A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Five

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Kinslayer. The word echoed through his mind, like a curse. He kept staring at his hands, wondering whose blood had covered them, wondering if he had known those he went to kill. 

He didn’t want it to be true. But what reason would Daeron have to lie about it?

He could not imagine what would drive him to kill anything that wasn’t—that wasn’t an orc, in a battle, or an animal, on a hunt. 

Daeron was afraid of him. Lossenol didn’t think Daeron was very afraid for himself, but he hadn’t missed the way he had tried at first to discourage Eluréd and Elurín from speaking to him or including him in their games. Daeron always said it was because Lossenol was injured and needed to rest—but now the real reason was clear. 

What sort of monsters were the Noldor, that they would harm children?

What sort of monster was he?

He tried to focus on the names Daeron had invoked—Finwë, Silmaril, Fëanor. Valinor. Trees. He felt as though he should know them. He thought he at least recognized Morgoth Bauglir—he was the Enemy, the one who commanded the orcs and the balrogs and the dragons. 

He knew about orcs and balrogs—the latter filled him with a sort of horrible dread that he couldn’t quite understand.

Across the room Daeron was speaking to the twins, telling some sort of story that made them giggle. There was so much Lossenol didn’t know, but he was certain that protecting the twins was the most important thing—he didn’t know how he knew that, but it felt like something he had known all his life. It made him wonder if there were other children that his heart remembered even if his mind couldn’t, but when he tried to think more about it the pain in his head just got worse and worse. 

Eventually, he must have fallen asleep. The next thing he knew he was waking to a terrible wailing sound. When he tried to sit up, Daeron said, “It’s only the wind.”

“The wind?” he repeated. Beside him Eluréd and Elurín were curled up together, fast asleep. Daeron was awake, wrapped in blankets and leaning against the wall by the hearth. The fire had burned low, and his face was mostly in shadow, but for the starlit glimmer of his eyes. 

“Only the wind,” he said quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

He lay back down, but sleep would not return. Instead there was just a gnawing, aching loneliness that welled up in him and made his eyes burn with tears. The wind howled, and he could feel the flet shifting and flexing around and under him. He felt cold and small and he hated it—hated feeling so helpless, hated knowing that he was entirely reliant on someone else just to stay alive, that if something happened he would need to trust Daeron to protect him. Daeron who hated and feared him.

After a while he managed to swallow past the lump in his throat and find his voice. “Is there anything I could do that—that would let you trust me? That—that would make you believe I won’t hurt you? Or the children?”

Daeron didn’t answer for a long time. Lossenol thought he might have fallen asleep. Then he said, “I do trust that—as you are now. I do not trust that your priorities will not change quickly and drastically when you recover enough to remember.”

“I owe you my life,” Lossenol said, keeping his gaze on the shadowy ceiling. “That must count for something.”

“Many things should, but have been proven not to,” Daeron said. “You cannot make any promises right now that either of us can trust you to keep.”

“What if I never remember who I am?” Lossenol asked. “What if—what if it’s all just gone?”

“You don’t know—”

“What if I don’t want to remember who I am? I don’t—I don’t want to be who you—who you think I have been.”

“Whether you remember it or not, there is no changing the past.”

“But I can’t be tied to it if I don’t—”

“I am not going to debate the nature of one’s very self with you right now,” Daeron said. “You can make your future whatever you want—but whether you remember it or not, your past and your deeds have shaped you, and will continue to do so. Do not look to me for purpose or absolution—I cannot give you either.”

He didn’t think that was what he wanted, but he didn’t have the words for what he did want.

He fell asleep after a while, in spite of the howling wind. The storm did not abate by morning, and the sounds made everyone uneasy all day. Daeron finished carving small flutes for Eluréd and Elurín, and began to teach them how to play. Lossenol wasn’t sure if it was mere distraction or not, but both boys listened intently as Daeron explained how to hold the flutes and where to place their fingers, and the names of the different notes. When Daeron played, the music seemed to harmonize effortlessly with the howling wind, turning it all into something haunting and almost beautiful. 

By the next day the storm had passed, and Daeron disappeared sometime in the morning. He had still checked Lossenol’s various wounds with brisk and gentle efficiency, and made sure that he ate, and helped him start getting up and moving around so he could begin to rebuild his strength—and Lossenol didn’t understand why. When he returned it was empty-handed. Rather than going hunting or fishing, he had spoken to the Ents, who had somehow learned something of what was happening west of the River Gelion. When Eluréd asked how they knew, Daeron only shrugged. “I am sure Finglas would tell me if I asked, but I am also sure it would have taken the rest of the day at least, and I was already half-frozen.” He sat down by the fire with a sigh, and smiled when Elurín handed him a blanket. “Thank you!”

