A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Three

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Everything hurt. The light was flickering and dim but it pierced through his closed eyes like a knife. A voice was singing, very softly. That didn’t hurt—that sounded right…until he realized the voice was wrong. It wasn’t—

Whose voice was he listening for? He couldn’t…

The singing stopped, and a hand rested on his forehead. “Shh, it’s all right,” said the voice. It sounded slightly hoarse, as though the singing had been going on for a long time. “You’re safe. Just rest.”

“Where—where is…” He couldn’t remember what he needed to ask. There was something he needed to be doing. There was someone he needed to…

“Here. Drink—it’s willow bark, so it tastes awful, but you’ll feel better for it.” The rim of a cup was pressed to his lips, and he opened his mouth without thinking. It was awful, bitter but in a way that he recognized. After a few sips that cup was replaced with another, this one full of cold water. That both felt and tasted much better in his mouth and down his throat, washing away the lingering aftertaste of the willow bark and soothing an ache he hadn’t even noticed before, because everything else hurt so much worse. 

“Please,” he rasped when the second cup was lifted away. “Where—Curvo—?”

“Go to sleep,” said the voice, as a hand stroked over his hair. 

“No, I n-need to—” He tried to open his eyes, but only one would work, and he had to shut it again when the pain in his head grew worse, sharp like he’d been stabbed through the eye. He thought he made a noise, small and pathetic, before giving up and letting his head drop back onto the furs beneath him. He needed…he wanted…someone. Someone important, he just couldn’t think—

“Sleep,” said the voice, and then it started singing again. 

When next he woke the light was the same. There was still a fire; he could hear it crackling gently very close by, could feel the heat of it on his face. There were other voices, too—children’s voices—in addition to the singer from before, though they were not singing now, only talking quietly. When he opened his eyes—his eye, for only one would work still—he found everything a little clearer. His head still hurt terribly, but it was no longer blinding. He blinked slowly, looking toward the fire, and then to the figure sitting by it, slender and dark-haired. He was carving something, and though he had dark circles under his eyes he was smiling, small and soft, as he answered a question that one of the children had asked him. It sounded like there were two, but he couldn’t see them from where he lay. 

“Look, Daeron,” one said suddenly, “he’s awake!”

The dark-haired figure—Daeron—looked up, smile vanishing. He set his carving aside and came to kneel by the makeshift bed. “Good morning,” he said, speaking quietly. “How are you feeling?”

“Hurts,” he whispered, and winced at the hoarse wreck that was his voice. 

“I imagine so. You are very badly wounded.”

“Where…am I?”

“Ossiriand.” Daeron paused, as though waiting for a reaction, but he had none. The name was familiar, but he did not know where it was, or where he had heard of it. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I…” He had an impression of—screams, blood, falling stones. Something hard striking him—or many things? Someone snarling something into his ear, though he couldn’t remember the words. Cold. None of it meant anything. “I don’t…who—who are…?”

“My name is Daeron.” Daeron paused, again as though waiting for a response. A faint frown creased his brow, and he asked, “Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Daeron,” he whispered, searching his face. “Should it?”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him, Daeron,” said one of the children. 

“I don’t,” Daeron replied without looking away, “but my name was once widely known. Can you tell me your name?” he asked then. 

He opened his mouth, but found no answer waiting on his tongue. He closed his mouth again, and tried to think, but it was so hard. He had a name—he had to have a name, everyone had a name. But when he tried to think of it he found that he could remember nothing—not who he was, not where he had come from, nothing of a childhood or parents or family, nor friends nor— 

“All right, it’s all right,” Daeron said, and he realized only then that it was suddenly very hard to breathe. “You were struck in the head, and it might be that the memories are slow to return. It’s all right.” Daeron’s hand rested on his cheek, and he turned into it without thinking. That gesture felt familiar, though Daeron was a stranger. Someone had cared for him like this once—maybe? “Drink a little more willow bark, and then some broth, and then sleep. You were sorely wounded, and you need to rest and recover your strength.”

“But—how…?”

“A cave-in,” Daeron said after a moment. “That is what I was told—I was not there. I do not expect you to remember Finglas, who brought you here—I think you will likely never remember what exactly happened to injure you.” His thumb stroked over his cheekbone once, and then he withdrew his hand to fetch a cup of the bitter willow bark tea. The broth was better, rich and warm, but by the time it was gone he couldn’t stay awake any longer.

So it went. He woke, ate or drank, tried to remember his name and failed, and slept again. It was impossible to count the days. 

Eventually, he could stay awake for a few hours at a time. Eventually he could even sit up, if Daeron helped him, and to see properly just where he was. It was a small room, all made of wood; the flet, as Daeron called it, was larger, but he had erected partitions to close off most of the rest—easier to keep a smaller space warm, he said. It was high in a tree, though that was impossible to tell at a glance; the windows were all shuttered against the cold, and according to Daeron it snowed more days than it didn’t. 

