A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Twenty Seven

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Menelas was one of many to be buried that evening, in a long row of graves dug some distance from the camp, near the edge of the woods that had survived. A chill wind blew from the Sea, as it always seemed to, and Lossenol kept the hood of his cloak raised. Daeron hadn't wanted him to come—he was even more afraid of someone recognizing him than Lossenol was himself—but he’d insisted, and so had Eluréd and Elurín. This wasn’t something Daeron should face alone.

There were few words spoken. Some sang ancient songs for the dead, following traditions of all kindreds of the Elves and of the Edain. Daeron remained silent as Menelas’ body, carefully wrapped in what looked like sailcloth, was lowered into the ground, though he stepped forward to help build the cairn. There were a handful of others from Doriath, though as far as Lossenol could tell none of them knew Daeron well, though he wasn’t sure whether they had known Menelas. When the last stone was placed Daeron stepped back, and Lossenol pulled him close. He could feel eyes on them, but he ignored them.

Back in their tent, Daeron remained quiet, but it wasn’t the sort of quiet that had worried Lossenol in the past. He did not seem to be in any danger of fading, in spite of having spent most of his strength first freeing Menelas and then fighting Sauron, all while trying to survive the world breaking apart around them. As Lossenol thought of it the ground shook beneath them, just a little. Next to him Daeron stiffened. 

“I think it will be doing that for some time,” Eluréd said after it settled. He pressed his palms to the ground. “I spoke to Kóri today and he said the earth is still trying to settle into its new shape.”

“Kóri is here?” Lossenol asked. “Is he all right?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, Lossë, I thought you knew. The dwarves are all preparing to leave in the next few days—some will come back to help build the city that Gil-galad and Círdan are planning for this spot, or to build new settlements of their own in the Ered Luin, but Belegost and Nogrod are no more, and they want to establish their own new homes first. Most will go to Khazad-dûm, though Kóri seems to think some will venture even farther east.”

“I’ve never seen the Misty Mountains,” Daeron said after a moment.

“Do you want to?” Lossenol asked. 

“I want to,” said Elurín. “And what lies beyond them. And what lies beyond Nenuial, and south of the Road, and…”

“But what of your nephews?” Daeron asked. 

“We do not want to go so far so soon,” Eluréd said, nudging Elurín with his elbow. “Elros—he has chosen the Gift of Men, and when there are enough ships he will depart these shores for the island that the Valar are preparing for any Edain who wish to go.”

“What of Elrond?” Lossenol asked.

“He has chosen the fate of the Elves, and he will stay here in Gil-galad’s service,” said Elurín. “All the great lords from Doriath are very frustrated with the lot of us—the only one willing to take up any crown at all is Elros, and he will be ruling a kingdom of Men far away over the Sea. Elrond has refused the Sindarin crown on the grounds that he is as much a Noldo as he is a Sinda—he and Elros are descended from all three kindreds of the Eldar, you know, and all three Houses of the Edain. He refuses to claim one over another.” He sounded both approving and proud. 

That would be hard for both Elrond and Elros, Lossenol thought. To be parted forever—and so much sooner than if Elros had chosen to remain in Middle-earth at Elrond’s side. He wondered if that would make the final parting easier, when the end of Elros’ life came. He wondered how either of them could bear it. Whatever Eluréd and Elurín choose, Lossenol knew they would choose alike, and face it together.

“Have you chosen, birdies?” Daeron asked softly. 

“Yes,” said Eluréd, exchanging a glance with Elurín. “We’ve both chosen the fate of the Elves. Someday—not yet, but someday—we will take ship into the west to find Elwing, and our mother.”

“And you are both at peace with this choice?” Daeron asked, looking between them.

“Yes,” said Eluréd. “And it’s over and done—we spoke to Eönwë this morning. It—it was hardly a choice at all. I knew what I wished to choose even before he finished telling us of it.”

“What if we went to stay with Goldberry for a while?” Elurín asked. “It’s not that far—and Eluréd and I can come back easily enough to see Elrond and Elros, and you said Nellas is already there.”

“Nellas is not going to stay,” said Daeron. “She is going to sail with the fleet.”

