, but whoever it was did not seem to know anything. 

After what felt like a very long time, Elurín returned. “It was them,” he said grimly. “The last Fëanorians—Maglor and Maedhros.”

“What did they do?” Daeron asked. 

“They took the Silmarils. Eönwë let them go.”

Lossenol felt suddenly like he couldn’t breathe. He ducked his face into Daeron’s hair, headache returning with a vengeance. Daeron’s grip on his arms tightened.

“They just—took them and left?” Eluréd asked.

“It seems so. They slew those guarding the Silmarils—I don’t know all that happened, only what Oropher could tell me as he returned. They’re gone, and Gil-galad has ordered that no one go after them. It’s so—so pointless.”

Daeron sighed, and loosened his grip on Lossenol, though he didn’t let go. When he spoke he just sounded very sad. “Then it’s over. There’s nothing for us to do tonight. Go back to sleep, songbirds. You too, Lossë.”

He tried, but in spite of Daeron humming quiet lullabies his dreams were filled with fire and water, of the roar of the Sea and someone screaming. He woke in the morning feeling as though he hadn’t slept at all.

Nellas returned in the afternoon. She was just in time—Eluréd had come back from fetching breakfast that morning with news that the first of the ships to return to Valinor would depart the next day. Daeron disappeared with Nellas almost as soon as they had all said hello, and when they returned some time later she had tears on her face, though she seemed otherwise calm and mostly cheerful. “Nellas,” Eluréd said, a little hesitantly. “Would you—do you think you could carry a letter for us? To Elwing?”

“Yes, of course! I’ll take her anything you want to send—and I’ll tell her all about you, too.” Nellas sat down on the floor between the twins and looked at Lossenol. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just tired.”

“Is your back healed?”

“Yes. Mostly,” he added when Elurín glared at him. The bandages were off, but the newly-forming scars were tender and he could feel them pulling whenever he moved. He was tired most of the time, because even the most mundane wounds were hard to heal from when dealt by a Maia of Sauron’s power. That day his head ached and he kept flinching at loud noises. For his part, Daeron was still unable to sing very loud, and his range had been reduced, which Lossenol knew bothered him even though both Elrond and Elros—and the other healers who had taken a look at him over the last few weeks—insisted that it would return with time and rest. Their wounds had been a good excuse to avoid leaving their tent very often, but that wouldn’t last much longer. 

“Daeron, is there anything you wish me to take west for you?” Nellas asked then. 

Daeron thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Just a promise to come west someday, if anyone asks, though I don’t suppose anyone will—not for a long time. I don’t know when, but—someday.”

The ships departed with the morning tide. They saw Nellas off, and she waved until her ship was blocked from their view by others. Lossenol kept his hood up and his face hidden, and was aware of eyes on them. “Is there any reason we should stay longer, ourselves?” Eluréd asked as they turned back from the new-built docks. The wind picked up, and Lossenol pulled his hood farther forward against the sudden cold spray that fell over them. He the salt tasted like tears. 

“No,” said Daeron, “unless your nephews—”

“They’re gone,” said Elurín, “but I told them where they could find us upon their return.”

“Then there’s nothing at all to keep us here,” said Daeron.

“Are you sure?” Lossenol asked. “Just—there are people here that you—”

“There is no one I was particularly close to,” said Daeron, “and I have less than no desire to get involved in whatever is going on between the lords of Doriath and the Noldor and whoever else. I don’t know what sort of position I would have, and I don’t really want to find out.”

“It would not be a bad one,” Elurín said. 

“It would be uncomfortable for everyone,” said Daeron, “especially me. Doriath is no more, and I have no interest in attempting to remake it.”

“You’re still a grumpy hermit,” Lossenol said, mostly to try to get Daeron to laugh. Beside him, Eluréd snorted. 

Daeron did smile, but he replied seriously, “Yes, I am.” He slipped his hand into Lossenol’s. “Even if I wasn’t—I have always been a child of the forests, not the seaside. It’s fine to visit—or it will be someday when the world is more at ease—but I miss the trees.”

They returned to their tent to gather their things, debating off and on whether they should slip away in the busy part of the afternoon or wait until evening, when they could make their way down the road under the stars. Before they could decide one way or another, Lord Celeborn arrived to speak to Daeron. “Are you leaving?” he asked, apparently forgetting for a moment what he’d come to say when he saw the state of the tent.

“Yes,” said Daeron. 

“All of you?” Celeborn looked at Eluréd and Elurín, who nodded.

“We aren’t going far,” said Eluréd, “and Elurín and I will return to visit often—but there are friends we wish to find again who live farther east along the road.”