The children proved to be a pair of twins, with dark hair and soft grey eyes that seemed to see sometimes more than they should. It was one of them who said one afternoon as Daeron replaced some bandages, “If you cannot remember your name, should we not give you one?”

Daeron’s hands froze, but just for a second before he finished wrapping the bandages and secured them. He reached up to take the ones from around his face—that covered his eye. “It is no small thing to give someone a name,” Daeron said. 

“We need to call him something,” the child said. 

“He’s right,” he said, watching Daeron as he examined the tender and swollen skin around his eye. It was still too swollen to even try opening, but Daeron had already warned him that he might have lost sight in it entirely. Daeron was, he’d said, a powerful singer, but less knowledgeable a healer. “What have you been—been calling me?” It was still hard to speak, sometimes—he couldn’t always think of the right words, and his tongue felt clumsy in his mouth, but if he went slowly he could manage all right.

“The stranger, or just him,” said the other child. “It’s confusing, because we’re all hims.”

“Well, I don’t know your names either,” he said. Again, Daeron froze—but again only for a moment. 

“Eluréd and Elurín,” said the child, pointing to himself and to his brother. “But it’s all right if you get us confused. Everyone does.”

“I think I’ll leave the bandages off,” Daeron said after a moment. “But don’t poke at it. I think I am rested enough to sing more healing over you, if you would like.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not if I sing you to sleep first.”

“But we have to give him a name first!” Elurín protested.

“Have you already thought of one?” Daeron asked them. He sounded very serious. “Names are important, not to be given lightly.”

“We’ve been thinking about it,” said Eluréd.

“What’s the name?” he asked, before Daeron could discourage them further. Mostly he was curious—but he also wanted to have one, and it made something warm unfurl in his chest, to know that these children who hardly knew him cared enough to think of one for him. 

“Lossenol,” they chorused. 

“Snowy dream,” Daeron murmured. “That is what this all feels like, isn’t it?” He looked up from gathering the discarded bandages. “It’s your choice,” he said, “to take the name or leave it.”

“I think I like it,” he—Lossenol—said. “It’s far better than not having a name at all.”

“Then Lossenol you’ll be,” said Daeron. “At least until you recall your right name. Do you need to lie down?”

Lossenol thought about it, and said, “I don’t think so.” He didn’t want to lie down—he wanted to be awake, even if there wasn’t really anything to do. He felt a little dizzy, and his head constantly ached—but that was nothing new. At least it wasn’t bad enough just then to make him nauseas.

“Then I’m going to see if I can wash your hair. It’s a mess, and it must be getting uncomfortable.”

It was, and when Lossenol reached up he found spots of crusted blood and matted hair. He grimaced at the feeling under his fingers. “You might as well just—just—just cut it off,” he said, fumbling for the word cut.

“I’ll wash it first, and then we’ll see,” said Daeron. “Eluréd, or Elurín, can one of you fill this up with snow? At least we aren’t lacking for water to melt.”

“Are you going to go fishing in that pond you told us about?” Eluréd asked as Elurín took a pot to the door. A burst of cold air flowed in when he opened it, and he was very quick to scoop up the snow and shut it again. 

“Maybe,” said Daeron. “Thank you,” he added as he took the pot full of snow and set it over the flames. “I need to wait for a clear day, and those are few and far between this winter it seems. Would you like to hear a story?” 

“Yes please!” chorused the twins. 

The story Daeron told was a silly one, about badgers and hedgehogs fighting over the best place to dig a burrow. By the time he finished the snow had melted and the water had heated enough for washing. He spoke brightly and briskly as he worked the dirt and grime out of Lossenol’s hair, but his hands were very gentle around the lingering bruises and still-healing cuts along Lossenol’s scalp, and he stopped often to make sure he wasn’t causing any pain. As he worked he told other stories, and taught the twins some songs, simple rhymes to help them learn their numbers or the names of plants, or of the stars. It all felt new to Lossenol, too, though he knew the numbers and the plants, and recognized the stars. Maybe he had learned them in different ways.

Daeron was able to get his hair clean, and then to comb out almost all of the tangles, and only cut off a few inches from the ends when they proved to be hopeless and tattered. Then he braided Lossenol’s hair, quickly and simply. “There,” he said. “That must feel much better.”

“Thank you,” Lossenol said. He toyed with the end of the braid, a little startled to find his hair was silver-grey, rather than dark like Daeron’s or the twins’. 

Daeron’s smile slipped. “You needn’t thank me,” he said, and turned away before Lossenol could say anything else. 

He was feeling tired by then, though, and all his various aches and pains were worsening. It was a relief to lie down, with the fire warm on his face, and…

“Lossenol?” Daeron was suddenly leaning over him, and the light peeking through the window shutters was dimmer than it had been a moment ago. “There you are,” Daeron said as Lossenol blinked at him. “Your mind was wandering; were you dreaming?”

