A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Twenty Five

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It was several days before Elurín would let Lossenol stand up, let alone move. By then Nellas’ ankle had recovered enough for her to walk, though she still had to be careful. The Dwarves remained with them, except for a few that went to see where the fleet out of the west had landed. They came back to report a large encampment being set up at the end of the new gulf. “Closer to us than the northern shore—the Lhûn has changed its course, and flows now into the Sea, and much of the land around it is flooded.”

“Did you speak to anyone?” asked Elurín. 

“No, we didn’t get that close—they’re still setting up the tents and scouting out the land. Someone will come upon us sooner or later. There are Dwarves there too, doubtless—I don’t envy them, having had to sail all the way from the Enemy’s doorstep!”

Lossenol thought he would have vastly preferred a ship to the treacherous lands they’d had to traverse. He glanced around and then glared at Elurín. “Where’s my sword, birdie?”

“I have it, don’t worry.”

“Yes, I know you have it—why don’t I have it?”

“Because you can’t lift your arms,” Elurín said flatly. 

“And if we’re attacked again—”

“You wouldn’t be able to do anything even if you did have it. I’m not giving it back, I don’t care how you glower at me.”

“You’re as bad as Daeron!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment!”

“It’s really not—”

“Please don’t argue,” Nellas said, a little plaintively. “Lossenol, he’s right, you can’t lift your sword anyway—and with the Armies of the West right there, surely there will be no enemies—”

“What about the thing that got me in the first place?” Lossenol demanded. “That didn’t seem like something that would be scared away by an army!”

“It was scared away by Daeron,” Elurín pointed out. “I’m certain that was what he was trying to fight with those songs. He and Pínfileg. One of them called the Lhûn, I’m sure of it. They must be there in the camp already.”

“Should I go ahead, maybe, and find out?” Nellas asked.

“No!” both Elurín and Lossenol chorused. “No splitting up,” Lossenol added firmly. “We’ve had quite enough of that, between all of this and the dragon back at the start.”

“I’m still not going to apologize for that,” Elurín muttered. 

“No splitting up,” Lossenol repeated. “Whenever we find Daeron and Pínfileg I’m not letting any of you out of my sight again.”

Finally, Elurín declared that Lossenol could get up and walk, though he still refused to hand over his weapons. They had to go slowly; with regular patrols going out from the camp there was less danger, and the Dwarves soon left them to rejoin their own people. Lossenol’s back hurt fiercely in spite of the songs Elurín had been singing, and the skills of the Dwarven healers with them, but he just gritted his teeth and pushed through it. The sooner they found Daeron and Eluréd, the happier he would be. And he would be happier still when they left the army encampment behind. There were too many people—people who might recognize him or the twins, or…

“Atya,” Elurín said quietly, dropping back to walk beside him—on his right, where Lossenol could easily see him. “I know songs of concealment—of disguise. They won’t change anything about you, but no one will recognize you.”

“How did you know—”

“It just makes sense, doesn’t it? That someone there might have known you long ago?”

“I’m already greatly changed,” Lossenol said doubtfully. “And if Daeron or—”

“They’ll see right through it—and Nellas and I will be with you. Just—we’ll be there soon. I’d rather not risk it. Even if nothing bad happens, it will make everything more complicated.”

“I…yes, all right, sing your songs. Is it going to affect whoever comes to heal me?”

“No. They’ll be looking at your back anyway, not your face.”

Elurín chanted his verses; afterward Lossenol didn’t feel different, and Nellas declared that he didn’t look different, but Elurín insisted that no one would look twice at him. “I can’t hide that you come from across the Sea,” he said, “but you won’t attract notice, even with your scars. Everyone’s gazes will just sort of slide off of you, unless they’re really trying to pay attention.”

They were stopped by guards when they came to the edge of the camp, who asked their names, and where they had come from. Elurín spoke for them, naming himself Pínamrent and saying they had lived in Eriador but had been fighting on the eastern marches of the war. By then Lossenol’s back hurt so badly he could hardly stay standing, and when he swayed Nellas caught him. “Please, Lossenol needs a healer,” she said, interrupting the guards before they could say anything else.

“Of course,” said one of the guards. He was a golden-haired Vanya and spoke Sindarin with a musical, lilting accent. “I will take you. Can you walk just a little farther, or shall I send someone for a stretcher?”

“I can walk,” Lossenol said, though when Elurín took Nellas’ place he had to lean heavily on him. 

