A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Twenty Three

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“Elurín, come on!” Lossenol hauled him back from the ever-widening fissure. A glance west showed him the Sea rushing in to fill it up. “We’ll find them—but we can’t do it if we drown first!”

Finally, Elurín stopped fighting him and the three of them were able to flee, racing back south toward the trees, and east away from the water. Lossenol saw other figures emerging from them, and called out, “Run! Get back!” He wasn’t sure they could hear him, though, over the roar of the Sea and the groaning of the earth as it broke and split. The mountains crumbled and crashed down in the east, and under their feet the earth heaved and shuddered. Nellas tripped with a cry, and Lossenol wasted no time in scooping her up into his arms. 

It felt like the whole world was breaking apart around them—like there would be nothing left when it was done, and no matter how far or how fast they ran they were doomed to be taken by the Sea as it swallowed everything. 

They ran until they couldn’t run anymore, and by then the worst of the shaking seemed to have stopped. Lossenol had no idea how far south they’d gone or how wide the new chasm had grown. More than a chasm, Lossenol thought as he collapsed, trying to catch his breath. Elurín and Nellas panted on either side of him. They’d just seen a new gulf open up—or a bay, or some sort of channel. He wondered if it reached to the mountains—or past the mountains. Lossenol looked up, and glimpsed the Ered Luin still rising up in front of them. Not all of the mountains had fallen, at least. 

When they could breathe enough to speak, Nellas asked, “What do we do now?”

“This minute, we rest as long as we can.” Lossenol pushed himself to sit up, but didn’t try to stand. “Then we try to find a way back north.”

“What if we can’t?” Elurín asked. “What if—what if the whole world just—”

“Then we find a boat, or we build one, or something.” Lossenol reached out to pull Elurín against his side. “We’re going to find them.”

Something crashed through the brush—out of sight but too close for comfort. Before they could find Daeron and Eluréd, they had to survive the rest of the day. Lossenol looked around, and staggered to his feet. “We need shelter. Somewhere hidden. Elurín, can you sing the shadows…?”

“Yes.” Elurín rose, and helped Nellas up. “There—those trees, we can hide by their roots.”

There was a small hollow at the base of a stand of trees. Lossenol wasn’t confident that they would be able to stay the whole night, but the trees were sturdy and their roots ran deep. He sank to the ground, and wrapped one arm around Nellas and the other around Elurín. They shared a little of the food they had found, and then Elurín sang very quiet songs of protection and hiding. It was still the middle of the afternoon, but the sky overhead was dark with clouds, and the wind sweeping down out of the north was cold—and smelled of saltwater. 

Others were moving through the woods, though none came close to their hiding place. It was hard to say whether they were friend or foe, and Lossenol did not care to try to find out. “Are either of you hurt?” he asked after a little while.

“No,” said Nellas.

“I don’t think so,” sighed Elurín. 

Of all of them, Daeron had been the worst hurt—and left defenseless, without weapons or even his voice with the injuries to his throat. And after all those discussions of not splitting up, here they were. Lossenol kept replaying those few seconds in his mind, wondering why he hadn’t grabbed Daeron or Eluréd, wondering why they had gone one way and he and Elurín and Nellas had gone the other. If there had been time for them to jump across the split before it got too wide. 

It had all just happened so fast. 

“We need to remember what Menelas said,” Nellas said after a while. “Of Gorthaur. If he is out there—we need to be careful.”

“I’m not scared of him,” Elurín said. “If he tries to come between us and Daeron and Eluréd, I’ll—”

“I meant that we should try to avoid him,” Nellas said. “Don’t forget all that he has done, Elurín.”

“I haven’t. I haven’t forgotten what Lúthien did—”

“You are not Lúthien,” Nellas said. “And even she did not face him alone.”

“No one’s facing Gorthaur,” said Lossenol. “Nor any balrogs, nor dragons—especially not alone. We need to hide, Elurín. When everything stops shaking we’ll head back and see if we can get across the mountains, and then find our way north from there. If we see any enemies, we hide first, and fight only if we absolutely have to. We can’t get to Eluréd and Daeron if we’re dead.” Elurín didn’t answer, just turned and hid his face in Lossenol’s chest. Lossenol kissed the top of his head and held him tight.

