A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Thirteen

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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.”