A Thousand Winds that Blow by StarSpray  

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Six

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They came to the River Ascar, where it flowed into the Gelion, and found the lands empty and quiet. North of the Ascar the forests fell away—but not in a natural sort of way. There were signs of fires both old and new, and other kinds of destruction wrought by fighting and just by the passage of orcs and other fell creatures. The stillness made Daeron uneasy. 

Fording the Ascar was uneventful. It was a much smaller river than the Gelion; its current was not strong, and it was fairly shallow. Daeron and Lossenol carried the twins, and then Daeron turned back to frown at the water. “Is that—”

“Gold,” Lossenol said, also turning to look back. He set Eluréd down and splashed back into the river, heedless of the cold, and bent down to pick something up. It was a bracelet, wrought of gold in the shape of leaves and vines. 

When Lossenol handed it to him, Daeron nearly dropped it. He recognized it. “This—this was Queen Melian’s.” She had had many such pieces, some dwarf-made, others crafted by the goldsmiths of Doriath. “What is it doing here?”

“There’s more, scattered along the riverbed,” said Lossenol. “If it is from Doriath, isn’t it yours by right? Yours and…” He glanced at Eluréd and Elurín, who had come to peer curiously at the bracelet. 

“We don’t have time,” Daeron said. It was getting late already; evening still came early, and he felt horribly exposed. “And what would we do with any of it?” He gave the bracelet to Eluréd. It had been Melian’s, and it should go to her grandchildren. “We need to find a place to camp for tonight. And then tomorrow…” He looked at Lossenol, who was not very good at hiding his thoughts. He did not want to part from them, and Daeron feared that there would be a long and difficult argument about it before it was decided one way or the other—because he was growing increasingly reluctant to part from Lossenol, too. The world was so dangerous, and traveling alone with two young children…

Sudden noise from the north had Daeron and Lossenol spinning. Daeron’s heart leaped into his throat. “Daeron, your bow—” Lossenol began.

“Yes—” Daeron slipped the bow and quiver from his shoulder and handed them to Lossenol, who even one-eyed and not at his best was a better shot than he was. Then he grabbed for Eluréd and Elurín. “Come on!”

They ran, following the Ascar east, upstream—but they were too late. The orcs had spotted them, and gave chase. Lossenol paused once or twice to shoot at them, but there were too many and he did not have enough arrows. Daeron looked desperately for some place to cross the river again or to hide, or—

An arrow hit the ground near his feet and he nearly stumbled. “Daeron!” cried one of the twins.

“Run! Go! Don’t stop!” 

“There!” Lossenol caught up and grabbed one of the twins. “Those trees—” 

Daeron picked up the other twin and followed after Lossenol. More arrows flew past them, and once they reached the trees he heard several thud into the wood. “Up, up!” he said, lifting his twin into the branches of the nearest tree. “Fast as you can!”

“You next,” Lossenol said once the twins were in the tree, clambering up the branches like squirrels. “I can—”

The orcs caught up. Daeron had a knife, but he was no fighter. Lossenol was, but Daeron couldn't see what he was doing. He tried to run, maybe to lead the orcs away from Eluréd and Elurín, but something struck him in the back and he fell, hard. The ground was muddy, and he slipped in the leaves as he tried to get up—and then hands were on him, rough and strong and inescapable. Daeron opened his mouth and screamed, and the hands released him, but others took their place before he could do more than scramble halfway to his feet. When he tried to open his mouth again something was shoved into it, and his arms were yanked behind his back and tied with rough cords. Panic surged, and he kicked and twisted, everything falling out of his mind except the desperate animal need to get away—but he wasn't strong enough. He was just slung over someone’s shoulder, rough armor digging into his ribs, and then all of the orcs were running again, churning up the mud beneath them, jeering and snarling at each other as they went. 

It felt like hours before the orcs finally halted. It was hard to breathe, and Daeron could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness as he was dumped unceremoniously onto the ground. His legs were taken and bound, and the cords around his arms were tightened. He couldn’t feel his fingers. Everything felt bruised. 

A hand gripped his hair, and Daeron opened his eyes to see an orc leering down at him. “He don’t seem all that special,” he was saying. “What are we going to all this trouble for, then? What are we doing with him?”

The answer came as a low growl: “We’re taking him back to the Dark Lord—you heard what they called him, didn’t you?”

“What’s his name got to do with anything?”

“The name Daeron has got a mighty large bounty on it,” said the orc that Daeron couldn’t see. His blood ran cold, and without thinking he tried to pull away, squirming helplessly in the mud.

The thought had never crossed his mind that the Enemy would take an interest in him—that he might have a price on his head, that he would be worth anything to Angband. What did that mean—

“—even higher than that horse lord, that other singer, Maglor. The Lord will be mighty pleased when we bring this one back to him. Best to keep him in one piece, lads. Like as not we’ll get the first chance at some real fun back home.”

