A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Twenty One

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A dragon’s blood was not only hot, but acidic, and though it could have been much worse Elurín was still slow to recover. As soon as the healers approved, they moved him to their own room, where they finally picked the bedding up off the floor. Eluréd refused to leave his brother’s side, though they argued more often than not—he worried and Elurín in pain—but neither Lossenol nor Daeron tried to intervene. 

Elurín also refused to promise not to do such a thing again, even when Lossenol repeated his threat to tie him up and toss him into a deep dark cave. “We don’t know what will happen,” he told Lossenol, chin set stubbornly. “I won’t promise not to do whatever I have to.”

“That’s why I have rope at the ready,” Lossenol replied. 

“Now you know how I feel when we have this argument,” Daeron murmured. 

“That’s different.”

“It really isn’t.” Daeron leaned over to kiss the top of Lossenol’s head before he sat down to change Elurín’s bandages. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. He gets it from you.”

“I would rather not fight a dragon again,” said Elurín as he held out his arm. His burns were healing well, but they would leave scars. Daeron hummed a quiet song of healing as he rubbed ointment over them. “But I will if I have to.”

“Do you know what Nellas’ plans are?” Eluréd asked. He sat at the end of the bed, ready to cut bandages to the length Daeron asked. 

“She’ll join us in a few years, maybe,” said Elurín. “It depends on what happens—how far east the war comes.”

“It sounds to me as though the armies of Valinor are marching from Balar up Sirion,” said Lossenol. “That will keep most of the fighting at least as far west as the river.”

“How far is that?” Elurín asked.

“Many leagues,” said Daeron. “But Iarwain and Goldberry both spoke of the seas rising and the land changing. Who knows how far east the armies will be pushed by the power of the Valar.”

That was why they were there—to help keep the mountain pass clear for those fleeing both the war and the changing lands. Lossenol itched to cross into Beleriand again, to join the scouts and hunters that moved through the burned and broken woods of Ossiriand, to follow the Gelion and see what was happening. Now that things were moving he found idleness chafing. He wouldn’t go, not until Elurín was recovered, but he found himself thinking about it all the time.

Messengers came after some weeks from Gil-galad, calling upon the dwarves and anyone else gathered near the mountains to join with the Armies of the West in their march on Angband. There were none able to ride back with the messengers immediately, but the dwarves promised to send all who they could spare come spring, and promised also to continue to guard the passes. Lossenol did not see the messengers, but heard about it from Kóri afterward. “Will you go?” he asked. 

“I might,” Kóri said with a shrug. “There will be many councils held over the winter, especially once the armies of Khazad-dûm arrive, and when the decisions are made I will go where I am told. I would be very happy to witness the fall of the Enemy in the north, I confess. Will you go?”

“No.” Lossenol shrugged when Kóri looked at him in surprise. “With my bad eye and bad shoulder, I’d be more of a hindrance in open battle. I can be more useful here.” He added, with an attempt at a grin, “I’m also a very selfish creature. Daeron and the songbirds come first, always.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Kóri grinned at him. “Come with me—we’ve made a gift for Pínamrent. Most of the dragon scales and horns and things have gone to equip the warriors preparing to march north and west, but we’ve made things for everyone who took part in its slaying, and from what I hear, it would not have been possible without your lad.”

The gift was a bow, carved of dragon horn and etched with runes—and near the grip, a delicate carving of a meadowlark. Elurín was by then able to get up and move about, if he was careful, and when the dwarves presented him with the bow he took it carefully, running his fingers lightly over the carvings. “Thank you,” he breathed, eyes wide. He was not healed enough to bow properly, but the dwarves bowed deeply enough for both parties, and many words of gratitude were uttered on both sides. 

“I know all we’ve done thus far is scold you for it,” Daeron said to Elurín once the four of them were alone that evening, “but we are proud of you, Elurín.”

“I know.” Elurín sat on his bed, moving slowly. “At least now it’s easy to tell us apart.”