They took turns sleeping and keeping watch. Lossenol did not find much rest. By the time the next day dawned—pale and dim, and with the promise of rain on the wind—all three of them were stiff and sore and still tired. They got up anyway, ate a little, and started making their way north and east. They paused often, and Nellas sometimes climbed trees to see what she could see—which was little enough. Halfway through the morning it started to rain—driving, freezing rain that pelted them and drove them into the shelter of a jagged outcropping that Lossenol would have sworn was not there the day before. 

Less than an hour after they reached that shelter, Lossenol felt that shift in the air—that heat, that wrongness. “Oh no,” he breathed. “I thought it drowned…”

“What do we do?” Elurín whispered.

“Hope it passes us by.” Lossenol pushed Nellas and then Elurín behind a large stone, and loosened his sword in its sheath as he stepped after them. He wouldn't stand a chance alone against a balrog, but if it found them…

He saw it through the rain, moving through an open space in the trees down the slope from them. It was smoking and steaming, flickering with flames even in the heavy rain. Lossenol gripped his sword—and then let go when the Fëanorian cavalry charged through the trees, crying out loudly and swiftly surrounding the balrog. Their bows sang, and Maedhros’ sword flashed. The balrog turned to flee, and they all soon passed out of both sight and hearing. Lossenol breathed a sigh. 

“Who was that?” asked Elurín after a moment. “I couldn’t see.”

“Fëanorians. Daeron said we might be glad that some of them still lived.” Lossenol glanced over his shoulder, but Elurín had turned away. “I want to avoid them as much as you do, birdie. But I’m glad they’re the ones chasing down balrogs, not us.”

“I would very much like to never see another balrog again,” Nellas said fervently.

They stayed put the rest of that day and the next, resting and waiting for the rain to pass, huddled under shared cloaks to try to stay as warm as possible. Nellas, smaller than either Lossenol or Elurín, fared the worst, and couldn’t stop shivering. Finally, the skies cleared, and they were able to make their way north—only to find the way blocked by the Sea. Or at least part of it—a new bay had opened up, and when Lossenol followed its course from west to east he saw that even more mountains had crumbled than he’d thought, vanishing beneath the new waves, and the water had flowed far past them, replacing the passes, miles wide. Elurín looked, and breathed a few curses. “Now what?”

“We follow the water east,” said Lossenol. “There’s miles between it and the mountains now, see? So it should be easy enough. It’s got to end sometime. We’ll go around and then find Eluréd and Daeron. Bet you anything they’ll have had the same idea.”

“If the whole world doesn’t split apart again while we’re between the mountains and the Sea,” Nellas said. 

“It’s that or we try to swim,” Lossenol said, gesturing at the water. It was choppy and turbulent, foaming as it splashed up against the newly broken shoreline. “I’d rather take my chances on land.” They had to find Eluréd and Daeron—the sooner the better. Lossenol wasn’t as worried about Eluréd—he was young and strong and mostly unhurt—but Daeron was weakened and wounded. “If we’re all lucky, we’ll find friends on both sides of this. Do either of you know what happened to Kóri?”

“No,” said Elurín as Nellas shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to anyone.”

“Keep your eyes open,” said Lossenol. “We need to move quickly, but we can’t be careless. Elurín, keep to my left?”

“Of course, Atya.”

They started walking again, keeping the shore in sight but not daring to get too close. Lossenol looked west a few times, unsure if he was really seeing sails on the horizon or if he only imagined it. It was very quiet, except for the rush of the water and, after a while, the cries of gulls and other sea birds. Elurín stopped once to watch as a large flock of them swooped past. “Your dreams?” Lossenol asked him. 

“I don’t know. Maybe. I think…I think what I dreamed of—we weren’t there to see it come to pass. I wish we knew what was happening.”

“Me too.” 

