A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Twenty Six

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Daeron watched Eluréd and Elurín leave with their nephews, and felt a sinking feeling in his chest. It was just being parted from them so soon after they’d all been reunited, he knew—even though he knew they were not going far, and they would be as safe as it was possible to be, in the company of one of the most powerful of the Maiar. He wondered, vaguely, if he should try to learn what had become of Melian—if Eönwë knew, or if he would tell him. 

Nellas stirred where she was sitting on the cot that Lossenol had vacated the night before. “There’s talk of the way west being opened,” she said. “The fleet out of Alqualondë will be leaving soon, and all the soldiers who came with it will go back home—but anyone else who wants to might join them, and even afterward, the way will be open for other ships. For Elves, anyway. I think there are some other plans being laid for the Edain, but I wasn’t really paying much attention to that.”

Daeron didn’t have to ask to know what Nellas was thinking of. It seemed like years instead of only weeks had passed since Menelas had breathed his last words. He was not the only one to come to Daeron’s mind, either. Caladorn and Togamel would someday return from Mandos too. Daeron imagined being there when they did, imagined getting to see his parents again, and something deep inside him ached with longing. 

After a long moment Lossenol said, “I don’t want to leave. But I go where Daeron goes.”

“I don’t want to leave either,” Daeron whispered finally. In spite of his longing—it wasn’t time yet. Not for him. He did not want to go west just to wait before the doors of Mandos for years uncounted. When he did go, he wanted to be able to hope for familiar faces awaiting him in the harbor. “And…the songbirds, I don’t know if…” He knew that Elwing was there, but he did not know if she and Eärendil had been made exceptions of whatever fate would rule the halfelven. They still did not know what that fate would be. 

“I want to go,” said Nellas. “Everyone I ever knew except for you is gone, and…I know that the war is over, and Bauglir is gone—but his servants remain, and I’m frightened. I want to be able to wander the woods without fear, and I don’t think I can do that here any longer.”

“Then you must go,” Daeron said. “Someday, the time will come for all of us to leave these shores, I think. The time is here for you, but not yet for us.”

Nellas rose and came to embrace Daeron, holding him very carefully. “If I can make it back from Goldberry in time,” she said, “I want to leave with the fleet. There’s nothing but you all keeping me here, and—and if I can be assured that we’ll meet again one day, I’ll be content.”

“Someday,” Lossenol said as Nellas turned to him, holding on as gently. “You’re leaving for Goldberry now?”

“Yes. It’s not too far, and I travel fast.”

“Be safe, Nellas,” Daeron said.

“I will. Goodbye for now. Tell the twins I’ll be back soon.”

When they were alone, Daeron let himself slump against Lossenol. He felt much better than he had upon first waking in that tent, but that just meant he was able now to think of what lay beyond it. Who lay beyond it. “There may be some here who will know you,” he said after a moment. “Who will recognize you, even changed as you are.”

“Elurín took precautions.”

“There are some who might see through them.”

Lossenol slipped his arm around Daeron and kissed the top of his head. “I’ll stay out of sight, then. I don’t really want to go mingle with anyone, anyway.”

There was nothing they could do that would not bring questions. Daeron wasn’t sure what he would say to Celeborn or Oropher when he had to speak to them again. He dreaded having to speak to Galadriel. “We could leave,” he said after a moment. “Slip away—not too far. The songbirds shouldn’t have to choose between us and their nephews. But we can find a place to stay a while in the woods.” 

“Don’t talk so much,” said Lossenol. “But that sounds good to me, except neither of us are really in much of a state to do much of anything, let alone keep ourselves alive in the woods.” 

He hated that that was true. They needed to get away from there. When Daeron lifted his head to look at Lossenol, he saw the Oath still lurking there behind his eyes. It was quiet, asleep still, visible to him only because he knew what to look for, but with Morgoth defeated—the Silmarils had to be somewhere, and Daeron needed to get Lossenol away before someone made the mistake of speaking of them in front of him. 

“What’s wrong?” Lossenol asked. 

“Just—if you fear your past coming back for you, this is where it is most likely to happen. But if you—”

“You don’t have to keep asking. I don’t want to remember—I don’t want to go back to being who I was. As long as we’re here, I’m going to stay out of sight. If someone recognizes me, I won’t have that choice anymore. I don’t think anyone will understand.”