“Did you learn what happened to our parents? Or baby Elwing?” asked Elurín.

“No, I’m sorry. I think some escaped Doriath, and might be making their way down Sirion, but where they will go in the end or even if that is true, I can’t say. It sounds as though the Sons of Fëanor,” he added, glancing at Lossenol, “have indeed returned to Amon Ereb, and are holding the lands north and east of the Amdram against the Enemy in the north, though I imagine the storms this winter are helping them a great deal. The dwarves of Belegost have been making some sorties down the mountains, which sounds like good news—the dwarf road through the mountains is the quickest and easiest way over the Ered Luin.”

“But can we not go to the River Sirion, if that’s where everyone else is?” asked Eluréd. 

Daeron shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. Maybe the Noldor and the dwarves can keep most orcs at bay, but we’ve already had some come through these woods over these last weeks, and it will only be worse elsewhere. Whatever pockets of resistance remain, Beleriand is nearly overrun. Those who remain must go west to the coast or east over the mountains, and we are much too far to try for the Sea. It will be safer in Eriador, at least for a little while.”

“Someday, maybe?” asked Elurín.

Daeron hesitated. He was very good at hiding what he felt, Lossenol thought, but that brief silence spoke volumes. “I don’t know,” Daeron said finally, choosing honesty over false reassurance. “I’m sorry—the world is growing very dark very quickly, and it has not been given to me to glimpse the future. All I can say for sure is that we are safe here, for now, and come springtime I hope that we can make it across the mountains. I had friends among the dwarves, once upon a time, and if we meet any perhaps they will remember my name and give us safe passage.” Eluréd and Elurín looked at each other. “What’s wrong?”

“It was dwarves that—that Ada went with our grandfather to fight, when they tried to steal the Nau—the Naugla—the big necklace with the Silmaril,” said Elurín. “Grandmother was very sad. That was when we went to Doriath.”

Daeron leaned back against the wall. “I have missed a great deal since I went away,” he murmured. “And Finglas did say something to me of dwarves…well—we’ll see what happens, I suppose. It is still the fastest and safest way to cross the mountains.” Then he frowned. “That necklace, Elurín—did you mean the Nauglamír?”

“Yes!” said Elurín, brightening. “That’s what it was called!”

“That belonged to Finrod Felagund. How in the world did it come to—never mind.” Daeron sighed. “Felagund is no more, and Nargothrond is likely fallen—I suppose it doesn’t much matter now how the Nauglamír came to Doriath.”

“Did you know him? Finrod Felagund?” Lossenol asked. 

“Yes.” Daeron didn’t look at him. “He was Elu Thingol’s nephew, through his mother, Eärwen of Alqualondë, and also a Prince of the Noldor, of Finwë’s line. From what I have heard—and I do not know if it is true, for I have heard only the most scattered and confused of rumors—he died aiding Beren and Lúthien in their quest.” 

There was Alqualondë again—as dark a name as Doriath now, even if Daeron would not or could not share the details of what had happened there. Lossenol looked away. 

“It was very pretty. The Nauglamír,” said Elurín, pronouncing the name carefully. “But Ada does not like to wear it.” He paused. “Did not like to wear it.” Daeron held out his arms upon hearing the correction, and both twins scrambled over to curl up on his lap. Though Daeron was always kind, this was the most openly affectionate Lossenol had yet seen him be. 

He turned away, and picked up one of the socks Daeron had shown him how to darn, because he needed something to do with his hands—to be sure he could still use his hands in such a way, Daeron had added. That grief—for Doriath and everyone who had once lived there—wasn’t one he could share, even if he wasn’t part of the reason they had to grieve in the first place. 

The days continued to drag on. Lossenol couldn’t remember any other winters, of course, but this one felt very long. He got stronger, little by little. Daeron sang songs of healing, and he paced around the small room once he could walk, slowly increasing how many minutes he could stay on his feet. In between he played games with the twins, and discovered that he was better than Daeron at braiding their hair, and slept a lot. His head still ached more often than not, but by the time Daeron came inside one day to announce that the Ents had departed and the sun felt almost warm, even that was improving.

“Does that mean we’re leaving?” Eluréd asked.

“Not yet, but soon,” said Daeron. “I do not want to be sleeping out in the open when it’s still so cold—not to mention we need to wait for the passes to clear of any snow—though the consequence of waiting for that to improve is to end up sleeping in mud. Either way, the journey north is unlikely to be pleasant, but we’ll manage.”

Lossenol had been trying not to ask too many questions, since Daeron couldn’t answer most of them and didn’t seem to want to answer the rest, but now he ventured, “And—how far from here to…”

“Amon Ereb? Many miles, but—”

“I thought we were going east, not west!” Eluréd protested. 

