A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Twenty Two

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As Daeron lifted a child into one of the waiting carts, he heard someone call his name. It was a familiar voice, but he couldn’t place it until he turned and found himself face to face with Oropher of Doriath, looking worn down and battered, though still armed and hale enough to have been sent as a guard for the rest of the refugees. “Daeron, is that really you?” Oropher asked, staring at him in shock. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping,” Daeron said, gesturing at the carts and the other women and children hurrying up the road. Across the river the Fëanorian forces had joined with the dwarves to battle a balrog that had arisen. Daeron kept glancing toward it, half-afraid that Elurín or Lossenol would attempt to cross the river to join the fight.

“We thought you were lost, that you’d passed into the east never to return,” Oropher said. 

“Surely you have heard more news of me lately. I haven’t been hiding.” Daeron picked up another child to lift into the cart, and then helped her mother up after her. “Now all of us must pass into the—” The ground lurched under their feet. Many cried out in alarm. 

“Daeron!” Eluréd gasped, and pointed north and west. Daeron and Oropher both turned to follow his gaze. “What is that?”

“Thangorodrim,” Oropher said, as an enormous plum of smoke erupted over the horizon. There were other things moving in it, though, birdlike but enormous, to be seen at such a distance. Tiny pinpricks of light could be seen sparking in the smoke, like—

“Dragons,” Daeron whispered. “Dragons on wings.”

“Look!” someone else cried out, and they all watched as the evening star, appearing suddenly in the middle of the day, descended—falling straight toward the plume of smoke. 

Then the ground shook again. Daeron looked back west, and his stomach dropped. “Go,” he said. “Go, go—hurry!”

“Daeron—” Oropher began.

“Run, Oropher, get everyone moving!” Daeron pushed past him and shouted as loud as he could, hoping his voice would reach even the heart of the battle across the river, “The Sea! The Sea is rising! Fall back—back across the river! Run!” It was the dream he’d been having on and off for years, a great wave rising over the land, poised to drown all the world. 

His voice did reach them. He heard Maglor’s voice ring out with the same warning, and the Dwarves and the Fëanorians broke and fled. Lossenol and Elurín remained at the riverbank with the other Dwarven archers, firing arrow after arrow at the orcs and at the balrog, who had also realized the danger. Daeron remained where he was as everyone else ran back east, following the road toward the mountains. The earth continued to tremble beneath them, and he feared they would find little safety there, either. They were caught between crumbling mountains and the rising Sea as the wrath of the Valar finally reached a crescendo. He could feel it—taste it in the air, hear it on the wind that howled down from the north. See it in the way the Gelion was drying up—

Wait. The Gelion was drying up?

“Daeron!” Eluréd had seen it too, and when they looked north, upstream, they saw why. A great rift was opening, splitting Beleriand apart, and it was heading their way—following the line of the river. “Lossë!” Eluréd cried out. When Lossenol turned he pointed northward. “Get away from the river!”

“Hurry!” Elurín shouted, and hauled Nellas up into the saddle behind him, as the Dwarves and Elves behind them splashed through the quickly draining water. “Run, run, go go go!”

“South!” someone called out. “Go south—orcs in the north!” Dwarves were racing down the road from the mountains, too, warning them not to go east. Daeron could see plumes of dust rising up from landslides and avalanches. 

Surely the Valar had not forgotten them—surely they still remembered why they were waging this war. Surely they would not allow them all to just be swallowed by the breaking world? Daeron grabbed Eluréd’s hand and they fled into the trees south of the road, following the others, abandoning the carts and wagons. The horses and ponies were cut loose, already panicking and refusing to listen to anything. If the Fëanorians made it across the Gelion, Daeron did not see it. He lost track of Oropher, too, in the chaos, but he cared less about him than about Elurín and Nellas and Lossenol. 

“Eluréd!” Elurín found them first, and Nellas and Lossenol came through a thicket on his heels, on foot now as well. 

“Elurín!” Eluréd threw his arms around him as they all stopped to catch their breath.

“Are you all right?” Daeron asked, reaching for Lossenol, who wrapped his arms tight around him. 

“Yes.”

“Nellas?”

“I’m fine. But the orcs—”

“We need to keep moving.”

“No splitting up this time!” Eluréd added.

“What about all the others?” Nellas asked. 

“I think—” Daeron cut off as an arrow flew past, thudding into a tree just above Eluréd’s head. All of a sudden he remembered just how close they were to the River Ascar—to the place where the orcs had caught up to them years before. “Run!”