“That’s not funny,” Eluréd snapped. 

“It might be when all this is over,” said Lossenol. He sat down and put an arm around Eluréd, who just shook his head. “We’ll probably all end up with some new scars.”

“I hope we’ll all at least try to avoid them,” Daeron said, frowning at Lossenol. 

“I did try to avoid these,” said Elurín. 

“I was mostly talking to Lossë. He seems to like collecting scars like squirrels collect acorns.”

“Did the messengers out of the west share any news?” Eluréd asked. “Besides that Gil-galad is marching north?”

“No. Or if they did, Kóri didn’t hear of it.”

“We’ll be spending a lot of time west of the mountains in the coming years,” Daeron said quietly. “I think we’ll get all the news we could wish for, and then some.”

“I just want to know what happened at Sirion,” said Eluréd. “I want to know where the Fëanorians are, too—they haven’t been heard from in ages, have they?”

“Patience, Eluréd. I’m sure we’ll learn what they have been doing before long, too. But they are no threat to us—we have no Silmaril.”

“No,” said Eluréd, “but if anyone were to recognize us, would it not be them?”

“Maybe,” said Daeron. “I would be recognized, at least—I met the two eldest, many years ago. If, though it seems unlikely, we find ourselves needing to interact with them, I will speak to them and the three of you can retreat somewhere out of sight.”

“Why must Lossë hide?” Elurín asked. 

“They might recognize me, too,” said Lossenol. They hadn’t actually spoken before of what they might do if they encountered the Sons of Fëanor, but Daeron’s idea matched his own. “I still have no desire to remember or to return—but I doubt they’d look kindly on a deserter.”

“I think Maglor would listen to me, if I had to explain,” Daeron said after a moment, though he sounded unsure. “We were—well. I liked him. We were friends for the duration of the Mereth Aderthad, and at one time I hoped that that friendship would continue.” 

“You liked him?” Elurín exclaimed, aghast. 

“This was centuries before Doriath, birdie. It years before we learned of Alqualondë, too. I had no reason at the Mereth Aderthad to think ill of him except as a rival in skill—and I didn’t really care about that, anyway. But as I said, it was a long time ago. If we were to meet again now, it would be very different—but I still remember the music we made beside the Pools of Ivrin, and I would like to think that he remembers it too. But the chances of such a meeting are slim, I think. Whatever he and his brothers are doing—they will be fighting, not seeking to shelter in the mountains.”

That night, after Eluréd and Elurín were asleep, and Daeron and Lossenol were curled up in their bed—neither of them had ever ended up claiming the top bunk, not wanting to sleep alone even if it was a little more cramped than their old bed at home—Lossenol raised himself up on his elbow to peer down at Daeron. “Did you ever tell me before that you knew them? The Fëanorians?”

“Did I not?” Daeron blinked his eyes open, sleepy and half-frowning. “Oh, I suppose I never did. I’m sorry.”

“Could we have met before?”

“No.” Daeron offered a small smile. “I would have remembered your face if you had been with them at the Mereth Aderthad, I’m sure.”

“Maybe not. I might have just been—I don’t know, part of their guard escort, or…”

“I suppose it’s possible, but I did not speak to any of that party except Maedhros and Maglor. And really, not much to Maedhros. I left him to Mablung, and went and played music with Maglor instead. But I have a good memory for faces, and I had never seen yours before Finglas brought you to the flet.”

“Oh. All right, then.” Lossenol lay back down. “Did you really like them, as you said?”

“I liked Maglor.”

“Would you have let him ravish you in the middle of the night?” 

“What?”

“Or radish you, perhaps?”

Daeron laughed quietly, and shoved at his shoulder, though there wasn’t anywhere for him to go with the wall at his back. “You’re awful. But no, I had no more interest in such things then than I do now. He was just—well, we had much in common, and he was easy to talk to. I would have liked to call him a friend. You aren’t jealous, are you?”

“No, just curious.”