Their faces fell. “Oh…”

“Don’t worry—she’ll be back in plenty of time for us to say our farewells. And as you said, someday we’ll all take ship ourselves, and we will see her again. It will be goodbye, but not—not forever.” Daeron sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as much as the twins. Lossenol hooked his arm around his waist, and felt Daeron slump against his side. For himself, Lossenol wasn’t sure whether he ever wanted to return to the west. He had no memory of it, and none of the tales he’d heard had stirred any great desire to see those shores. There was enough to see here, enough to do—especially now that they could do so in freedom and relative safety. Maybe he’d change his mind someday, but it felt a little like his lost memories—it was in his past, and he wished for it to stay there. If Daeron had wanted to take ship, Lossenol would have gone with him—but he was very glad that Daeron wanted to stay too. 

“So maybe after Nellas departs,” said Elurín after a moment. “Then we’ll go stay with Goldberry. I want to introduce both Elrond and Elros to Iarwain sometime, too—I think they would like him.”

“Elros said to us this afternoon that he and Elrond would like to learn from you, Daeron, if you’re willing to teach them,” Eluréd added. “They said that Maglor spoke of you sometimes.”

It had felt very strange to hear that Elrond and Elros had been taken from the ruins of Sirion by the last Sons of Fëanor, and then to hear that they had been raised by them—and raised well, obviously—and that they had great love for Maglor, at least. It had been more difficult to tell what they thought of Maedhros. It made some part of Lossenol want to seek them out in spite of his misgivings and his desire to leave his past as far behind him as he could. The desire wasn’t strong enough to act on, but he kept finding himself thinking about it, wondering where they were.

“He did?” Daeron said now, startled. “I would not have thought…but yes, if they want to learn what I know of music, or whatever else I can teach them, of course I will. Only I don’t have any instruments. I think my flute must be at the bottom of the Sea by now—I left it behind when we left for the Gelion the last time. I haven’t had a chance yet to make another one.”

They’d been many days in the camp already, and Lossenol missed the woods—he missed being far away from other people. Waiting a little longer to say farewell to Nellas wasn’t any real hardship, but he felt an itch under his skin. He felt like there was something he needed to do—and that feeling came with those old dreams, the ones of light. He hadn’t had any since Gil-estel had first risen, but that night he dreamed that he was trying to reach a pair of stars, that they seemed to be just within his reach, but every time he stretched out his hand they were yanked away—and he knew at the same time that if he did manage to catch them it would only harm him. But not trying would be worse. He heard someone calling out to him from behind, calling a name that in the dream he knew to be his, but it slipped away when he startled awake, sometime in the dead of night, to Daeron’s hand on his face. 

“You were dreaming,” he whispered. “What was it?”

His head ached fiercely, and Lossenol turned to bury his face in Daeron’s shoulder. “Light,” he whispered. “The same light, that…”

“I see.” Daeron stroked his hair and hummed a quiet song. He wasn’t meant to be using any power at all, but Lossenol couldn’t bring himself to protest, not when it worked almost in an instant to ease the pounding behind his eyes.

“There’s something I need to be doing,” Lossenol whispered when he could make his tongue work. “But I don’t…I don’t know what. Just—if I don’t, then…”

“There’s nothing,” Daeron said with sudden and surprising fierceness, and his words seemed to sink under Lossenol’s skin the same way his songs did, chasing away the itch, though not quite banishing it entirely. “There’s nothing you need to be doing except to keep recovering your strength, and to be here with us.”

“But it—what if it’s like—when you said you felt you should cross the mountains—”

“It did not hurt me,” said Daeron. “It made me uneasy—it was just an awareness. Not like this, this is just a nightmare. Try to go back to sleep, Lossë. I’ll sing the dreams away.”

“You shouldn’t—”

“I’m fine. I know my limits.” Daeron kissed his forehead and kept stroking his hair. “Just let me—” They both stiffened when an alarm was sounded, somewhere in the distance. Lossenol sat up so quickly he almost knocked Daeron off of the cot, and both Eluréd and Elurín jolted awake. “What’s—”

“I’ll go see,” said Elurín, grabbing his sword as he rolled to his feet.

“Elurín—” Eluréd started to protest.

“I won’t get involved, I promise.”

Lossenol had the sudden, overwhelming need to go after Elurín, to stop him from getting closer to whatever it was, and to—to do something else, but he didn’t know what. He didn’t move, hardly breathed, mostly because Daeron had moved so he was practically sitting on his lap, and his grip on Lossenol’s arms was hard enough to bruise. Eluréd went to the tent’s entrance. Lossenol heard him speaking to someone outside, but whoever it was did not seem to know anything. 