“We have many wounded, and only so many tents,” the guard said as he led them down a churned up and muddy path between tents and wagons and other various bits of army camp detritus. “The big ones are all filled, so you may have to share with—”

“—don’t care whose orders you’re under, he’s my father—” Eluréd’s voice, sounding unusually angry, reached them above the general din and bustle of the camp, and not far ahead Lossenol saw him push past someone to enter one of the smaller tents. Nellas darted forward, and Elurín grabbed Lossenol’s hand, both of them running after her. Lossenol forgot all about his torn up back as he ducked into the tent just behind Elurín, just in time to see Eluréd and Daeron turn toward them, eyes wide with surprise. 

“Ada!” Elurín crossed the tent in two strides to fall into Daeron’s arms, and at the same time Eluréd cried, “Atya!” and launched himself into Lossenol’s. It hurt but Lossenol pulled him close, relief making his eyes burn. Eluréd was already weeping. 

“I’m here, birdie,” he whispered, ignoring the other two people in the tent, who Nellas at least seemed to know. “We’re here, I’ve got you, it’s all right.”

After a minute, Nellas managed to get the other two strangers out of the tent, and Lossenol was able to get to Daeron, who reached for him with trembling hands. Daeron was heavily bandaged and did not speak, which was alarming even after Eluréd explained that he’d strained his voice in song. 

“We heard it,” said Elurín. He and Eluréd sat on the floor by the cot, holding onto one another the way they used to when they were small. Nellas sat on Daeron’s other side, leaning her head on his shoulder. “We heard you both singing—and then the river—”

“That was me,” Eluréd said. 

“And then that creature that came flying out of the dark,” Nellas said. “Lossenol, you still need someone to look at your back—”

Eluréd’s head jerked up, and Daeron drew back from Lossenol, face going white. “I’m fine,” Lossenol said. “It hurts, but—”

“That wasn’t a creature,” Eluréd said. “That was—that was Gorthaur.”

Daeron pushed at Lossenol’s shoulders until he turned around and let his shirt be lifted up. He didn’t know what the bandages looked like, but Daeron made a soft, pained sound at the sight. “That’s why they aren’t healing as they should,” Elurín muttered. “Here—there’s another cot, Atya, you should lie down—”

Lossenol let himself be manhandled to the other cot, though he didn’t like being out of reach of Daeron. He lay on his stomach and pillowed his head on his arms, glad that at least he could look over and see everyone. Nellas slipped out of the tent, saying something about going to speak to Celeborn—whoever that was. Elurín and Eluréd returned to the floor, Elurín leaning his head against Daeron, who had curled up on his side and was stroking his hair. “Tell us what happened, Eluréd,” Lossenol said.

Eluréd told the story haltingly—how he and Daeron had made their way east, assuming and hoping that they would all have the same thought. They had gotten past the mountains with little trouble, but as they reached the easternmost point of the new-made gulf they had been set upon by wolves—and by Sauron. “I suppose he turned himself into that winged creature and flew away—I didn’t see. But the wolves were still there, and one leaped on Daeron and knocked them both into the floodwaters, and I couldn’t reach him before he was swept out into the open sea. I don’t know how he came to be rescued.” He glanced at Daeron as he spoke, but Daeron shook his head. He didn’t remember either. “And then I had to get away from the wolves myself, and it took me days to come back here, and—well. You arrived at the same time. Don’t,” he said when Daeron opened his mouth. “You’re not supposed to be talking.”

There were voices outside of the tent, then, and then someone stepped inside. Elurín rose halfway to his knees before freezing, mouth dropping open. Eluréd turned and also went very still. Lossenol ignored the pain to twist around to see who it was—and had to blink a few times. It might have been one of the twins standing there with a basket in his arms, except he was dressed very differently, and his hair fell only just past his shoulders, half of it tied neatly back out of his face. He stared at Eluréd and Elurín too, eyes almost comically wide, before he recovered and said with a sudden smile, “…Well, I suppose that’s why Lord Celeborn insisted I be the one to come see you. Am I to call you Pínfileg and Pínamrent, or can I call you my uncles, instead?”

Eluréd seemed suddenly overcome, and turned to bury his face in his arms against Lossenol’s cot. Lossenol rested a hand on the back of his head, feeling him trembling. 

Elurín got to his feet. “You’re—you’re one of Elwing’s…?”

“I am. My name is Elros. My brother is Elrond, but he’s busy with Gil-galad.” Elros set the basket down and held out his hands to grasp Elurín's. “I think we all have many questions and tales to tell—but I am here first as a healer. Who among you is most badly hurt?”

