A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Two

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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.