“Elrond and Elros will know how to find us,” Elurín added. 

Celeborn turned to Daeron. “I had hoped you would put an end to your self-imposed exile, Daeron,” he said. “You have been greatly missed.”

“I do not consider it exile,” said Daeron. “I have no intention of disappearing entirely, my lord. But I am not made for cities of stone, far away from the woods, and now that the world is made safe I have a great desire to see more of it.”

“As do we,” said Eluréd. 

Celeborn looked then at Lossenol, and Lossenol had the uneasy feeling that he was one who could see straight through the simple guise that Elurín had placed over him. His eyes were starlit, like Daeron’s, and very keen. “Have we met?” he asked. “Long ago, perhaps?”

“No, my lord,” Lossenol said. 

“You never came to Doriath in the company of my wife’s kin?”

“No,” said Lossenol, “though I wish that I had. It sounds as though it was a very beautiful place.”

“How did you come to meet Daeron?” Celeborn asked him. “He has not shared that tale with me in full.”

“I was wounded after a battle, and—I remember very little from that time. Daeron saved my life.”

“And he saved mine in turn,” Daeron added quietly. “That is enough. You have no reason to question him like this.”

“I think there is every reason to question a stranger—”

“He is a stranger to you, perhaps—but then I might as well be too. But if you want to know why we are leaving, this is why—I know we have been the subjects of stares and rumors, and neither Lossenol nor I care much for it.”

“You might not be the subject of rumors if you did not keep yourselves so separate,” Celeborn pointed out. “But are you leaving right this moment? I had hoped you would lunch with us—with Oropher and me, and Galadriel, and—”

“No. Thank you, but no.”

“Lady Galadriel asks even more probing and pointed questions than you do, my lord,” said Elurín when Celeborn looked at the twins. A slightly pained look flashed across his face at Elurín’s address, which Lossenol didn’t quite understand. “As my brother said, we intend to return often—to see our nephews but also our other kin.”

“Very well,” said Celeborn. He embraced Eluréd and then Elurín, bade Daeron and Lossenol farewell, and departed. 

“Is he your kinsman?” Lossenol asked the twins.

“He is our mother’s uncle,” said Eluréd. “Nellas said so when we first came—though maybe you don’t remember. You were still in a lot of pain at the time. I think we must have met him when we were young, but we met so many people in Menegroth that they all kind of blur together. I’m not sure if Oropher or Amdír are also related to us.”

“Amdír is, but more distantly through Celeborn’s mother’s line,” said Daeron. “I can draw it out for you sometime if you would like.”

“Maybe,” said Eluréd. “I suppose we’ll have to learn eventually.”

“I probably should have taught you all of it long ago,” Daeron said. “Only I never really expected you to need to know it.”

Finally, they set out, following the Dwarf road, leaving then and there rather than waiting for the evening. The woods on either side were gilded with gold and orange, slowly changing from summer’s green to autumn’s fire. The summer had been unseasonably cold, after the chaos of the war’s end, but now it seemed that both the earth and the air were settling down a little, and inland the air held just a hint of a chill appropriate to the season, and the farther they got from the shore the more the air smelled of earth and leaf mould, rather than salt spray. Lossenol glanced north, following the course of the River Lhûn. Somewhere there, overgrown now with honeysuckle and brambles, were the burned out remains of the village they had called their home for so many years. He missed it, but it didn’t ache in the same way that it once had. They did not need to keep secrets anymore—they did not need to hide from friends or foes. The world lay open before their feet, fields and forests and rivers and mountains. 

And he felt lighter—as though some weight had been lifted from his spirit. It had been days since his head had ached, and his back was healing well. His dreams continued to be haunted by floods and fires, but the blinding light was gone from them.

“What are you smiling about?” Daeron asked.

“Just—this is the start of something brand new. We can go anywhere, do anything—no more wars, no more fear.” Lossenol looked over at Daeron and saw the way his eyes brightened. “We can do whatever we want.”

Eluréd laughed, suddenly—a bright and joyful sound. “We can, can’t we? Oh, what a wonderful thing to be alive under the Sun!”

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They did not travel immediately to Goldberry’s riverside home. Instead they went further east, seeking old friends at the still small but growing village on a hill, just past the place where the Dwarf road split, one branch going south and the other continuing east. They found Hendaras and Elenel there, in the midst of packing their things. “When are you leaving?” Daeron asked.

“Soon,” Elenel said with a small, sad smile. “Mithon is ill—and old. We will stay until he accepts the Gift of Men, and then—well, we’ve heard that anyone might take ship now, if they wish.”