Daeron’s smile faded a little as he seemed to search Lossenol’s face for something. “This isn’t you trying to ask if I want—”

“No, of course not. I don’t want anything to change between us.”

“All right, good.” Daeron’s smile returned, small and relieved. “Neither do I.”

“You know everyone still thinks we’re lovers though,” Lossenol said after a moment, remembering how it had seemed to upset Daeron before—though that was years ago, now. So much had changed since then.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he said now, “but it doesn’t matter. It only bothered me before because—well, because anything Medlinel said was going to bother me, most likely. And everything was still so uncertain. Besides, I don’t think anyone here really cares. If they want to gossip to pass the time, that’s their business.”

“Things are uncertain still,” Lossenol whispered.

“Not between us.” Daeron pulled the blankets up so they were both enveloped in warm darkness. 

Before the snows arrived, more Dwarves did—large companies out of Khazad-dûm and other realms even farther east. They marched up the pass and disappeared into Nogrod and Belegost. At the same time the young and old and those unable to fight left those cities, passing away into the east. “Our cities will not survive this war,” Halli told Lossenol. “Already some of the deeper halls have collapsed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ah, it is what it is. At least we have ample warning—Mahal himself has sent messages to our wise ones—and it is a small price to pay if the Enemy is at last defeated. If the mountains survive, perhaps we can return and rebuild. If not, we will find other places—or perhaps we will simply join with Durin’s folk. Who knows? What will you do when this is all over?”

“Too soon to say,” Lossenol said. “Who knows what any of the world will look like when it’s over.” He thought, though, that he would like to venture east. He wanted to see more of the world—to wander the deep woods and climb the mountains and follow rivers from their headwaters to their mouths were they finally reached the Sea—and to see all of it with Daeron and Eluréd and Elurín. For now that was just a hazy maybe-someday dream—but it was something to hold onto, something to hope for.

They were warm enough, behind the dwarf-built walls, all that winter, but it was another harsh one, even more than the last one, as high up in the mountains as they were. Spring brought mud and rain and even more soldiers from the east—Elves and Men as well as Dwarves, now, crossing through the mountains and away west to join with Gil-galad and all the rest—and Daeron and Lossenol agreed to move to the western outposts with Eluréd and Elurín. It did not take long before orcs came down out of the north, either to assail the dwarves or to try to pass back into the west to attack the armies there from the east where they might not expect it. 

That was when the war began in earnest—with battles and skirmishes in the foothills of the Ered Luin, and missions down to the Gelion and the Ascar to intercept the orcs there. Lossenol led many of those, with Eluréd and Elurín ready with their bows and their songs. They set up ambushes and traps, fighting dirtier than the orcs and taking advantage of the cleverness of the dwarves who went with them. Daeron did not go out nearly as often, but his songs echoed over the hills, the power of his voice rolling out like waves to chase away the gathering darkness, breaking up the clouds and smoke to let the sun or the moon shine down on the lands again. The earth responded to his voice too, green grass reappearing in the spring and even flowers daring to bloom on the banks of the rivers. Word spread into the north that Daeron could be found on the eastern marches, but that only made the orcs wary—fewer dared come as far south as the Sarn Athrad, and Lossenol had to venture farther north and west to find the new paths they were making. 

Belegost and Nogrod emptied as quickly as they filled, with Dwarves marching away north, chanting battle songs, to a fight that they all declared would end far differently than the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. 

News trickled east—of victories, of setbacks, of the slow but steady progress up Sirion. Of the way the ground shook and trembled and cracked, of rivers running dry and new springs erupting out of the earth. Of Nevrast crumbling into the Sea and tides changing—swallowing up more and more land and never retreating as far back as they should. 

“It’s what I’ve been dreaming of,” said Eluréd after one such tale. “The Sea coming to swallow the world.”

“I wonder where the birds will come from,” Elurín said. “I still dream of them.”

“Eagles are Manwë’s servants,” said Lossenol. “We’ve seen plenty of those.”

