A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Twenty Four

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Daeron and Eluréd ran until they couldn’t anymore—and then they kept going. Behind them the land crumbled away, falling into the Sea as it rushed in, hissing and steaming, to fill the void. Daeron did not dare look back; he kept his gaze on the ground ahead and on Eluréd’s back, and tried to focus on just breathing. 

Finally he tripped, and when he fell he couldn’t get up. “Ada!” Eluréd came back for him, but slipped and sat down hard in the dirt beside him. “I think—I think we can stop,” he said after a moment, after he caught his breath a little. “I think it’s stopped. For now.” 

The earth did not feel like it was shaking, but Daeron himself was shaking so hard that he wasn’t sure he could really tell. He rolled over and with effort raised himself up on an elbow. In the distance he saw waves crashing against newly broken stones, sending spray high into the air. And somewhere on the other side of it were Lossenol, Elurín, and Nellas. 

“So much for not splitting up,” Daeron said, voice coming out a hoarse half-whisper. 

“At least it’s not our fault,” Eluréd said. “You shouldn’t be talking.” Daeron looked up at him, but Eluréd hadn’t taken his gaze away from the Sea. When Daeron reached for his hand, though, he held on tight. For some time they stayed like that, watching the water and listening to the distant winds and the rushing waves. Eventually, Daeron was able to sit up fully, and then he pulled Eluréd over into his arms. They stayed like that for a while longer, not speaking; Daeron was too worn out even to think about much. 

They were exposed, though, on that hillside, and at last Eluréd stirred. “We need shelter,” he said, and helped Daeron to his feet. “And then…”

“East,” Daeron whispered, pointing toward the opening in the mountains. They had fallen into the new opening in the earth, but he thought there must be some traversable land in between the water and the remaining slopes. It was the only sure way they could expect to eventually reunite with the others. Surely the entire world had not been split north and south—there would be an end to the water. There had to be. 

“Better get moving, then.” Eluréd paused then to take stock. He had the satchel of rations, and they both had water skins; Eluréd had a sword and his bow, and had somehow rescued Daeron’s staff, which he’d dropped sometime during his encounter with Menelas. Now he handed it back. “Does your neck hurt?”

“It’s fine.” 

“That’s not an answer.”

“It does hurt, but it’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine,” Eluréd said, but without heat.

“I’m sorry.” Daeron reached for him again, and Eluréd leaned against him for a moment, head on his shoulder. The last time Eluréd had been parted from Elurín, it had ended in the fight against the dragon, and Daeron knew they were both remembering it. “We’ll find them, birdie,” Daeron whispered. 

“I know. Just—stay close to me, all right? We can’t be parted, especially not now. This is—I don’t know what’s going to happen, but there are shadows looming between us and where we have to go.”

“We won’t be. Don’t despair, Eluréd.”

“I’m not despairing. I’m just—frightened.”

“I am too.” Daeron took Eluréd’s face in his hands and kissed his forehead. “I love you. We’re going to be all right. Let’s go.” 

They started walking, moving carefully and slowly, hand in hand. Daeron glanced back a few times toward the water, but the southern shore was too far to see from where they were, and they did not dare move closer. He could hear the crash of the waves, and the whisper of the wind over the stones around them, but besides that it was very quiet. Eerily so, after the terrible noises that the rending earth had made. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he kept glancing over his shoulder, fearing that they were being followed, or watched. But there was never anything or anyone there.

It was slow going. They sheltered where they could at night, and by day kept moving—even when it rained for several days straight. It was a cold rain, and when it ended fog descended instead, making the going more treacherous as loose earth turned to slick mud. Eluréd was surefooted, however, and hummed as he walked, both to keep time with their steps and fill the silence, and to wrap them both in songs of hiding and of safety and of strength. They were all songs that Daeron had taught him, and he would not let Daeron try to join. 

They came to the mountains, where the land was even more treacherous, still shifting and breaking apart. They had to climb over the remnants of landslides, and once Daeron placed his foot wrong and nearly caused another that would have taken him down into the sea if Eluréd hadn’t been there to haul him back. There was also another landslide that they had to race out of the way of, lest they be buried. “Was that what it was like when Elurín and I…” Eluréd ventured after they’d caught their breath.

“This was bigger.” Daeron had been trying, and failing, not to think about it. “And Lossë and I didn’t actually get out of the way—there was a tree big enough to shelter us until the worst had passed.”

“That’s not what Lossë said would happen. Or how he talked about it after.”