“You heard right, though it may be some time before there are ships enough to bear all who wish to go. The ships that brought the armies out of the West will have all departed by the time you reach the new Havens they are building.”

“That’s all right. We aren’t in that much of a hurry, just—oh, it’s hard.”

“I know.”

Elenel glanced at him, then, smile slanting a little. “And I hear that we are not to call you Torrandir anymore.”

Daeron smiled back. “I’d almost forgotten that name. I’m sorry. It’s just…”

“No, I understand. But we had both heard of you before, and it was a little shocking to hear from Mithon that our quiet friend was none other than Daeron of Doriath.”

“It just wasn’t worth hiding anymore, by the time the war began,” said Daeron. 

“And is Lossenol going to reveal himself to be, oh, I don’t know, Beleg Strongbow, or something?”

Daeron kept his smile on his face, and shook his head. “No, Lossë is only Lossë. But—well, there’s no reason to hide them anymore either. Pínfileg and Pínamrent are in truth Eluréd and Elurín.”

Elenel had been kneading bread dough, while Daeron sat across from her in the sunny kitchen with late-blooming roses peeping in at the window. Now she paused and stared at him. “Dior’s sons?” she asked. “The ones—the ones that were left for dead in the woods?”

“Yes, Dior’s sons. An Ent brought them out of Doriath, and came upon Lossenol and me in Ossiriand. And—yes, this is known now to their kin who survived, including Elwing’s sons.”

“Good heavens,” Elenel said, shaking her head as she returned to her kneading. “Are you sure Lossenol isn’t hiding some great secret of his own?”

“Yes, quite sure.” It felt like a lie, and Daeron hated it, but it was true, after a fashion. Lossenol was not keeping the secret of his identity. Daeron was. 

It was getting harder now to justify, since the Oath was over. Daeron could see its absence in Lossenol’s good eye, though the shadows of whatever had happened in Doriath remained, locking away all of his memories. It was such a relief to know that it would not trouble him—or anyone—any longer that Daeron sometimes felt a little dizzy just thinking about it. But it meant there was no good reason now to keep hiding the truth.

Well. There was one good reason—Lossenol believed that to remember would be to awaken such a storm of grief that he might die from it. And that would be more true now than it had ever been, with his last two brothers lost and most likely dead. The lands west of the mountains were still shifting and changing, rents opening and closing, magma welling up and spilling into the Sea. They couldn’t feel the tremors now so far from the coast, but they had happened often enough while they had tarried in the camp. Daeron worried for Elrond and Elros as they tried to find Maglor and Maedhros, but he worried most what it would do to Lossenol if he ever remembered—if he realized how close he had been without knowing it. 

Maybe someday he would decide that he was ready to face his past—and Daeron hoped he would be able to help him without revealing what he had known all along—but as long as he wanted to remain ignorant, Daeron was only too happy to go along with it. 

Eluréd and Elurín spent their visit with Mithon, saying their farewells. He was ill and old, his dark hair thinned and grey, but his eyes were still bright and he was ready to smile and laugh, and still delighted in his daughters and his grandchildren. His family had put down roots in that village, and Daeron thought that they would be meeting his descendants for many, many years to come whenever they passed through. Mourning him, Daeron thought, would be very different from mourning Menelas—or even the boy that Lossenol had killed years before, far from home and still so young. Mithon had been rescued from the ashes of war and had lived a long and full life, and would go to his rest unafraid and knowing that the world he left behind was far brighter than it had been when he had been born, a world in which his children, and their children, and their children’s children would never know fear. 

“I think I understand, a little, why Elros chose as he did,” he found himself saying as they left the village, heading back west toward the little river valley where Goldberry awaited them. 

“We both understand too,” said Elurín. Eluréd had ventured ahead with Lossenol, collecting leaves and grasses to weave together as he walked, both of them laughing at something. “And it’s—I might have chosen alike, and gone with Elros, and been content with it, except that I can’t bear the thought of never seeing my sister again.”

Daeron looked at him. “I hope you won’t come to regret your choice, birdie,” he said. “I have already lived a very long time, and—the weight of it can be very heavy at times.”

“I know—I won’t regret it. In choosing this life I am not rejecting that part of myself. I am not an Elf, as you are, just as Elros is not a Man, as Mithon is. We are Peredhil, and that’s something—I don’t know. It’s neither one nor the other, but it’s both at once. Whatever we chose, we would be forever in some in-between space. I don’t know why Elros chose as he did, or Elrond, but I don’t think Eluréd and I making our choices for love of our sister and our mother and each other is wrong.”

“I don’t think there is a wrong choice, or a wrong reason,” Daeron said, “but I can only speak as an outsider—and, selfishly, as someone who is very glad that you made the choice you did.”