They ran, Elurín taking the lead, choosing a direction more or less at random. Lossenol fell back to the rear. Daeron stumbled when the ground lurched under their feet again, and then something hit him from the side, heavy and hard, sending him tumbling down a slope that he could have sworn wasn’t there just a moment before. “Daeron!” someone screamed.

Sharp stones scraped up his arms and sides as they rolled down the hill. When they hit level ground Daeron twisted and kicked, and heard a familiar voice in the oof his attacker let out as he rolled away. The breath had been knocked out of his own lungs, and he lay gasping, trying to fill them so he could speak, or sing, or—anything—

He rolled over to try to get to his feet, but that weight slammed into him again from behind, and this time a cord was flung around his neck, tightening sharply and painfully, cutting off both his voice and his breathing. He clawed at it, rearing back, desperate for air. The back of his head hit something hard, and he heard a curse. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes; he felt something wet under his fingers as the cord bit into his skin. 

For so long he’d been waiting for death to find him, but he hadn’t thought it would come like this. 

Then all at once the pressure released, and Daeron fell forward into the dirt. He sucked in a breath, throat burning, and turned to find Nellas wrestling with Menelas. A blade flashed, and he lunged forward, grabbing for it before either of them could be hurt. He had to pry it out of Menelas’ fingers, trying to ignore the curses spilling out of his lips, all in the harsh tongue of Angband. “Menelas, it’s us!” Nellas cried. “You don’t want to do this! Stop it!”

Finally, Daeron got the knife, and he threw it away out of reach. Then he used his own weight to press Menelas into the ground so he couldn’t move, and grabbed his face, turning it so their eyes met. “Menelas,” he said, hearing his voice rasp and feeling the burn of the words in his throat but pressing on anyway. “Hear me!” He spoke the words he’d devised years before, throwing all he had against the bindings and the enchantments of Morgoth that lay over Menelas, who cried out and struggled even harder—but he was the one now at the end of his strength, battered and gaunt and sporting scars that had not been there when Daeron had last seen him. 

Morgoth’s bindings were strong, but Daeron’s desperation was stronger. He spoke the words again and he could see the moment it all broke apart, saw the flood of horror and fear come into Menelas’ eyes as he cried out, even as he went limp under their hands. Blood trickled from his nose as his head lolled in the dirt. “Menelas?” Nellas whispered into the sudden silence. 

“Nellas,” he breathed. Daeron released his arm, and he reached for Nellas, trembling fingers brushing over her cheek. “Baby cousin, you…”

“I’m here. I’m right here. It’s all right now.” Nellas took his face in her hands and wiped away the tears that had started to fall. “It’s going to be all right.”

“No, I…I can’t…” Menelas looked from Nellas to Daeron. “Daeron—”

“Shh. It’s all right.” Daeron shifted so he wasn’t on top of Menelas any longer. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I know it hurts—there wasn’t another way to free you.”

“I tried to—”

“It wasn’t you.”

Menelas took a breath, shudders wracking his body. He was so thin, Daeron could feel his bones under his hands. “I can’t—Daeron, I can’t—”

“I know.” He hadn’t really expected anyone to survive that kind of assault, not after so many years of binding and torment. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “You can let go.”

“We love you,” Nellas said, and bent down to kiss his forehead. “We love you so much.”

“Nothing will stop you from seeking the Halls now,” Daeron said. “You’re free.”

“Daeron,” Menelas whispered. “Daeron, he—not Bauglir, but his—Gorthaur. He seeks you. And—the twins. Your boys. Elwing’s boys. He seeks them. He hates them, all Lúthien’s children. You have to—”

“The war is nearly won, Menelas, he won’t—”

“He’s not there, not in Angband, he’s—he’s too clever to be caught. You have to—” Menelas choked on the words and on tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—I love you—I’m sorry—”

“It’s all right,” Daeron said. “It wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry about the boys. I’ll keep them safe.”

“I’m sorry,” Menelas whispered. Daeron could see his spirit losing the fight to keep holding onto life.

“Go to your rest,” Nellas said, stroking his hair.

“Maybe—maybe someday—we’ll meet again.” The words were hardly audible as his strength failed. “In the wild woods of the west…”

“Someday,” Daeron said. “It will be a joyous meeting, beyond all fear and pain.”

Menelas released a soft sigh, and died. 

Daeron sat back on his heels. Nellas gently closed Menelas’ eyes, and also straightened, tears falling freely down her face. They looked at one another, but said nothing. There wasn’t anything left to say. 