“I’m not sure it was planned.”

Eluréd laughed a little breathlessly, a little mirthlessly. “Looking back, I don’t think he had much of a plan at all. He just—he just talked about it as though it was obvious that it would work, and Elurín and I just believed him.”

“He didn’t want to frighten you.” Daeron looked back at the dirt and stones strewn across the land behind them. There were no trees—those had all been knocked down already, and were probably at the bottom of the Sea. He looked beyond it and saw shapes on the water in the far distance. “Look—are those ships?”

Eluréd got to his feet, gazing west. “I think so. Do you think they’re making for the same place we are?”

“Maybe.” Daeron pushed himself up. “I hope so. I would like to know what happened.”

“They must have healers among them,” said Eluréd. “You still sound awful.”

“I’m just tired.” His throat didn’t hurt much anymore, though the skin around his neck was still bruised and tender. At least he could speak more or less normally. “I’ll be fine once we find the others—that’s more important than getting news, or finding a healer.”

“Ada—”

“Find them first, then find out what’s happened.” And then—well. What they did next depended on what they learned. Daeron did not want to linger among the armies, though. If it was really all over, then it wouldn’t matter so much if Eluréd and Elurín were recognized, but there was also too high of a chance that someone would see and recognize Lossenol. There were few among either those from Valinor or those from Middle-earth who would be either merciful or forgiving, Daeron thought, even when it became clear that Lossenol did not even remember all that he had done. It was a risk they would have to take, and they would just have to hope that no one who spoke to them would realize the truth, or ask too many questions that they did not have answers for. He still hated it.

“Find them, then find a healer, and then ask for news,” Eluréd said firmly. 

They went on, moving a little more quickly. The rations Eluréd had retrieved from the wagon dwindled swiftly, even being careful. They found freshwater springs at least, sweet and clear and very cold, that let them refill their water skins and drink their fill. They saw no one else, either friend or foe, but as they finally left the mountains behind Daeron grew uneasy. They were back in the burned out woods of Eriador. Some growth had returned after the dragon had passed through at the start of the war, but little enough—and now most of it had been disrupted and reshaped, and it was odd and barren and alien, unfamiliar and strangely unwelcoming. There were trees, but they grew in ragged clumps, and the shadows underneath them were threatening and dark.

The third time he thought he saw movement, late in the evening as they were starting to think of where to stop for the night, Daeron stopped and grabbed for Eluréd. “We’re being followed. I’ve thought so for days, but now I’m sure. There’s something out there.”

“Orcs?”

“No. They would not track us this long.” 

Eluréd loosened his sword in its sheath. “I don’t like this,” he murmured.

“Neither do I.”

“Let’s move closer to the water. It’s more open but at least we’ll be able to see—” Before Eluréd could finish, wolves leaped out of the shadows at them. He drew his sword and killed the first and then the second, but others came on their heels. Daeron swung his staff, but even years of practice with Lossenol hadn’t given him the skill or the strength necessary to kill such beasts. Eluréd then shouted a few words that sent the wolves scattering back into the darkness. Eluréd then grabbed Daeron’s hand and they ran for the water’s edge, where at least they would have it at their back when the wolves returned. The waves crashed against the jagged stones; the spray that flew up over them was cold, and Daeron could taste the salt on his lips. 

The last time he had been so close to the Sea, the world had been lit only by stars, and the shores had been sandy and soft-edged, worn down by years uncounted of wind and waves and storms. He had gone out diving for pearls with Mablung and Círdan, and had declared that he never wanted to leave the boat when they were out on the water, where it had felt like they were floating through the heavens with stars above and below, where their reflections seemed to dance on the water’s dark surface. Mablung had laughed at him. 

Oh, how he wished Mablung were there now. 

“Ada,” Eluréd breathed. He wasn’t looking at the water, but back where they’d come from. It was very late now, and the moon was westering. When Daeron turned to follow Eluréd’s gaze his breath caught at the sheer size of the wolf now stalking toward them, eyes gleaming fire-red in the darkness. Power rolled off of it, familiar in a tainted, twisted way. Like Melian's, but not. “Is that…” Eluréd whispered. 

“Gorthaur.” He had been looking for them—for Eluréd and Elurín, thinking them Elwing’s children, knowing them to be of Lúthien’s line. Daeron swallowed the fear that threatened to choke him and tried to think, tried to remember all the songs he had ever learned or ever written, all the things he could call upon to help them. Would the Sea listen, if he called on the waves? The Sea did not know him, not the way the Lhûn might, or the way the Esgalduin had once. Would the earth listen, if he called out to it, or was it too freshly broken?