Elurín smiled at him, with Beren’s smile under Lúthien’s eyes that shone with a light that came from Melian. “I know. It was also for you, you know—you and Atya Lossë.”

Daeron reached out to squeeze his hand. He would have accepted and supported whatever choice either Eluréd or Elurín made, but he could not deny that he was grateful beyond words to avoid this particular heartbreak. 

Goldberry and Iarwain greeted them joyfully, and welcomed them to their cozy little house between the hills and the river. By then autumn was getting on, and Daeron was aware of both Lossenol and the twins watching him carefully. And he did feel tired, disliking the fading colors and the shorter days—but it wasn’t as oppressive as it had once been. Nellas’ departure and Menelas’ death had hit hard, but he had now both time and space and safety to miss and mourn them properly—and he had hope, now, that those partings were not forever. 

“There are still shadows lying upon Lossenol, you know,” Goldberry said to him one sunny afternoon. They sat on the roof of the house; Lossenol and the twins had gone fishing in the river, and Iarwain had bounded off over the hills that morning, singing as he went. 

“I know. And he knows.” Daeron watched a flock of geese fly overhead, pointing southward like an arrow, and listened to them calling to one another. “Is is what keeps his memories from him—but he doesn’t want them back.”

“He might, someday.”

“When last someone tried to interfere it hurt him badly.”

“Mm.” Goldberry crossed her legs and looked at Daeron, her blue eyes soft and kind but serious. “Best beware, Daeron. Lost things, even memories, have a way of seeing themselves found. Beware too of the Sea—it washes everything clean in time, even curses.”

“Curses?” Daeron looked at her, a chill going down his spine. “Is that what you would call it? Lossë thinks it a blessing.”

“I have looked into his eyes, and I think this was a thing laid over him with ill intentions—it was meant to hurt, though maybe it is an ill that has turned to good instead, as such things sometimes do, as all the Music bends back toward Ilúvatar’s purposes.” Then she smiled, and reached for his hand. “But you know him best, and you are both wise and powerful in your own turn.”

“He knows that I will help him, if he changes his mind,” Daeron said. “But I do not think he will—at least, not for a very long time. Grief awaits him in the knowing.”

“Grief is inescapable—but even in the darkest depths of it hope may be found.”

Lossenol came back from the river then, drenched and laughing as he chased after Eluréd, who had pushed him into the water. Daeron watched them and couldn’t decide whether he wished Goldberry had remained silent, or whether he was grateful for her counsel.

“We are not really that far, as the crow flies, from that flet in Ossiriand,” he remarked to Lossenol one evening some weeks later, as they listened to Iarwain outside singing to the gathering frost, and to Eluréd and Elurín bickering amiably in their bedroom next door. “But it feels like we have come a very long way.” He sat by the hearth with a knife and a bit of wood in his hands, finally carving himself a new flute. Lossenol lay beside him on the rug, sprawled out catlike in the warmth.

“It’s been a long time. I used to wonder if you regretted it.”

“No,” Daeron said. “No, never—not even once. Even if we had parted ways at the Sarn Athrad—I think I would have regretted that, but nothing else. Meeting you saved my life—and I don’t mean when you rescued me from the orcs.” 

Lossenol folded his arms behind his head, and then looked at Daeron with a grin. “I told you we’d make it to the other side, all of us together.”

“Yes, you did—and you were right and I was wrong. Though…” Daeron hesitated, reluctant to bring any shadow back into their lives. But it needed to be said. “I never heard that Sauron Gorthaur was found. He may still be out there somewhere—and he hates the line of Lúthien.”

“He’ll hate you too.”

“Yes, but…”

“Wherever he’s gone, he’s nothing without his master, and all of us will only get stronger as time goes on. And next time—if there is a next time—it will be the four of us together, at full strength.”

“I think I knew that,” Daeron murmured. “But I also needed to hear someone else say it.”

“You have been called the mightiest singer among the Elves for good reason. Even if you lost some of that strength before, I think you’ve gotten it back now.”

“Maybe. Maybe I’m not the best person to judge my own strength anymore. I hope I won’t ever need to prove it one way or the other.” Daeron finished carving the flute, and brushed the shavings into the fireplace. Then he leaned over to kiss Lossenol’s forehead. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Just—everything.”

“Daeron, Lossë—come outside with us!” Eluréd and Elurín came in to pull them both up. “The stars are bright, and it’s so quiet you can hear the echoes of the Music in the river even from here. Come sing with us!”

“Yes, all right.” Daeron rose as Lossenol, already laughing, sprang to his feet. “New songs or old songs?”

“New songs, of course!”

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