The days dragged on. They drew nearer the mountains, and found things less stable there. Stones and boulders slid down the new slopes, and the land between the base of the mountains and the new waterway was littered with debris, stones and broken trees, jagged and treacherous. There was precious little freshwater to be found, and nothing at all even to forage. They saw no sign of anyone else as they went, carefully picking their way. Sometimes Elurín ventured closer to the water’s edge, trying to see what lay on the other side, but the days were filled with fogs and mists, swirling oddly and turning boulders into enemies, and making sounds echo oddly. 

Nellas tripped and fell with a cry, and then couldn’t put weight on her ankle. Lossenol hoisted her onto his back, but his bad shoulder ached, and not having his hands free made him even more nervous than he had been before. Nellas was careful of his shoulder, but every time they heard some strange noise through the mist her arms tightened around him. He tried to think of something reassuring to say, but most days none of them spoke at all—and he was tired enough that his head ached more often than it didn’t, and speaking grew sometimes difficult. 

The orcs caught them in the shadows of the Ered Luin. Elurín had ventured ahead, and Lossenol heard him cry out a warning two seconds before an orc leaped from a boulder toward him. He dropped Nellas, who rolled out of the way as he drew his sword, meeting the orc’s blade just in time. Others melted out of the mists, and before long he was unable to keep track of Nellas at all. It was just instinct and movement and a desperate need to get out of the fight alive. 

Then a Dwarvish battle cry rang out, and he was joined by a dozen Dwarves all armed with axes and swords that flashed in the pale light. The orcs scattered, pursued by the Dwarves, and Lossenol fell back against a stone, trying to catch his breath. “Pínamrent?” he called. 

“Here!” Elurín scrambled around some other boulders, unhurt. “Where’s Nellas?”

“Here.” Nellas pulled herself out of a small crevice. “Are they gone?”

“Think so.” Lossenol sheathed his sword and tried not to imagine what Eluréd and Daeron were navigating.

The Dwarves soon returned. “Where are you trying to go?” one of them asked, looking the three of them up and down. “It’s dangerous here by the mountains—orcs and things are lurking about, and the lands are not yet stable. They won’t be for some months—years, maybe.”

“We need to find a way to the northern shores,” said Elurín. “How far does the water go?”

“Some miles past the mountains. You’ve a long walk still if you want to go around—and you won’t get much farther today.”

The Dwarves insisted they return to their own encampment—still dangerous, with the way the mountains were crumbling, but safer than sleeping out in the open. Lossenol hoisted Nellas onto his back again, and Elurín took up the rear, bow out, alongside a few of the Dwarves. The others led the way, finding an easier path through the boulders and fallen trees, until they came to a cleared out space, with a fire already going and even more Dwarves, armed and alert and watchful. There were some who recognized Lossenol and Elurín, though neither Halli nor Kóri were among them. “But where are Daeron and Pínfileg?” someone asked as Lossenol carefully lowered Nellas to the ground. 

“On the other side of the water,” said Elurín. “We were separated when the earth split.”

“Terrible luck, that,” said one of the Dwarves. “But you can’t find them again if you get yourselves killed. Rest up, and we’ll show you the best paths we’ve found past the mountains. It will be easier once you are in Eriador proper.”

“Thank you,” Lossenol said, and dropped to the ground himself, very happy to leave the watching to someone else for a while. He hadn’t even realized how cold he was until they’d come to a fire. Elurín sat beside him, and Lossenol wrapped an arm around his shoulders to pull him in closer. “All right?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.” Elurín leaned against him. “Nellas?”

She curled up on Lossenol’s other side, and he tucked his cloak around her shoulders. “I’m fine.”

They sat and listened to the Dwarves talk to one another in their own language as evening drew on. Lossenol looked up, seeking the stars, but the sky was dark with clouds that threatened even more rain. His head ached dully. He thought of Daeron and Eluréd and hoped they had found somewhere to shelter for the night. That they were making for the east, too. He thought of the Sons of Fëanor, fierce and fearless, and hoped that they had slain the balrog and gotten away with their lives. 