“Daeron!” Eluréd and Elurín scrambled down the slope. Lossenol was right behind them; they looked like they had been caught in a fight of their own. “Nellas—are you hurt? Are you all right?”

Nellas looked at Daeron, and her eyes went wide. “Daeron, your neck—”

“It’s—” His voice rasped out, and he lifted a hand to his neck, where blood was drying, sticky and uncomfortable. It hurt, now that he could spare a moment to really notice. “I’m—”

“We have to go,” said Elurín as he reached them. 

“But we can’t just leave—” Nellas began. 

“I’m sorry, Nellas,” said Lossenol as he joined them. He and Eluréd both lifted Daeron to his feet, as Elurín pulled up Nellas. “There’s no time to do anything for him.”

Daeron looked down at Menelas, who might have been peacefully asleep if he weren’t so terribly still. “He would understand,” he said, unable to do more than whisper. His throat hurt fiercely, and all of him ached. 

Nellas knelt down to kiss Menelas’ forehead one more time, before wrapping the remnants of this tattered cloak more tightly around him. She whispered something, but Daeron did not hear it. Then she rose and turned away, covering her face with one hand and reaching for Elurín with the other. Lossenol looked Daeron up and down, and then lifted him up in his arms. Daeron tried to protest, but then they were all moving, and he couldn’t do anything except wrap his arms around Lossenol’s neck, hiding his face in the folds of his cloak. 

He lost track of time as the pain of his own injuries and the worse pain of grief rose up to swallow him whole. Daeron roused himself with difficulty when Lossenol finally came to a halt, and set him down in the leaves. It was getting dark, and the sounds of fighting that had followed them were growing faint. Somewhere in the distance Daeron heard the echo of Maglor’s voice, unmistakable, but it was fading into the distance rather than getting closer. Even more distantly, he thought he heard the roar of water. But where they were, at least, the ground did not shake, and all was quiet. “Let me see,” Lossenol said softly, kneeling in front of him and taking his face in his hands so he could tilt his head back, looking at his neck. He hissed a quiet curse. “That nearly killed you, Daeron.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“No, don’t speak.” Lossenol kissed his forehead and then grabbed a water skin, using his hand to wipe away the worst of the blood. “We don’t have any bandages, so it’s just as well that the bleeding stopped.”

“We don’t have any supplies,” said Eluréd, coming to wrap his arms very carefully around Daeron. “Are you all right, Ada?” Daeron leaned against him, unable to speak to either tell the truth or to try to be reassuring. His throat burned and the skin on his neck stung, and every other part of him felt battered—not as bad as when the orcs had taken and beaten him, but not much better either. 

And Menelas was dead. He was free—he was no longer in pain, and Daeron truly did believe all the things that Melian had taught them, that there was healing to be found in the Halls of Mandos. But he would never again walk under the stars in Middle-earth, and in spite of their parting words, Daeron did not believe he would ever set foot on the far green shores of Valinor. They were sundered forever. 

“Daeron.” Lossenol rested a hand on the back of his head. “You are not going to follow him.” 

“Of course not,” Eluréd said fiercely, tightening his arms around him.

“No,” Daeron whispered, though he wasn’t sure that was a promise he could truly make. Not when the whole world was breaking apart around them and they might all find themselves in Mandos, one way or another.

He hadn’t expected such a confrontation to end any other way—but he had hoped, in a small and secret part of his heart, that he would be able to free Menelas and that they might both live to see the next dawn, that he might get to both find and keep his oldest friend. It was a fool’s hope, and he had known it, but losing it still felt like a terrible blow.

Eluréd started to hum, and before long Elurín joined them. They almost never sang songs of power without each other, and Daeron could feel it wrap around him like a blanket, soothing the aches in his muscles and bringing with it real and restful sleep. 

When he woke it was to the earth shuddering underneath them. “We’re safe for now,” Lossenol said. Daeron found that he was curled up more or less in Lossenol’s lap, like a child. Eluréd and Elurín were beside them, and Nellas tucked between them, all three asleep. “It’s been doing that for the last few hours,” Lossenol added, keeping his voice low. 

“Do you know where we are?” Daeron whispered.

“Not really. Somewhere south of the Ascar, I think. Or where the Ascar used to be.”

“Lossë…I’m afraid.”

“Me too.” Lossenol tightened his arms around him and turned his face into Daeron’s hair. “I’m sorry we had to leave Menelas.”

“Burials are for the living. The dead don’t care.”

“I’m still sorry. He deserved better. And so did you.”