“Daeron has been seen to already,” said Elurín. “I’ve been unable to tend Lossenol’s wounds as well as they need.”

“I’m fine,” Lossenol said immediately. “See to Daeron—” At this Daeron glared at him, and Elurín and Elurín chorused, “No, Lossë!”

“I just got clawed up a little—”

“By Gorthaur,” Elurín snapped. 

“And Daeron did actual battle with him, so—”

“All right, enough!” Elros said, silencing them all with surprising authority. “Daeron has been seen to, so I’ll look at Lossenol’s wounds first—it won’t take long, if they’re as inconsequential as you claim.”

“They’re not,” Elurín muttered. 

“And while I look,” Elros went on, “Uncles, will one or both of you tell me what happened? I had not heard that Sauron Gorthaur was so close.”

“He’s not close now,” said Elurín. He described, briefly, what Eluréd had told them of the song battle, and then what had happened afterward. As he spoke Lossenol buried his own face in his arms and tried to ignore the way it hurt when Elros carefully peeled the bloody bandages off of his back. “We didn’t know what—or who—it was until just before you arrived,” Elurín finished. “Otherwise I would never have let him walk all this way.”

“For the best that you’re here, though,” Elros said. “I do not think there are any terrible enchantments or poisons, at least—those would have been made obvious sooner. Let me fetch a few things, and perhaps Elrond if he’s free, and I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” he added to Lossenol. 

“Wasn’t planning to,” Lossenol said, and turned his head as Elros left the tent. “You all right, songbirds?”

“Yes,” Elurín said.

“I don’t know,” Eluréd said. Elurín knelt beside him, and Eluréd turned to bury his face in his brother’s shoulder instead. “But they’re all right. Elwing’s boys—they’re more than all right.”

“But you were recognized,” Lossenol said quietly. “By—what’s his name, that Elros mentioned?”

“Celeborn,” said Nellas. She had been sitting quietly in the corner by Daeron. “He is your kinsman, Eluréd and Elurín—your mother’s uncle, and also a nephew of Elu Thingol. That is not the same as the Enemy finding you.”

“But they’ll expect things of us,” said Elurín. 

“And you can say no,” said Nellas. “But before you start panicking, speak to Elrond and Elros. And—I do not know Celeborn, or Oropher who was also here when we arrived, except by sight, but I cannot imagine them being anything but glad that you are here, that you’re alive. Especially Lord Celeborn.”

“Daeron, did you know them well?” asked Elurín. Daeron made a face and sort of shrugged—not easy while lying down.

“They didn’t believe me when I said I was Daeron’s son,” Eluréd said quietly. “They almost would not let me in here to see him. I don’t really care who Celeborn was to our mother—he’s no one to us now.”

“They didn’t know the circumstances,” said Nellas, “and I would be surprised too, if I were them, to encounter someone who claimed to be Daeron’s son.”

“Don’t just dismiss them out of hand, Eluréd,” Lossenol said. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“It didn’t have to be—”

Elros returned, with his own twin brother. Seeing Eluréd and Elurín beside Elrond and Elros felt a little like seeing double; he had to keep blinking. Elrond stopped and stared for a few seconds, caught off guard even forewarned, but then he smiled and stepped forward to embrace Elurín and then Eluréd. Both Elrond and Elros were businesslike in the beginning, acting as healers before nephews. Lossenol had his wounds properly stitched and smeared with some fragrant salve that felt cool and then numbed the skin. All the while Elros hummed as he worked, wrapping it all up in healing power that matched anything Eluréd or Elurín could do. Elrond went to Daeron, examining his wounds carefully, and especially his throat. He sang many more songs than Elros. Daeron sat very still, with his eyes closed, but Lossenol could tell that it hurt by the way he gripped the blankets in white-knuckled fists. 

When Elrond finished he said kindly, “You should try not to speak too much the next few days, except in whispers if you’re careful, but only if you really must. If it hurts at all, don’t try. I’ve brought some teas for you—I promise they don’t taste terrible. You might have had one or two of them before. The heat will also soothe your throat.” Daeron nodded. He didn’t look surprised by any of it, and when he picked up one of the small bags of tea to smell it, his expression brightened a little.

“Will he recover fully?” Eluréd asked.

“Oh yes.”

Lossenol was exhausted by then, suddenly feeling the effects of the last weeks—of the last decades. He let his eyes fall shut as Elrond and Elros settled down to speak with Eluréd and Elurín. They all had questions for one another, but Lossenol did not hear any of the answers before sleep rose up to claim him. It was the most restful sleep he’d had in months if not years, and when he woke he found it was very late. Daeron was awake, sitting up and watching Eluréd and Elurín where they were curled up with each other on the floor. Nellas was not there. “Daeron?” Lossenol whispered.

