A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Four

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Daeron didn’t know what to do. 

He had two children to worry about—Lúthien’s children! Her grandsons!—and a half-dead son of Fëanor who did not even remember his own name to nurse back to health. Daeron had not expected that. Before Celegorm—or Lossenol, as they were calling him now—had woken, Daeron had been scrambling to think of ways to convince him to leave himself and the twins alive. 

Now? Now he sat near the fire and watched Eluréd and Elurín curled up to sleep on either side of Celegorm Fëanorion, in spite of the warnings he had tried to give them to be wary—that the wounded stranger was a Noldo, that he had probably been among those who had attacked Menegroth, that he was dangerous. Elurín had just looked at him with eyes that should have had no place in the face of a six-year-old child and said, “Not to us.” And that was, apparently, that. It wasn't as though he could keep them in separate rooms—the flet wasn’t big enough, not if he wanted to keep them all from freezing to death.

If only he knew more of what had happened after his own departure from Doriath. Lúthien might have gone to Nargothrond, he thought, following Beren’s footsteps, and Celegorm had been there then—what might have passed between them if she had gone there, he couldn’t begin to guess. Celegorm had once had a hound that had followed him from Valinor—where was that hound now? Where were his brothers? If they were somehow able to track him down, would Daeron be able to convince them that he had saved Celegorm, that it was not his doing that he had lost all knowledge of who he was? Before they had attacked Doriath, Daeron would have been confident that he could—that Maglor, at least, would listen to him. They had fallen so quickly into friendship at the Mereth Aderthad, and surely Maglor would remember it as well as he did. 

The Mereth Aderthad was a very long time ago, now. The world had changed, and not for the better—so had Daeron. He had no confidence in his ability to convince anyone of anything, now—least of all Maglor with all the rest of his brothers behind him, the blood of Doriath staining their swords. 

What happened when Celegorm woke with his memories starting to return, or having returned all at once? What happened when he proved himself to be his father’s son, full of fire and rage—vengeful, perhaps, with Dior’s sons trapped there with him?

Daeron kept trying to think of what he knew about Celegorm, but it was very little, primarily just a brother’s fond description thanks to Maglor in their talks by the Pools of Ivrin. It had been Celegorm who led the Noldor to the Falas to break the siege there, when they had first come to Middle-earth—and that was no small thing, especially to Daeron, whose parents had been trapped there. His mother had not survived, but it had been Celegorm’s actions that saved his father’s life, even if it hadn’t made much of a difference in the end. Celegorm had ruled Himlad until the Bragollach, alongside his brother Curufin, and afterward of course they had found refuge in Nargothrond. And then Daeron had left Beleriand, and he did not even know whether Nargothrond still stood. He rather doubted it—he seemed to remember hearing some jumbled tale of a dragon—but couldn’t be certain. 

Tossing Celegorm out into the snow was out of the question. Daeron supposed he could try to find a way to recover the lost memories—but the mind was a fragile thing, and it was just as likely that he would make things worse rather than better. He could tell Celegorm who he thought he was, but he didn’t know enough to answer all of the questions that would arise. 

There was also, small though it was, a chance that Daeron was wrong. Any one of the Fëanorians’ followers might wear a pendant with that star. Silver hair was unusual but that did not mean no one else among the Noldor had it. Sometimes he mumbled names in his sleep, asking for Curvo or Cáno, perhaps Nelyo. Daeron did not know those names, but Curvo was very close to Curufin, the brother whose name was always paired with Celegorm’s. 

Even if he couldn’t be certain, it was better to go forward as though he was—to be as cautious as was possible while they were stuck in such close quarters. He could be kind, but he did not need to share more of himself than absolutely necessary—he did not need to make friends. As soon as he was well enough, perhaps come spring, Celegorm could make his way back west to wherever his brothers might be. Perhaps the Ents would be able to find out more, if Daeron asked them. Perhaps other Elves or even Men, might make their way to Ossiriand with news.

Perhaps it would all end in disaster. 

No, that wasn’t helpful. Daeron had to protect Eluréd and Elurín—he had to get them to safety, and he thought the Ents had the right of it. Beleriand was too dangerous, and the Enemy had not yet set his sights farther than the Ered Luin. If Daeron could get Lúthien’s grandchildren into Eriador, they would be safe. There would be other Elves there, perhaps still some who had lived in Ossiriand, who had been there when Beren and Lúthien had lived upon Tol Galen—surely they would take them in, raise the boys far better than Daeron could ever hope to.

He just had to get them through this winter first—a winter full of snowstorms and harsh winds that would have made travel impossible even if he had been alone. 

The days dragged on. On the rare clear days Daeron ventured out, sometimes, to see if he could hunt something or to try his hand at ice fishing in the pond nearby. The fishing was more successful than the hunting, but he disliked fishing even on warm summer days, and he hated to leave Celegorm alone with the twins, even though nothing ever happened.

Well, nothing but Eluréd and Elurín growing ever more fond of both of them. For his part, Celegorm—Lossenol, Daeron needed to remember to call him—seemed fond of them in turn. If he was impatient with his own slow recovery, he was very patient with the children. He could tell them apart, too, somehow, never once mistaking one for the other. Daeron was getting better at it, as he got to know them, but Lossenol had had no trouble from the start.