Eventually the sun rose, and Nellas and the twins stirred. They had no food, but they passed around the water skins, and then Nellas said, voice almost steady, “Menelas spoke of Gorthaur, before he died. He is looking for—for Elwing’s children, he said.”

“Elwing had children?” Elurín said after a moment. 

“It seems so,” said Nellas. “Perhaps even twin sons, since he mistook you for them.”

“How did we never hear of them?” Eluréd asked.

“If they disappeared after Sirion, as you disappeared after Doriath,” Nellas said slowly, “perhaps no one knows what has become of them. But they must live, if Gorthaur is searching for them.”

“Oropher was with those who crossed the river,” Daeron said. His voice rasped and Elurín glared at him, but he ignored that. “He might know. If we can find him.”

“We need to go north again in any case,” said Lossenol. “That’s the only way across the mountains—I think if we try to go south around them we’ll just run into the Sea.”

“Let’s hope the passes are still open, then,” sighed Elurín. “But Ada, you shouldn’t speak anymore.” Daeron nodded, and turned his face back into Lossenol’s chest. He was tired and his heart ached and he didn’t want to speak much, in any case. He just wanted to go home—only Doriath was drowned and the forest in Eriador was long ago burned and overgrown. The others spoke around him, discussing routes and the potential dangers, and the issue of food. There was little to forage and nothing at all to hunt. 

As the light grew brighter, they roused themselves, and Lossenol kept his arm around Daeron as they started making their way north. Eluréd and Elurín took turns venturing ahead, scouting paths and making sure there were no enemies lying in wait. Nellas stayed close to Lossenol and Daeron, but kept her own bow at the ready. It was slow going; they were in hill country, sparsely wooded after years of intermittent darkness and fires and fighting, but with patches of thick undergrowth. They had moved quickly when fleeing south, and had covered more distance than Daeron had thought—but then, maybe the land was just changing too rapidly. Little of the lands they passed through looked familiar to him. 

Finally, the trees fell away and they could see the road ahead, past the now-trickling remnants of the River Ascar—and the abandoned carts and wagons. There were no bodies, except some orcs, and Daeron took that as a hopeful sign. “The passes look clear,” said Eluréd once they were on the road and able to see. “I think I see movement there.” He pointed toward the mountains. 

“We’re still days away, though,” said Elurín, “and Daeron won’t make it without food and proper rest.”

“I’m fine,” Daeron said, and found himself caught by Lossenol when he swayed. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Lossenol said.

“I can go ahead, and see if there’s anyone coming back this way,” said Nellas.

“No!” the twins said together. “No splitting up!” Eluréd said, grabbing for Elurín as though he might get the same idea. 

“We’ll check the carts,” Elurín said. “There might be something left behind there.” He and Eluréd each went to a different wagon, and both returned with satchels, and packets of dried food and one or two extra water skins. It was meager, but it was better than nothing.

Then Elurín turned to face west, and his eyes went wide. “Oh,” he breathed. Daeron turned to follow his gaze, and gasped. The Sea stretched out before them, vast and roiling, grey under the overcast sky. The shore was where the Gelion should have been, the edge of the land broken and jagged. In the distance, in the north, Daeron saw strange and grey shapes—land, mountains perhaps that had survived the deluge. “What of the armies of the west?” Nellas whispered. “What of all who marched north?”

“Surely the Valar would have kept them safe,” said Eluréd, though he sounded doubtful. 

“We’ll find out sooner or later,” said Lossenol. “For now we need to—” The ground shook under them again, but this time it was different. Daeron looked toward the mountains and watched them start to break apart and sink into the earth—just where the road led into the pass. 

“Lossë—”

“Daeron!” Eluréd grabbed him and pulled as Lossenol grabbed Nellas and Elurín to pull them away in the opposite direction, just as a fissure began to open under their feet. The ground split open between them—and then continued to widen as the earth trembled and shook, stones screaming as they ground against one another. 

“Get back, get back!” Lossenol yanked on Elurín’s arm. 

“Eluréd!” Elurín screamed, trying to reach across the opening. 

“Run!” Daeron cried, grabbing Eluréd’s hand. “Get back—”

“Elurín!” Eluréd stumbled backward. “Atya!”

“Get back!” Lossenol shouted at them as he practically picked Elurín up to haul him away. “We’ll find you! Get somewhere safe! Go!” His last word rolled out as a command, and Daeron found his feet moving before his mind could catch up. He and Eluréd fled, and when he looked back he saw the Sea flooding into the ever-widening opening, thundering waves rushing toward the mountains, the tides rising up to swallow all the world.