Eluréd drew his bow and shot first one wolf, then another—then Sauron himself. The arrow struck true, and the great wolf staggered back a step—and then changed, transforming in the blink of an eye to a man, tall and cloaked in shadows, with those same terrible eyes and his teeth bared in something between a snarl and a sneer. “At last—I have been looking for you, son of Melian. Where is your brother? Drowned by the carelessness of the Valar?”

“Don’t answer him,” Daeron whispered, grasping Eluréd’s arm. “Don’t rise to it. Your brother is fine.” 

Sauron’s gaze fell on him, then, and it was terrible, piercing and hot and cold and blinding all at once. Daeron raised his chin and met that gaze, trying to ignore the frantic pounding of his heart. “You should not have left your forest glades, minstrel.”

“Nor you your shadowy lairs, Lord of Werewolves,” Daeron said, and was shocked to hear how steady his voice was, and how strong. “The war is over. Your master has fallen and he will not rise again—be gone from here if you will not surrender.”

Sauron laughed. It was a sound like crackling fire. Daeron tightened his grip on Eluréd’s arm. Wolves flanked Sauron, several on either side, all black and enormous with eyes that glinted in the starlight. On the wind that swept up from the Sea Daeron could hear fairer voices calling to one another and singing, but they were yet very far away. 

“Surrender? Who will make me? You?” Sauron’s eyes glinted. “Do you think yourself mightier than Finrod Felagund who perished in my dungeons?”

“Finrod Felagund had the victory in the end,” said Daeron. “He kept his faith—you know nothing of such things, faithless and craven and—” 

Sauron seemed to grow in stature, looming over the two of them as his eyes flashed. “You think to call me craven, Daeron of Doriath?”

“Daeron,” Eluréd whispered. “What are you—”

“Stay behind me.” Daeron stepped in front of Eluréd, feeling suddenly, strangely, calm. He recognized the currents in the air around him, as Sauron gathered himself and prepared to demonstrate his might—through song. Daeron had never been a warrior, not even with his voice, but he had learned much over the last fifty years—and he was no weaker now, surely, than Finrod Felagund had been in the halls of Tor-en-Gaurhoth. 

It was Eluréd, Daeron was sure, who Sauron truly wanted to ensnare in such a battle. But if Sauron underestimated what the two of them might do together, then maybe they might stand a chance. 

When Sauron began his chanting it was not what Daeron had expected—it was not loud, not a torrent of sound and fury accompanied by the howling of wolves. Instead it was a low sound, like the rumble of distant thunder or the crackle of flames. Daeron felt the force of it in his bones and for a few beats he was struck dumb, frozen and unable to think past the blank terror that enveloped him—past the images of the Esgalduin running red through the snow or the look on Lúthien’s face as she turned away from him for the last time, vanishing into the shadows of Hírilorn. Of the friends he had left behind, who had died one by one, who he had forgotten and betrayed and did not even try to save.

Then he realized—none of this was new. None of Sauron’s words were any worse than what he had said to himself. None of this was anything that Sauron could use against him because he had already used it. With this thought came new strength, and Daeron stepped forward and lifted his own voice, singing of bright things—of new stars appearing in the sky, of the ending of years of war and centuries of fear, of the sun coming out from behind storm clouds, of bright spring that followed every winter no matter how endless it seemed.

Sauron countered with the rise of Angband after the fall of Utumno—of the night that fell after every day, of the Lamps that had been made and destroyed long before Elves ever awoke, and of the Trees that had grown to glory before being sapped of light and life. Over and over the Shadow rose, he chanted, and ever the light failed. 

But ever the light returned. The songs swayed back and forth for what felt like hours. Daeron felt the burn in his throat, and he tasted blood on his tongue, but he did not stop. After a while Eluréd put his hands on Daeron’s shoulders and added his own voice to the song, bringing the nightingale beauty of Lúthien’s voice and the power of Melian into the song. It was he who called upon the earth to reject all that Sauron was and all that he did—he that called upon the waters, too, just when Daeron felt himself start to falter. 

He felt the change before he heard it. The earth shifted; the Lhûn heard Eluréd’s call, and it responded. The river changed its course and came thundering down toward the Sea. Eluréd grabbed Daeron and threw them both out of the way just before the floodwaters hit. Daeron did not see whether Sauron was overtaken, but his song cut off as abruptly as theirs, his power withdrawing all at once. It was like a great weight had been lifted off of his chest. But there was no time for relief—they scrambled toward higher ground, out of the way of the river as it coursed over the broken stones to meet the crashing waves behind them. 