“I just don’t want you to ever think that I won’t stand by you, whatever you choose,” said Daeron. He swallowed his fear of what would happen if Lossenol did decide that he wanted to face his past and said, “You can change your mind and I will do what I can to help you—and I will speak for you afterward, whatever comes of it. My name is still remembered and my word will mean something, even now.”

“I know all that,” said Lossenol. “But I really, really don’t want to. I—I told you before I think it would kill me. Nothing’s happened to change that. I lost everything even before I forgot myself, and I don’t…it feels like a blessing, that I don’t remember any of it, that I get to be here with you instead. Now stop talking, you’re supposed to be resting your voice.”

Daeron sighed, but nodded and said nothing more. After a few minutes he lay back down, feeling tired, and when Lossenol curled up around him he almost wanted to weep for the sheer relief of it—of his familiar warmth and the solid strength of his arm over Daeron’s. Everything still ached, and his throat was sore, but that would pass. And whatever lay before them… Please just let me keep this, he silently prayed, though he was never sure who, if anyone, was listening. Please just let us stay together. Let the past remain behind us. Please.

He dozed off, and roused sometime later when Eluréd and Elurín returned. “What’s wrong?” he heard Lossenol ask, and opened his eyes to see the twins looking pale and almost frightened. “What happened?” Lossenol asked, sitting up with what seemed like a great deal of effort.

“He…Eönwë, he…” Eluréd looked at Elurín. 

“They gave Elwing and Eärendil a choice, when they reached Valinor,” Elurín said. “Because they did not know what to do with them—because they were both halfelven. So they…they had them choose. And now we have to choose—and Elrond and Elros, too.”

Daeron sat up, and when he and Lossenol held out their arms both twins rushed forward into them. “When must you choose?” Daeron asked. 

“He asked that we choose before he returns to the west—with the fleet, I think,” Eluréd said into Daeron’s chest.

“I don’t need that long,” Elurín said, “but…” 

“I asked him what happened to our father,” Eluréd said. “He said that he did not know. But Elwing—Elwing chose the life of the Eldar, and Eärendil chose alike.”

“Do not make your decision now,” Daeron said. He knew what frightened them both the most—they feared that the other would choose differently, and that they would be sundered forever.

“Take the time he gave you, and talk about it, and maybe talk to your nephews,” added Lossenol. “Whatever you choose—we’ll be here.”

They did not speak of the choice again for some time. Daeron slept a lot, and he drank the hot tea that Elrond and Elros had given them. One of the blends was achingly familiar—it had come out of Doriath, which Daeron had missed but hadn’t ever known how to mix himself. Maybe he should find out, he thought as he sipped at it one morning, before they left. They’d spoken a little more of it, leaving, and the more they did the more Daeron wanted to be gone. As much as he wanted to keep Lossenol from discovery, he wanted to be away. There were too many people, and a single small tent did not feel like enough privacy. The mountains had been crowded but at least they had had a real room to retreat to, with thick walls.

Eluréd and Elurín also seemed uncomfortable. There was no hiding the fact that they and Elwing’s sons were kin, and word had spread quickly that Dior’s sons lived. “Sindar keep coming up to us, wanting to speak to us—wanting to know what our plans are,” Elurín said now, wrinkling his nose. “It feels like they’re halfway to planning a coronation, whatever we say against it.”

“Elrond’s been laughing at us,” Eluréd said. “He said as long as they’re looking at us they aren’t looking at him.”

“And Elros?”

“Elros is already hailed as a lord among the Edain,” said Elurín after a moment. “Well, they both are, but he has embraced it. They…they haven’t shared with us, but I think I can guess how Elros, at least, will choose.” There was already grief in his voice at the thought. Even Daeron and Lossenol had heard by then of the plans being made for the Edain—of a land of their own somewhere over the Sea. Should Elros choose that path, it was likely he would set sail, and they would have to say farewell long before he died. If Elrond chose differently, Daeron wasn’t sure which would be crueler—to part early or to be able to stay together until the last. 

As they finished breakfast, someone came seeking Daeron. “Lord Celeborn wishes to speak with you, now that you are able,” said the young elf who spoke with an accent out of Doriath, but who Daeron was sure he’d never seen before.