“I do not only dream of eagles,” said Elurín. “I dream of—of sea birds? Or at least birds that fly over the waves. I recognize the gulls from some of Daeron’s songs, but not all of the others.”

Around and under them the ground trembled. Eluréd reached for Elurín. Daeron pressed his palms flat against the floor, closing his eyes. “It’s all right,” he said after a moment. But as he spoke an enormous crack of thunder sounded outside, almost deafening. Eluréd cried out, and Elurín wrapped his arms around him tightly. Lossenol reached for Daeron, whose eyes had gone wide. The thunder was followed by the howling of winds, audible even as deep in the keep as they were. 

“Well,” Lossenol said after a minute, “I don’t think any birds will be doing anything tonight.”

“Probably not,” Daeron agreed as the twins both laughed, a little helplessly, a little breathlessly. 

A few days later the first of the refugees from Sirion arrived. Lossenol avoided them when they passed through the keep, and only heard the tales they brought with them from Daeron later—which were lacking in much detail, for it seemed no one wanted to speak of it if they didn’t have to. “It was the Sons of Fëanor who attacked Sirion,” he told them, keeping his voice low. “Eärendil, the Lord of the Havens, and Elwing’s husband, was away at sea, and she would not treat with them in his absence. They chose not to wait until he returned.” 

“What happened to her?” Eluréd whispered. 

“From what I have been told, it was all confusion and chaos—the Fëanorians’ own forces turned on them, and many died on both sides. Amrod and Amras fell there.” Daeron glanced at Lossenol, who remained silent. That same feeling returned that he remembered from when they’d learned that Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin had died in Menegroth, a horrible and helpless feeling of rage tied up with grief that he didn’t fully understand. “Elwing, it is said, cast herself into the Sea with the Nauglamír.”

“So she is dead,” Eluréd said, voice flat and dull. 

“I don’t think so,” said Daeron. “The stories are confused, and have passed through many mouths before I heard them today. Whether she was really transformed into a great white bird, I cannot say—though Elurín’s dreams incline me to believe it—but what is certain is that somehow she carried the Silmaril to Eärendil at sea, and together they pierced the enchantments of the Valar and brought the Silmaril and their plea for help to the feet of Manwë himself. All that is happening now—it is because of Elwing and Eärendil.”

“But who is Eärendil?” Elurín asked. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

“But we have heard of him,” said Daeron as he came to sit beside Lossenol. “Remember the year that Hendaras and Elenel came to us—the year Nellas found us? That was the year we heard of the fall of Gondolin, and the coming of another halfelven child to the Havens of Sirion. I think that child was Eärendil, son of Idril of the Noldor, and a son of the House of Hador.”

“That does not feel like mere chance,” Lossenol said, finally finding his voice, forcing himself to think past the words Amrod and Amras fell there. 

“No more than was all our coming to Ossiriand,” said Daeron. He covered Lossenol’s hand with his.

“Where are they now—whoever remains of the Fëanorians, I mean?” Elurín asked. 

“I don’t know. Someone has a stronghold somewhere in the Amdram, though not Amon Ereb. Their numbers must now be too few for that. All I can say for certain is that neither Maglor nor Maedhros fell at Sirion.”

“Pity,” Elurín said.

“Elurín.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“We may be thankful before the end that they still live,” Daeron said. “The Silmaril is out of anyone’s reach, now, and they will turn their attention and their blades back toward the north—”

“Where they should have been turned all along—”

“I don’t disagree, Elurín. I will even say that they have done the Enemy’s work for him—but I do not believe that is what they thought they were binding themselves to when they swore the Oath, or that they wanted to act as they did either in Doriath or at Sirion. The Oath was an act of terrible and careless cruelty, both to those who swore it and to those they have slain in its pursuit, and those who have followed them.”

“You sound as though you feel sorry for them.”

“I do,” Daeron said simply. “None of us are only the worst things we have done, Elurín, and all this division and hatred serves only Angband in the end.”