When Daeron returned one afternoon after several hours of fishing with two reasonably large fish that he’d caught just when he had been ready to give up, he found Eluréd and Elurín drawing on one of the walls with charcoal. He had been teaching them both his cirth and the Noldor’s tengwar, but they had abandoned that practice in favor of silly drawings. Lossenol was asleep, frowning slightly, and did not stir when Daeron came in. 

“Daeron?” Elurín came to throw his arms around Daeron’s neck as he sat down to get ready to cook the fish.

“Yes?”

“What happens when spring comes?”

“All of the snow will met, and the flowers will bloom, and—”

“No!” Elurín giggled. “I mean what are we going to do?”

“Oh.” Daeron set the fish aside and turned to wrap an arm around Elurín's waist. “I’m not really sure yet. I want to take you east, over the mountains.”

“Why?”

“I think it will be safer there. Spring will also bring danger—if it is hard for us to travel through this weather, it is also hard for the orcs, and that will change come spring.”

“Do you think anyone else got away? Do you think they’ll go over the mountains, too?”

“I don’t know,” Daeron said. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

“And Lossenol is coming with us, right?”

Daeron looked over at him; his eyes were both still closed, and he seemed to still be sleeping. “I don’t know,” he said after swallowing his first vehement no, of course not! “He is a Noldo, remember, Elurín, and—”

“No, he’s our Lossenol,” said Elurín. “We were all supposed to meet here together, and that means he has to come with us, wherever we go!”

Daeron turned to look at Elurín properly, and found his eyes shining with that disquieting look that suggested that he was not only speaking a child’s desires. “He might not want to,” Daeron said, unsure how to try to discourage these thoughts without being cruel. “When he can remember more, he will surely want to leave and find his own people again.” Which was, of course, also Daeron’s biggest fear. There was no way to hide his intentions to go east of the mountains—if things went wrong he would have to hope that his own ability to hide would keep them safe. He had fallen very far from the height of his power, but at least he knew that he could do that—no one could pierce the shadows he could sing up, except maybe someday Eluréd or Elurín themselves. 

“What if he doesn’t ever remember more?” asked Elurín. 

“He was still at Doriath, you know—”

“We didn't see him there. We don’t know what he did. Maybe he tried to help!”

That was a child’s wishful thinking. Daeron sighed, and carefully pried Elurín’s arms off so he could return to cooking their lunch. “We’ll see what springtime brings.”

When he glanced back toward Lossenol, he found his good eye open, though he couldn't tell how long he had been awake or if he had been listening. Sometimes it seemed that his mind went somewhere far away, or he just became entirely insensible of his surroundings for a while. When their eyes met, Daeron saw something shadowy lurking behind Lossenol’s. He didn’t know if it was the Oath or his Doom or something else, but it frightened him. Daeron looked away, trying to focus on the food and not the future. 

Once he had cooked the fish and given Eluréd and Elurín their portions, Daeron took Lossenol his, and helped him sit up. “What does it mean—that I’m a Noldo?” Lossenol asked, in that slow and halting way of his. 

“Do you not know?”

“N-no…” He made a face, one of frustration; as yet he was too weak to do much about it, but Daeron still felt uneasy. How much or how little would it take to tip frustration into anger? What would he do with that anger? “It feels like—like I should.”

“The Elves are not one unified people; there are many groups and kingdoms with shifting alliances. Your people are the Noldor, and mine are the Sindar.”

“But how do you know…?”

“Your eye tells it. You have seen the Light of Valinor—the Two Trees that are no more. I have known other Noldor—I know what it looks like.”

“But if—what was—what did I do? In—in Doriath?”

Daeron sat back on his heels. Lossenol met his gaze, something desperate in his face, as though he already had an inkling but did not want to be right. “I don’t know what happened there,” Daeron said finally. “I left many years ago. But there are very few Noldor these days who are friends of Doriath—and I believe a Silmaril was there, until this winter.” Lossenol’s expression did not change at the mention of the Silmaril. “Fëanor and his sons once swore a terrible oath—I do not know what exactly it binds them to, except to regain the Silmarils that Fëanor made at any cost. The Enemy—Morgoth, that my people call Bauglir—stole them, when he destroyed the Trees and slew Finwë, Fëanor’s father and the King of the Noldor. I fear one was retrieved, but not by Fëanor’s sons. And so as in Alqualondë they drew their swords upon Doriath.”

“Kinslayers,” Lossenol whispered.

“Yes.”

“You think I’m—”

“I cannot say with certainty what you have or have not done, but what else would have taken you to Doriath? You were not one who came with the children of Finarfin, who were Elu Thingol’s kin—I would have recognized you if that were so.”

“But I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—”

“You don’t know that,” Daeron said. 

“Then why—why are you—”

“Because I am not a kinslayer. When you remember who you are and why you have done what you’ve done—maybe you can explain it to me then too, because I do not understand it either. And when spring comes and you are strong enough, we will part ways. I do not know whether the Sons of Fëanor still hold Himring or Amon Ereb, but I can try to find out for you, and then you can make your way to wherever they are, if you wish.”

He left Lossenol’s side to clean the dishes, trying to ignore the way his hands shook and his heart beat too quickly in his chest. When he turned back he found that Lossenol had eaten his food before lying back down, with his back to the hearth. It was impossible to tell whether he was awake or not.