He swallowed a sigh. “Yes, I will come.” He got to his feet, and spared a moment to be thankful that clean clothes had been found for them, and that he’d gotten to at least wash his hair. He was still a very far cry from the bright singer who had come before Thingol to perform, adorned in amethysts and pearls and brightly-dyed silks and linens. “What is your name?” he asked as they wound their way through the tents and through the many others going about their business in the encampment. 

“Lindir,” said his guide, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. “I remember you—though you won’t know me. I was still quite young when you left Doriath.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Did you really challenge Gorthaur to a battle of songs—like they say Finrod Felagund did?”

“Not exactly,” said Daeron, hearing the lingering rasp in his voice. “I fought him—but I would not have if there had been another choice.”

“Well, unlike Felagund, you were the victor.”

“No,” said Daeron. “The victor was the river, in the end. I just got lucky.”

Lindir led Daeron to a larger tent, plainly but comfortably appointed. A table was set in the middle with a scattering of papers across it, and Celeborn was there with Oropher. Galadriel was absent, to Daeron’s relief. “Daeron.” Oropher rose and to Daeron’s surprise, came forward to embrace him. “You look well—much better than when last we saw you. Come sit. We have much to speak of.”

“Do we?” Daeron asked as he sat, across from Oropher, and to Celeborn’s left where he sat at what would have been the head of the table, were the setting a little more formal. “I confess, I’m not sure what you could want from me.”

“To offer gratitude, for a start,” said Celeborn, watching Daeron both carefully and thoughtfully. “But also to ask for answers. How did my niece’s children come to call you their father? And who is your companion—the Noldo who they also call father?”

Daeron had expected the questions, but he still took a moment to try to order his thoughts. It had been such a long time since he had been truly answerable to anyone—especially anyone from Doriath—and he found that he did not like the feeling. The awareness of how careful he also had to be weighed on him. “That winter, I was called back west of the Ered Luin, and I found myself in Ossiriand,” he said finally.

“Called?” Oropher asked.

“I had—dreams. Strange ones, uneasy ones—I just felt that I needed to return to Beleriand. I met Lossenol there in Ossiriand. Then, after—I don’t know exactly what happened, for I think their memories of that time are a little muddled—but after Doriath was attacked, Eluréd and Elurín were found in the forest by Fladrif, an Ent. He brought them to Ossiriand, and there found us.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly—Finglas had brought Lossenol to Ossiriand before the twins. 

“But who is he?” Celeborn asked. “Why would you trust one of the Noldor with—”

“I imagine for reasons similar to why you married one,” Daeron said, not quite snapping.

“That is not the same thing,” Celeborn did snap. “Galadriel is not a kinslayer.”

“And she alone of all the Noldor can claim that distinction? Yet you are very quick to assume that Lossenol—”

“I only find myself wondering how he came to Ossiriand at almost the same time Eluréd and Elurín did—I wonder if he too was fleeing from Doriath, and the blood he spilled there.”

“He has killed only servants of the Enemy since I have known him,” Daeron said, “and always in defense of us. Neither of us asked the twins to call us their fathers. They chose that—they both are burdened with foresight, especially Eluréd, and they have been convinced from the start that we four were meant to find one another.”

“Why did you not seek the Havens?” Oropher asked. 

“To journey from Ossiriand to Eriador was dangerous enough,” Daeron said, clenching his fists in his lap against the memory of it, resisting the impulse to reach up and touch his still-healing throat. “We could not have crossed all of Beleriand—not chasing only the vaguest of rumors that others had escaped down the river. We heard years afterward from the Dwarves of Belegost that remnants of both Doriath and Gondolin had come to the Mouths of Sirion, but by then the passage was made even more impossible. If I could have found a way to reunite them with their sister, I would have. They were devastated to learn what happened there.”

“What do you intend to do now?” asked Oropher. 

“I don’t know. Eluréd and Elurín are relieved to know that Elwing lives, and grieved that she cannot return to these shores. They are very glad to have the chance to know their nephews—but neither of them will accept any crown you try to offer them.”

“They are Thingol’s heirs,” Celeborn said quietly. “Had they come to Sirion, or to Balar, they might be better prepared—”

“If I had tried to bring them across all of Beleriand, we would not be having this conversation,” Daeron said flatly, “because we would have been killed or worse. There was a price on my head out of Angband, which was bad enough—if he had learned that Dior’s sons still lived—”

“I did not mean to blame you, Daeron. That they are here at all is thanks to you—”

“And Lossenol.”

