A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Fourteen

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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.