“So if they arrived here tomorrow—”

“I’m not saying that I wish to join with them or even seek their friendship—but I will not hate them. Nor am I saying it is easy. Of course it isn’t. But it is the choice I have made and will continue to make—I will not let hatred rule me. I would counsel you the same, Elurín. It is poison and in the end it only hurts you.”

“Come on,” Eluréd said, rising and taking hold of Elurín’s hand. “Let’s go hit some things in the practice yard.”

“You really believe all that?” Lossenol asked when they were alone. 

“Yes,” said Daeron. “Though that likely won’t stop me from trying to break Maglor’s nose if he turns up here any time soon. Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. I don’t—I shouldn’t—”

“Lossë. You can mourn them.” Daeron brushed his hair from his eyes, hand lingering on his face. His own eyes were dark and sad. “They were your friends, your family—your people.”

“But I don’t remember them, I don’t even know who I’m grieving—”

“Your heart remembers. They were not always what they’ve become, either Fëanor’s sons or those who have followed them—you can grieve for that, and for those who have died, and for what you have lost, even if you don’t want it back. It’s no betrayal of us.”

“If I do I think it will just kill me.”

“I won’t let it,” Daeron said softly. “Just as you haven’t let my grief kill me. If you don’t want Eluréd or Elurín to see, that’s fine. But you don’t have to hide from me.” 

His eyes burned, and he leaned over to hide his face in Daeron’s shoulder. “You say it’s not a betrayal but it feels like one,” he whispered. “After what they did—what I did—”

“I know,” Daeron said, “but it isn’t. I promise, it isn’t.”

He still swallowed it all down, locked it away as best he could, and tried to put it out of his mind. Whatever Daeron said, Eluréd and Elurín would not see it the same way, and they deserved better than his misplaced grief. 

After some years Nellas arrived unexpectedly, having gotten tired of waiting and worrying. “There must be something I can do,” she said as she embraced each of them in turn. “It’s so horrible, sitting idle while people you know are putting themselves in danger.”

“We’re safe enough here,” said Eluréd. “How are our other friends?”

“They’ve removed farther east, past the crossroads—where the road splits east and south, you know. There is a town there already, though it’s growing swiftly. Many who have fled Beleriand are settling there. Everyone is fine, though even there we can feel the tremors—” Nellas broke off with a cry as the ground lurched beneath their feet. Lossenol grabbed Eluréd and Daeron as dust rained down on them; Elurín grabbed Eluréd’s other arm and Nellas, and they stumbled out away from the walls just before a few large stones came crashing down just where they had been standing. Other cries of alarm went up, as everyone ran for safety. The earth stopped shaking, but for several minutes they all waited, fearing a landslide from above, or an avalanche—for it was still early in the year and there was much snow on the slopes above them. 

Finally, one of the dwarves announced that it was safe, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. “You can let go, Atya,” said Eluréd. 

“Sorry.” Lossenol let go, realizing only then that he was holding on tight enough to hurt. He loosened his grip on Daeron, too, but Daeron did not let go of him. They were all shaking a little. “Everyone all right?”

“Yes,” the twins chorused.

“Yes,” Nellas echoed a second later, white-faced. “Does—does that happen often?”

“Yes,” said Daeron, “but not usually that strong.”

“It’s happening more and more often, though,” said Eluréd. “And—you can see the Sea if you climb up the mountains a little.”

Daeron lifted his head from Lossenol’s shoulder. “Can you?”

“I think so. There’s something there—not just the hills or plains. It shines, if there’s sunlight to reach it.”

Halli came jogging over to them. “Lossenol, scouts just returned,” he said, “there’s a party coming to the Gelion—a large one, and orcs coming up behind and from the north.”

Lossenol cursed and released Daeron. “Birdies, your bows.”

“Can I help?” Nellas asked. 

“When they get here, they’ll need friendly faces,” Daeron said. 

“Daeron, you should come with us,” Eluréd said suddenly. “I think—I think we’ll need your songs.”

Daeron blinked at him, and then nodded. “All right.”