He didn’t notice when he fell asleep, but he woke to clearing skies and a stiff breeze from the west that smelled of salt and carried the sound of distant voices. Singing voices. “Ships are coming in,” said one of the Dwarves as Lossenol sat up. “Carrying the armies of the West. One nearly capsized when a part of the mountains slid into the water, but those Elvish mariners out of the west are nimbler than goats climbing up a mountainside.”

“Do you know anything of what happened in the north?” Elurín asked. 

“Victory,” another Dwarf said. “The Dark Lord has been cast from his throne—but more than that, we cannot say. When the armies disembark they will have stories to tell, I am certain.”

The Dark Lord was defeated. It was over. Lossenol looked at Elurín, who stared back at him with wide eyes. When he looked at Nellas he found her equally speechless. It was almost impossible to fathom, this thing they’d been hoping for for so long. “Well,” he said after a moment, after the Dwarves left them alone again, “that’ll be some good news to share with Pínfileg and Daeron, if they don’t already know it.”

“We need to hurry,” said Elurín. 

The Dwarves splinted Nellas’ ankle for her; it wasn’t broken but it was badly sprained, and this time Elurín hoisted her onto his back. They followed the Dwarves for miles, all the while achingly aware of the mountains looming over them, and the waters still eating away at the coastline. The gulf was narrower there than it had been farther west, but Lossenol did not trust that it wouldn’t continue to widen. 

When they did draw within sight of the water they could glimpse the ships that the Dwarves had spoken of, moving slowly through the waves. Lossenol found himself wondering if there was anyone on those ships he had once known. The thought made him pull up his hood to hide his face. As the waters continued to narrow, they could see the far shore—they could see figures moving along it, heading east just as they were. They met others on the southern side, too—some familiar faces, all heading for the place where everyone assumed the armies would disembark to make their camp, some moving faster than others, all of them caught on the knife’s edge between fear and hope. 

Then, late one night, Lossenol woke with a start, though he wasn’t sure at first what had woke him. Elurín also sat up with a gasp. After a moment they heard it again—a voice ringing out, somewhere still many miles away, but unmistakable. “Daeron,” Elurín breathed. 

“He’s not strong enough for that,” Lossenol said, scrambling to his feet. But it was impossible to tell where the voice was coming from. Another joined with it, also familiar. The ground trembled under his feet, and somewhere he heard a great roar of water, but they were far enough from the gulf that there was no danger, and it sounded as though it was farther east. 

Daeron’s voice cut off abruptly. 

“Lossenol?” Nellas had woken more slowly. “What was…”

“We need to go.” Lossenol grabbed his things as Elurín helped Nellas. “I don’t know what that was, but it wasn’t good.”

“El—Pínfileg was singing too,” Elurín said, as the Dwarves with them started to wake. “But if—”

“We’ll find out.” Lossenol pulled him in and kissed his temple. They were both shaking, and fear had gripped Lossenol’s heart with an icy fist and he did not think it would let go any time soon. “Don’t try to make guesses—we don’t know enough. But we didn’t all make it through this war just to fall now. They’re going to be fine.” 

Even as he spoke something came swooping low over the ground—something enormous, with dark wings and a terrible cry. He could feel its attention focus on them, and without thinking he pushed Elurín down, rolling on top of him just as the creature reached them, talons extended. They raked up his back leaving lines of fiery pain behind, but the creature did not stop, and after another few seconds it was gone, leaving the Dwarves cursing behind it in their own language, before they started scrambling to pack up the camp. 

“Lossenol!” Nellas scrambled over to them as Lossenol rolled off of Elurín. 

“Lossë?” Elurín sat up and saw whatever mess had been made of Lossenol’s back, and hissed a curse. “Don’t move—”

“I’m—” Lossenol started to sit up, even though his back hurt, like lines of fire had been drawn across it, but Elurín pushed him back down. “It’s fine, we have to—” His arms gave out and he hit the ground, vision wavering. “Birdie—”

“Just lie still,” he heard Elurín say, though it was difficult to make out the words past the sudden roaring in his ears, before everything went silent and dark.