“Lossë.” Daeron looked up. His eyes glimmered like distant stars in the shadows of the tent.

“I missed you.”

Daeron’s smile was small and fleeting. “Missed you too.” His whispers were very quiet, and only the silence of the tent allowed Lossenol to hear them at all.

Suddenly even the few feet of distance between them was unbearable. Lossenol pushed himself up, finding that it didn’t hurt as much as he expected, and went to join Daeron on his cot. Daeron moved over immediately, and lay down so Lossenol could tuck himself up against his back. He immediately felt much more comfortable and, somehow, much safer. He buried his face in Daeron’s hair and closed his eyes. “No more splitting up,” he said. “Next time the earth splits in half we get on the same side.” He felt Daeron nod. He also wanted to say that they should leave the encampment as soon as they were both able—but he didn’t. That was only his own fears, and it would be horribly wrong to take Eluréd and Elurín away from the nephews they had only just found. 

Daeron sighed, and turned his head a little so his face was partly hidden in the crook of Lossenol’s arm. “I’m so glad you’re here, Lossë.”

“Me too.”

They both drifted off to sleep, and Lossenol woke in the morning when Daeron moved, to the smell of cooked food—what a luxury that seemed like, after weeks of dwindling travel rations—and Nellas’ voice joined with Eluréd and Elurín. “You weren’t supposed to move, Atya,” Elurín said when Lossenol sat up with a grunt. The numbing had worn off during the night, and every move made his back flare with pain.

“I didn’t move much. Will you stop fussing?”

“I’ll stop fussing when you stop almost dying.”

“You’re one to talk,” Eluréd muttered. 

“Enough,” Daeron said, still in a whisper but with a look that quelled all of them. He accepted a mug of fragrant tea from Elurín, and inhaled the steam deeply before taking a sip. No one spoke much as they ate breakfast and drank tea—it was sweet and floral, and seemed to do a lot to soothe Daeron’s throat, which was suffering as much from swallowing saltwater as from his singing. After breakfast Elrond came to visit with them for a while. There was much being discussed among the leaders of the armies—Elves, Men, Dwarves—and Elros was busy with one such meeting. Elrond looked both Daeron and Lossenol over, but very quickly, and he did not seem worried. Once or twice, though, he looked at Lossenol with a slightly furrowed brow. It made him nervous, though he wasn’t sure why. 

Finally, Elrond asked Eluréd and Elurín how it was they had survived Doriath. “You told us last night you’ve been here, east of the Ered Luin, but how did you get from Menegroth to the mountains?”

“An Ent found us in the snows and carried us to Ossiriand,” said Eluréd. “Daeron and Lossë were there already—and the next spring we crossed over the mountains. The Ents heard of others who escaped down Sirion, but they were only rumors, and Daeron thought it would be too dangerous to try to make it that far.”

“It was dangerous enough just trying to get to the pass,” Elurín said, glancing at Daeron, who was rubbing absently at his neck. Lossenol looked at the line from the cord there, still red, and thought with a sinking feeling that it was going to scar. “We grew up—well, not really that far from here. Just north a ways, up the Lhûn and near the hills that follow the eastern shores of Lake Nenuial. But we came back south to aid the Dwarves as we could, while the rest of you marched on Angband.”

“Why did you not join us?” Elrond asked.

“Someone needed to help keep the passes clear, for everyone who could not join the fight and needed to flee,” said Eluréd. “Especially as the Sea started to overtake the land.”

The tent opened, and Elros stepped inside. “I thought you were with Gil-galad,” Elrond said to him. 

“Eönwë wishes to speak with us,” said Elros. 

Elrond rose to his feet. “Is there news of—”

“No—it’s something to do with our parents, I think. Uncles, he asked me to bring you as well.”

Eluréd and Elurín exchanged a glance, and then got to their feet. “Who is Eönwë?” Eluréd asked. 

“One of the Maiar—Manwë’s herald,” said Elrond. “We’re used to him by now, but he may be a bit…much. Still, if he wishes to speak to all of us it must be important.”

Eluréd looked at Daeron, who nodded and gestured for them to go. “We’ll be back soon,” he said. 

“We’ll be here,” Lossenol said. He hadn’t really been serious when he’d said he wouldn’t let any of them out of his sight ever again, but he still had to swallow down the fear as the tent flap fell closed behind them.