“We are,” Daeron said, “but—”

“But Lossenol has to come with us, too!”

Daeron knelt so he could look the twins in the face. “Lossenol has his own people who are doubtless looking for him,” he said. “They will be able to help him better than we can.”

“No, there’s no one looking for him,” said Eluréd, in a tone that sent a shiver down Lossenol’s spine. “There’s no one looking for any of us. That’s why we were all supposed to come here. Fladrif said he could feel it on the wind, that this place was where he was supposed to bring us. And Finglas brought Lossenol here too—because we all had to find each other!”

Before masking it, Daeron looked as unsettled as Lossenol felt. “How do you know that, Eluréd?” he asked. 

“I just do,” Eluréd said. 

“I do, too,” added Elurín.

Daeron breathed a sigh. “Well—Lossenol will come with us as far as the River Ascar and the Sarn Athrad. We’ll see what we see there, I suppose. Amon Ereb is closer than that, as the crow flies,” he added, glancing toward Lossenol, “a little ways south of here, and some miles west, but there is no other good place to cross the Gelion, certainly not on foot.”

“If I were one of the Fëanorians,” Lossenol said, “I’d send patrols to the Sarn Athrad anyway—if it’s that important, it needs to be protected.”

“I have also had that thought.”

“Lossenol has to come with us wherever we go,” Elurín insisted. He left Daeron to run over to Lossenol, wrapping his arms around his neck. “It’s important.”

“We’ll see what happens,” Lossenol said. It might be that there was no way to cross the Gelion at all, these days. It might be that the Fëanorians did not hold Amon Ereb—it might be that they found that orcs had overrun all the world and there was no safe place to go even east of the mountains. 

Whatever happened—if he had been as terrible as Daeron had said, Lossenol did not think he wanted to return to the west. He did not want to remember who he was. What he wanted was what the twins wanted—to stay with them. The only thing he could be certain of was that Eluréd and Elurín needed to be protected, and that was something he could do once he was strong enough, once he got his hands on new weapons, since it seemed he had lost all of his. It was his fault they had no one else. There was no making up for it—but he could at least see that they didn’t lose anything else. 

He didn’t say any of that out loud. Words were too hard still, trying to get them from his mind to his tongue. He just hugged Elurín instead, and then Eluréd when he came to join his brother. Daeron watched them with an unreadable expression before he got up to fetch more firewood. 

They left when most of the snow had melted, and Daeron was confident that Lossenol could make the journey to the Ascar. It would be slow going, because they had to move carefully and because Lossenol himself was slow, but once they started moving he found himself improving rapidly—he felt at home in the woods. He knew how to move through the trees unseen and unheard and he knew what they could forage for food this early in the year, and how to find animal tracks for hunting, and how to find a good place in the evening to make camp. Daeron let him try his bow, aiming at a tree stump when they stopped for an afternoon. It was frustrating to try to adjust to only having one eye, but it wasn’t impossible. He could do it, given enough time and practice—he could feel himself getting stronger, no longer helpless, no longer trapped by weather and weakness and pain. 

“Be careful,” Daeron said after a few days. They had made their camp hidden in a still-bare thicket that was still heavy enough to hide them, and Daeron had sung several songs that pulled the shadows in to hide them even further. Eluréd and Elurín were asleep, curled up in between them underneath both blankets and cloaks. “Does your head hurt?”

“Only a little, just now,” said Lossenol. “It didn’t hurt at all today.”

“You shouldn’t try to do too much too soon.”

“I know.” Lossenol glanced over at him, but it was hard to see through the shadows. “But you can’t really care whether or not I—”

“I worked very hard to keep you alive,” Daeron bit out, voice unusually hard, “and I would thank you for not throwing that effort all to the wind.”

“I’m not trying to,” Lossenol said. “I might not know much, but I know—know what it means that you—saved my life.” Speaking had been getting a little easier too, as his mind felt clearer out in the fresh and open air. He was tired, though, and that made it harder to think.

“Well—all right, then.” 

As they moved north they kept fairly close to the River Gelion. It flowed along south, and on its other side the lands opened up into plains rather than the woods of Ossiriand—though those were growing thinner too, with the trees more spaced out and less underbrush. It made both Daeron and Lossenol uneasy. Lossenol kept looking for signs of movement across the river—horsemen, perhaps Noldor on patrol—but never saw anything. On the eastern side he found tracks—heavy ones, familiar ones, and he knew them for orc tracks in the same way he knew without being taught how to use Daeron’s bow. “They’re fresh,” he said, as Daeron stepped up beside him. “A few days, at most.”

“We need to hurry,” Daeron said, and called to Eluréd and Elurín.