“Daeron, look out!” Eluréd cried suddenly. Daeron turned just in time to see a wolf leap toward him. He fell backward as he threw his arms up to try to protect his face. The wolf landed on top of him, and teeth sank into his arm. “Daeron!” Eluréd screamed. Daeron found himself rolling with the wolf down the hillside toward the water, and until they reached the waves there wasn’t anything he could do to dislodge it. Once they did hit the water—so cold it took his breath away—the wolf released him, and by then it was too late. The current caught him, and Daeron couldn’t grab anything that might hold him. He got his head above the water for a moment but he couldn’t cry out. The saltwater burned his mouth and his throat and his eyes, and he couldn’t even hear Eluréd past the roaring of it in his ears. 

The next thing he knew—he did not know how long he had been in the water—he was being hauled out of it by several pairs of hands, and strange voices were speaking around him in a dialect of Quenya that he couldn’t quite understand. Only with a great effort could he open even one of his eyes—the other didn’t want to, for some reason—and he glimpsed silver hair and shining eyes. “Lossë—” he tried to say, but no sound came out of his mouth. Everything hurt, and his throat still felt like it was burning. 

Then, in accented Sindarin, one of the silver-haired strangers said to him, “It’s all right. You’re safe. We’re going to take care of you. What is your name?” Daeron tried to answer, but he couldn’t make his throat work, he could barely make his tongue work. 

“I know who that is,” someone said. “That’s Daeron—Daeron of Doriath. He was the one we heard singing before that river flooded.”

There was something he needed to do. Daeron tried to sit up, but hands held him down. Someone was peeling away his clothes; the air was biting cold. But he couldn’t keep still, he had to—he had to find—

“Daeron.” Another figure knelt beside him. Daeron managed to focus his gaze on their face, and found that he knew them. It was Celeborn. He looked weary and worn out, and behind him loomed another with hair as golden as his was silver. “It’s all right,” Celeborn said. “You are among friends.”

“Give him some water—fresh water,” someone said. “He’s swallowed too much seawater.

“He’s sung his voice away,” said someone else. Daeron jerked in Celeborn’s grasp, struck suddenly with the fear that he’d sung it away for good. What was he going to do if he couldn’t speak? If he couldn’t sing? He wasn’t anything without his voice, he was—

Something was brought to his mouth, and in his panic he remembered only the terrible and bitter draughts of the orcs. He turned his head away and tried to look around. If Eluréd—where was Eluréd? He had to be there. Daeron had to find him, had to make sure he wasn’t alone—

Someone picked him up—it might have been Celeborn, but he wasn’t sure. The movement hurt, though, and Daeron had no warning at all before he fainted away. 

Things were confused and strange after that. He was only vaguely aware of voices and hands, of movement and strange smells—and pain, always there was pain, only slowly easing. When next he woke fully he was tucked under blankets, and someone was arguing loudly nearby. That was Eluréd’s voice. Daeron forced his eyes open. “—let me see him! I don’t care whose orders you’re under, he’s my father—”

Celeborn sat beside Daeron’s cot, and with him was Oropher, looking slightly worse for the wear. “Pínfileg,” Daeron managed to rasp. “He—”

“Daeron?” Oropher leaned forward. “Don’t try to speak. You’ve torn up your throat and you’ll only make it worse.”

He didn’t care. “Let him in,” he whispered. “Please—”

“He claims to be your son,” Celeborn said, sounding deeply skeptical, “but you’ve never—”

“No, he—” Eluréd resolved his fight by simply pushing past whoever was guarding the tent. He ducked inside, dirty and bedraggled, bloody and scowling, but alive. “—he is my son,” Daeron finished, somehow forcing himself upright on the cot just as Eluréd stepped into the tent. 

Upon seeing Daeron his expression broke open. “Ada!” Eluréd rushed over, and Oropher moved out of the way just in time. Daeron wrapped his arms around Eluréd and closed his eyes as they burned with sudden tears, shaky with relief. He was all right. They were both going to be all right. 

Then, before either Oropher or Celeborn could say anything else, other voices reached them from outside—familiar and almost frantic, and then the tent opened again to reveal Nellas, followed a second later by Elurín and Lossenol. They were all nearly as battered looking as Eluréd—but they were there.