“I…don’t think so?”

“Hm.” Daeron peered into his face, his dark eyes seeming to see straight through him. Lossenol wasn’t sure what he could possibly find—there was nothing to see—but whatever it was he didn’t seem to like it. “Here; I’ve made dinner.” He helped Lossenol sit up and then put a bowl of thick stew into his hands. “I hope everyone likes stewed things, because that’s the easiest meal I can make with what supplies we have,” Daeron said.

“Could be worse,” Lossenol said, and then tried to think of how he knew that. The attempt just made his head throb. It felt like there was a joke about someone else’s cooking just on the tip of his tongue, only he didn’t know whose. His own? Maybe—he suspected that he could make something edible at least, but he didn’t know if he was really good at it. But he thought it was probably someone else, someone he used to tease all the time…almost he could hear someone telling him, laughing, to shut up and eat his food. But the memory was so faint that he couldn’t be sure it was real, or if he just wanted it to be. 

“It could, but it will also get rather tedious,” said Daeron. He glanced toward the windows, though there was nothing to see. It was hard to guess what he was thinking of.

“If you go fishing you can cook that differently,” said Eluréd.

“You really want fish, don’t you?” Daeron replied, with a smile to show he was teasing. “I’ll try, if the weather clears and if I can be sure there are no enemies making their way over the Gelion.”

“Is that likely?” Lossenol asked. 

“I don’t know. I was able to avoid roving bands of orcs earlier this year, when I was wandering through Ossiriand alone, but I have not seen any since the weather turned cold. I—” Daeron paused as though listening. Then Lossenol heard it too—a strange call, like a horn. “That is Finglas, I think.” Daeron set his dinner aside and went to slip outside, wrapping himself in his cloak as he went. 

“Finglas is…an Ent?” Lossenol said to the twins. The call had sounded familiar, and the word Ent felt as though it went with it—so at least he remembered some things, even if he didn’t know how or why.

“Yes,” said Eluréd. “The one that brought you here, I think. It was Fladrif who found us in Doriath. Do you still not remember?”

“No, I don’t…remember…anything.”

When Daeron returned his expression was grim. “I spoke too soon. Orcs are moving just west of the Gelion,” he said. “I need to renew the enchantments I had set around this flet; it will take most of the night. The healing songs will have to wait.”

“How are you going to do that?” Elurín asked.

“Music.” Daeron shed his cloak and picked up a flute. “Do not try to interrupt me unless it’s very important.”

“Like if the orcs come here?” Eluréd asked as Elurín shrank against his side.

“I’ll be able to tell if they get close,” Daeron said. “Don’t worry—they’ll pass us by and never know we’re here, especially once I have finished tonight. Try to get some sleep.”

“How can we sleep if you’re going to be singing all night?” Lossenol asked.

“I won’t be loud, and I flatter myself that my music isn’t that terrible to listen to.” Daeron sat down by the door and put his flute to his lips. The song was haunting, and Lossenol immediately felt a change in the air, as Daeron gathered his power and put it forth through the music. It made the hair on Lossenol's arms stand up, and he shivered. The music itself wasn’t familiar but the power held within it was, somehow. 

Why did it make him want to cry?

He lay back down with a sigh, and then opened his good eye when the twins joined him, curling up on either side. “Are you all right?” he asked them. 

“Yes,” said Elurín, but he buried his face in the blanket covering Lossenol’s chest as he spoke. 

“No,” said Eluréd at the same time, also burying his face in the blanket. 

Lossenol sighed, and rested a hand on each of their backs. “Don’t worry,” he said, glancing toward Daeron, who sat shrouded in shadows across the room. There was something almost frightening about him, in the way he so effortlessly put forth so much power. Lossenol found himself thinking that he would not like to face down Daeron in a fight, even if he were uninjured and armed. “I think we might be in one of the—safe—safest—places in the world right now,” he said. 

He fell asleep to the haunting sounds of Daeron’s flute. His dreams were full of smoke and noise, confusing and disorienting, and when he woke in the morning he couldn’t remember at first where he was or why. It came back after a minute. The twins were still asleep on either side of him, and another blanket had been drawn up over the three of them. When Lossenol turned his head he found Daeron asleep nearby, still holding his flute in one hand, and with what looked like tear tracks on his cheeks. 

It occurred to Lossenol that he did not know anything about Daeron—only that he was very kind, a terrifyingly powerful singer, could make decent stew, and seemed to be taking in stride the fact that he had had a pair of children and a half-dead stranger dropped into his lap in the middle of winter. What was he doing out there, alone in the empty woods? 

Lossenol fell back asleep before Daeron woke, and when he woke again he thought vaguely that he’d had questions, but he couldn’t now remember what they were.