After what felt like a very long time, Elurín returned. “It was them,” he said grimly. “The last Fëanorians—Maglor and Maedhros.”

“What did they do?” Daeron asked. 

“They took the Silmarils. Eönwë let them go.”

Lossenol felt suddenly like he couldn’t breathe. He ducked his face into Daeron’s hair, headache returning with a vengeance. Daeron’s grip on his arms tightened.

“They just—took them and left?” Eluréd asked.

“It seems so. They slew those guarding the Silmarils—I don’t know all that happened, only what Oropher could tell me as he returned. They’re gone, and Gil-galad has ordered that no one go after them. It’s so—so pointless.”

Daeron sighed, and loosened his grip on Lossenol, though he didn’t let go. When he spoke he just sounded very sad. “Then it’s over. There’s nothing for us to do tonight. Go back to sleep, songbirds. You too, Lossë.”

He tried, but in spite of Daeron humming quiet lullabies his dreams were filled with fire and water, of the roar of the Sea and someone screaming. He woke in the morning feeling as though he hadn’t slept at all.

Nellas returned in the afternoon. She was just in time—Eluréd had come back from fetching breakfast that morning with news that the first of the ships to return to Valinor would depart the next day. Daeron disappeared with Nellas almost as soon as they had all said hello, and when they returned some time later she had tears on her face, though she seemed otherwise calm and mostly cheerful. “Nellas,” Eluréd said, a little hesitantly. “Would you—do you think you could carry a letter for us? To Elwing?”

“Yes, of course! I’ll take her anything you want to send—and I’ll tell her all about you, too.” Nellas sat down on the floor between the twins and looked at Lossenol. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just tired.”

“Is your back healed?”

“Yes. Mostly,” he added when Elurín glared at him. The bandages were off, but the newly-forming scars were tender and he could feel them pulling whenever he moved. He was tired most of the time, because even the most mundane wounds were hard to heal from when dealt by a Maia of Sauron’s power. That day his head ached and he kept flinching at loud noises. For his part, Daeron was still unable to sing very loud, and his range had been reduced, which Lossenol knew bothered him even though both Elrond and Elros—and the other healers who had taken a look at him over the last few weeks—insisted that it would return with time and rest. Their wounds had been a good excuse to avoid leaving their tent very often, but that wouldn’t last much longer. 

“Daeron, is there anything you wish me to take west for you?” Nellas asked then. 

Daeron thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Just a promise to come west someday, if anyone asks, though I don’t suppose anyone will—not for a long time. I don’t know when, but—someday.”

The ships departed with the morning tide. They saw Nellas off, and she waved until her ship was blocked from their view by others. Lossenol kept his hood up and his face hidden, and was aware of eyes on them. “Is there any reason we should stay longer, ourselves?” Eluréd asked as they turned back from the new-built docks. The wind picked up, and Lossenol pulled his hood farther forward against the sudden cold spray that fell over them. He the salt tasted like tears. 

“No,” said Daeron, “unless your nephews—”

“They’re gone,” said Elurín, “but I told them where they could find us upon their return.”

“Then there’s nothing at all to keep us here,” said Daeron.

“Are you sure?” Lossenol asked. “Just—there are people here that you—”

“There is no one I was particularly close to,” said Daeron, “and I have less than no desire to get involved in whatever is going on between the lords of Doriath and the Noldor and whoever else. I don’t know what sort of position I would have, and I don’t really want to find out.”

“It would not be a bad one,” Elurín said. 

“It would be uncomfortable for everyone,” said Daeron, “especially me. Doriath is no more, and I have no interest in attempting to remake it.”

“You’re still a grumpy hermit,” Lossenol said, mostly to try to get Daeron to laugh. Beside him, Eluréd snorted. 

Daeron did smile, but he replied seriously, “Yes, I am.” He slipped his hand into Lossenol’s. “Even if I wasn’t—I have always been a child of the forests, not the seaside. It’s fine to visit—or it will be someday when the world is more at ease—but I miss the trees.”

They returned to their tent to gather their things, debating off and on whether they should slip away in the busy part of the afternoon or wait until evening, when they could make their way down the road under the stars. Before they could decide one way or another, Lord Celeborn arrived to speak to Daeron. “Are you leaving?” he asked, apparently forgetting for a moment what he’d come to say when he saw the state of the tent.