“Bring your staff, Daeron,” said Lossenol. 

“I know, Lossë. Give me five minutes.”

They went on horseback, charging down the road. Dwarves on ponies went with them, a large company armed with swords and axes and bows. Now was not the time for stealth. Behind them came others with wagons and carts, with extra supplies and other things those fleeing the war might need before they could get to the mountains. It took several days to reach the Sarn Athrad, and they arrived just as the company of refugees—mostly mortal women and children, some elderly, accompanied by some soldiers, Men and Elves, but too few to fight off the orcs behind them—reached the far shore. On their heels came the orcs. “Archers!” Lossenol called out, drawing his own bow. At his left Elurín put an arrow to the string of his dragon horn bow. Lossenol watched the last of the wagons and the orcs behind them. Thick clouds had gathered, blocking the sun. “Fire!” he cried, and their arrows arced up and over the river, striking the ground and the first line of orcs. They fired several more rounds before the dwarves charged across the river, battle cries filling the air and drowning out the harsher voices of the enemy. 

Then another cry went up from the south, a loud voice that shivered through the air, and a small but swift cavalry thundered up the plains to crash into the orcs’ flank with a great clash of swords and loud cries and battle-songs. Their banners were bright red, emblazoned with a silver eight pointed star. Lossenol knew that star, and his heart rose at the sight of it—and at the sight of the one at the head of the charge, one-handed but fierce, Maedhros Fëanorion himself. His was not the voice that echoed, but his sword flashed in the dim light, and there was no stopping him or his company. 

The refugees hurried across the river, but their wagons could only go so quickly. Nellas joined those who waded into the water to help, and Lossenol rode closer to the bank, keeping his bow out. He couldn’t join the battle on the other side of the river, but he could pick off those orcs who escaped it and sought to chase after the women and children still struggling through the water. Elurín dismounted to help as well. “Leave it,” Lossenol called to someone struggling to get a wagon unstuck. “If you cannot carry it, leave it!”

“But the food—”

“We have food,” Elurín called to them. “I promise, you won’t go without, and we have wagons waiting for you up the road! But none of it will matter if you do not reach them!”

Something shifted in the air, then. Lossenol looked up, across the river at the battle still ongoing. Something was different just beyond the orcs, coming up behind them—a shadow. A wave of heat rolled ahead of it; steam curled up from the river to drift through the reeds. Crows had been gathering and now they fled over the river in a cacophony of wings and hoarse cries. “Lossë!” Daeron called from somewhere behind him. He sounded frightened.

He should be frightened. “Balrog!” Lossenol shouted, as loud as he could. He was no singer like Daeron or the twins, but Daeron had taught him much and his voice was suited to the battlefield. “A balrog!” he cried again, pitching his voice so it would reach anyone who needed to hear it—Elves or Dwarves or Men.

Across the river Maedhros twisted suddenly in his saddle—not toward the balrog but toward the river. What was he doing?

“Elurín,” Lossenol said, tearing his gaze from the battle. “We need light—”

Elurín immediately scrambled up onto the bank and lifted his voice, chanting words of wind and sunshine, of cool breezes off the snowcapped mountains. A moment later Eluréd, farther back, joined him. A wind swept down from the mountains at their backs, bringing a welcome chill, dispersing the mists still rising from the river and rushing over the battlefield. The dwarves renewed their battle cries, and the mighty battle-singer of the Fëanorians joined his voice to theirs as well. 

The balrog reared up, igniting—no longer a creature of shadow and heat but now of flame as well. Its whip snapped through the air and ignited dry grasses. The dwarves were driven back, but Maedhros rallied both them and his own soldiers. But he seemed distracted, and one of the orcs crept around behind him, unseen until just a moment too late. Lossenol fired an arrow and it flew true, striking the orc just before Maedhros turned to see the danger.

Then Daeron’s voice rose up, even louder than Lossenol’s, cutting through the din of battle to cry, “The Sea! The Sea is rising! Fall back—back across the river! Run!”