“To both of you,” Celeborn allowed, though he didn’t seem happy. “But you cannot decide for them that they should not take up—”

“I would never do such a thing,” Daeron snapped. “They were saying just this morning that they are weary of the attention they’ve been getting, and Eluréd has said before quite plainly that neither he nor Elurín would accept any crown that was offered to them. They do not want it. Doriath is no more, and there is no remaking it.”

“No one wants to remake Doriath,” said Oropher, “but there are enough of us left who do not want to submit to the King of the Noldor, either.”

“Are you not princes yourselves? Build your own realms and submit to no one.”

“Daeron—”

“If you care about them as you claim, you will respect their choices—will you not?”

Celeborn’s fist clenched on the table. “They are my nephews, Daeron,” he said shortly. “I have mourned them for nearly eighty years. Do not accuse me of not caring.”

“And they are my sons—I have loved them since they were six years old, and everything both Lossenol and I have done has been to protect them. I will not stop now. Speak to them, if you must, of crowns and inheritances, but be prepared for their refusal—and for words much harsher than my own.”

“No one wants to begin this new age with new rifts,” said Celeborn as someone came into the tent. Daeron glanced over, and had to dig his fingernails into his palms against a spike of panic as he recognized Galadriel. 

When last he had seen her she had been adorned in gems and gold and silver, a bright jewel in the setting of Menegroth's court. Now she was dressed plainly and practically, in a loose-fitting tunic and dark pants ducked into boots splashed with mud. Her hair gleamed like rich gold where it was twined around her head in braids. Her smile, when she turned it on Daeron, was kind. “Oh, Daeron—I hoped I would find you here.”

“Lady Galadriel,” he said, inclining his head, hoping he was not expected to rise. 

“What is it, Galadriel?” Celeborn asked, seeing something in her face that Daeron did not. 

“The searchers have returned—we have been seeking for the lost and the dead,” Galadriel added to Daeron. “They have brought back a body that I recognized—that of Menelas of Doriath. You were once his close friend, were you not?”

“Menelas died in the Bragollach,” Oropher said after a moment, sounding puzzled. “How is his body—”

“He was taken,” Daeron said quietly, “not slain. I already knew that he was dead, Lady Galadriel—Nellas and I were with him in his last moments, on the day the earth split, but did not dare linger long enough to bury him as we should have.”

“You did right, Daeron—it was better that you fled while you could. He will receive a proper burial now, tonight when the stars are out,” Galadriel said. Daeron wished she would not speak so gently. “Will you attend?”

“Nellas has gone on an errand and will not be back in time, but—yes, I will attend.” Someone needed to—someone who had really known him.

“Someone will come for you when it is time,” said Oropher. “I’m sorry, Daeron. But it seems he escaped at the last—”

“He didn’t.” Daeron’s hand finally rose to his neck of its own accord, feeling the skin there that was even then still tender. It would leave a scar, and he hadn’t yet decided how he felt about it. He was aware of the sudden keen attention of all three of the others. “I broke through the enchantments of Angband—but they kept him chained to life as well as enthralled.”

“His spirit is free now,” Galadriel said, “and will find rest and healing in Mandos. It was a kindness, Daeron.”

“It does not feel like one.” Daeron rose without lifting his gaze. “Please excuse me, my lords, my lady. I am meant still to be resting my voice when I can.”

He kept his composure until he reached his own tent. Eluréd and Elurín were gone again, off with Elrond and Elros, and Lossenol was sorting through some of the supplies they had been given. He looked up and immediately set them aside. “Daeron, what is it?”

“They found Menelas’ body. He’s—they’re going to bury him properly tonight.”

“Oh. That’s—that’s good, though.”

“Yes. Just…” Daeron sat down. He felt numb, and he realized that in spite of everything it hadn’t felt real until that moment. That Menelas was dead. That— “I killed him,” he whispered.

“No you didn’t.” Lossenol pulled Daeron over so he was practically sitting in his lap, the way he sometimes still held the twins even though they were much taller, rubbing a hand up and down Daeron’s spine. “Morgoth did. You just set him free.” Daeron turned to hide his face in Lossenol’s chest. He was very warm, and Daeron realized suddenly that he felt very cold. 

He did not, though, feel like the grief was going to kill him. It hurt, sharp as knives, but it was survivable.