“Yes,” said Daeron. 

“All of you?” Celeborn looked at Eluréd and Elurín, who nodded.

“We aren’t going far,” said Eluréd, “and Elurín and I will return to visit often—but there are friends we wish to find again who live farther east along the road.”

“Elrond and Elros will know how to find us,” Elurín added. 

Celeborn turned to Daeron. “I had hoped you would put an end to your self-imposed exile, Daeron,” he said. “You have been greatly missed.”

“I do not consider it exile,” said Daeron. “I have no intention of disappearing entirely, my lord. But I am not made for cities of stone, far away from the woods, and now that the world is made safe I have a great desire to see more of it.”

“As do we,” said Eluréd. 

Celeborn looked then at Lossenol, and Lossenol had the uneasy feeling that he was one who could see straight through the simple guise that Elurín had placed over him. His eyes were starlit, like Daeron’s, and very keen. “Have we met?” he asked. “Long ago, perhaps?”

“No, my lord,” Lossenol said. 

“You never came to Doriath in the company of my wife’s kin?”

“No,” said Lossenol, “though I wish that I had. It sounds as though it was a very beautiful place.”

“How did you come to meet Daeron?” Celeborn asked him. “He has not shared that tale with me in full.”

“I was wounded after a battle, and—I remember very little from that time. Daeron saved my life.”

“And he saved mine in turn,” Daeron added quietly. “That is enough. You have no reason to question him like this.”

“I think there is every reason to question a stranger—”

“He is a stranger to you, perhaps—but then I might as well be too. But if you want to know why we are leaving, this is why—I know we have been the subjects of stares and rumors, and neither Lossenol nor I care much for it.”

“You might not be the subject of rumors if you did not keep yourselves so separate,” Celeborn pointed out. “But are you leaving right this moment? I had hoped you would lunch with us—with Oropher and me, and Galadriel, and—”

“No. Thank you, but no.”

“Lady Galadriel asks even more probing and pointed questions than you do, my lord,” said Elurín when Celeborn looked at the twins. A slightly pained look flashed across his face at Elurín’s address, which Lossenol didn’t quite understand. “As my brother said, we intend to return often—to see our nephews but also our other kin.”

“Very well,” said Celeborn. He embraced Eluréd and then Elurín, bade Daeron and Lossenol farewell, and departed. 

“Is he your kinsman?” Lossenol asked the twins.

“He is our mother’s uncle,” said Eluréd. “Nellas said so when we first came—though maybe you don’t remember. You were still in a lot of pain at the time. I think we must have met him when we were young, but we met so many people in Menegroth that they all kind of blur together. I’m not sure if Oropher or Amdír are also related to us.”

“Amdír is, but more distantly through Celeborn’s mother’s line,” said Daeron. “I can draw it out for you sometime if you would like.”

“Maybe,” said Eluréd. “I suppose we’ll have to learn eventually.”

“I probably should have taught you all of it long ago,” Daeron said. “Only I never really expected you to need to know it.”

Finally, they set out, following the Dwarf road, leaving then and there rather than waiting for the evening. The woods on either side were gilded with gold and orange, slowly changing from summer’s green to autumn’s fire. The summer had been unseasonably cold, after the chaos of the war’s end, but now it seemed that both the earth and the air were settling down a little, and inland the air held just a hint of a chill appropriate to the season, and the farther they got from the shore the more the air smelled of earth and leaf mould, rather than salt spray. Lossenol glanced north, following the course of the River Lhûn. Somewhere there, overgrown now with honeysuckle and brambles, were the burned out remains of the village they had called their home for so many years. He missed it, but it didn’t ache in the same way that it once had. They did not need to keep secrets anymore—they did not need to hide from friends or foes. The world lay open before their feet, fields and forests and rivers and mountains. 

And he felt lighter—as though some weight had been lifted from his spirit. It had been days since his head had ached, and his back was healing well. His dreams continued to be haunted by floods and fires, but the blinding light was gone from them.

“What are you smiling about?” Daeron asked.

“Just—this is the start of something brand new. We can go anywhere, do anything—no more wars, no more fear.” Lossenol looked over at Daeron and saw the way his eyes brightened. “We can do whatever we want.”

Eluréd laughed, suddenly—a bright and joyful sound. “We can, can’t we? Oh, what a wonderful thing to be alive under the Sun!”