A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Twenty

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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.”