A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Fifteen

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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.