Daeron made a pathetic noise, muffled through the gag, and all the orcs around him laughed. He closed his eyes as he was flung back onto the ground, landing hard enough to wrench something in his shoulder, which he couldn’t even try to relieve because of the way his arms were tied. Fear made breathing even more difficult, and he could feel tears burning behind his eyes. A part of him did not want to give the orcs the satisfaction of seeing him cry, but what did it matter really?

It was tempting, sometimes, to let his spirit fly from his body far away to the Halls of Mandos in the west. Daeron wondered if he could manage it now—if he could just let himself go before he ever came within sight of the gates of Angband. Let them do what they wanted with his body; as long as they didn’t have him, it didn’t matter.

He also wondered if he could escape, somehow, to get back to Eluréd and Elurín. But when he twisted his wrists he found it impossible, and when he opened his eyes he found orcs all around him, arguing with one another and paying him no heed—but that would change in an instant if he tried to move. They had been ordered to keep him in one piece, but there was an awful lot they could do to him that would keep to that directive. 

The tears escaped, and Daeron squeezed his eyes shut again. The only truly clear thought in his head was that he wanted to go home—that he wanted to wake up in his own bed to find that none of this had ever happened, that Doriath was still Eglador and the stars were still the only thing in the sky, and both of his parents were alive and there to assure him that everything would be all right. 

After a while the orcs lifted him up again, and carried him farther. They stopped as dawn neared, and Daeron found himself tossed to the ground again, like he was no more than a piece of baggage. This time his head struck something hard, and when he cried out the orcs laughed. Then one came over with a flask, and yanked Daeron up by the hair. “We take this out, you keep quiet,” he said, gesturing at the gag in his mouth, “or you’ll never make another sound again. Yeah?” Daeron nodded as best he could. The orc pulled the dirty rag out of his mouth, and before Daeron could do more than cough once he replaced it with the flask, pouring something bitter and burning down his throat. Daeron gagged and struggled, but it was swallow or inhale. Most of it spilled down his chin and chest, and when the orc was satisfied he stuffed the rag back into his mouth. 

Whatever was in the flask, it spread warmth from his stomach outward. Daeron did not feel stronger or more alert, but the hunger pangs he had been ignoring before abated. It wasn’t poison, whatever they had given him—it was surely nothing good, but it would keep him alive.

He didn’t listen to the orcs, who spoke mostly in their own language. But after a while one came over to kick at him, laughing when Daeron cried out. Others came to join in the fun—yanking on his hair, pinching his skin, landing blows that would leave terrible bruises but which did not break anything. They knew exactly where the line was and how close they could come to it without crossing over. Daeron wept and would have begged, if he could have spoken, even knowing it would just spur them on. This was a mere taste of what Angband would do to him, and the terror that clawed its way up his throat was a visceral, almost physical thing that hurt even more than the orcs’ fists. 

It went on like that—moving, stopping, intermittent beatings. It might have been days or weeks—it felt like years.

After one particularly vicious beating, they left him almost entirely unattended near the edge of the camp. There was no concern of his trying to escape—even if they untied him he wouldn’t be able to move. Daeron tried to breathe through his nose, but couldn’t—he was weeping too hard and his ribs were bruised and his lungs felt bruised. He was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. If he could just fall into it and then simply never wake…

The tone of the noise around him changed. He struggled to open his eyes—and when he did he thought he must be dreaming, as a familiar face leaned over him, framed by soft brown hair. “Mmph!” Daeron tried to speak, but couldn’t do more than moan through the gag.

“Hello, Daeron,” said Menelas, who had once been Daeron’s playmate and friend, with whom he had climbed trees and run through the starlit woods, who had always been ready to laugh, who had been the first to hear Daeron’s beginning, faltering attempts at music and to encourage him to keep practicing—who had been on an errand to Dorthonion when the Dagor Bragollach had broken out, and then presumed dead when all the lands burned to ash and nothing was heard of him afterward. He looked almost entirely unharmed now, but for a strange, glassy look in his eyes. “It’s all right,” Menelas said, his soft and lilting voice kind and so familiar that a new wave of tears burned Daeron’s eyes.

This couldn’t be real. But when he looked past Menelas he saw the orcs—and he saw Men, all armed, as was Menelas, all clad in the dark armor used by the servants of Angband. Daeron didn’t understand it. Menelas could not be there—he could not be alive still, when the Bragollach was years ago and things had only gotten worse since. Not unless—

“I am going to take this out, but you mustn’t scream,” Menelas said as he reached for the gag. 

Once the gag was out of his mouth Daeron coughed, and tried to speak. “Men—Menelas, what—how—”

“Shh.” Menelas held up a flask. Daeron flinched way at first, but it was water, cool and sweet. “There’s no use struggling, you know. It will go better for you if you do not try to fight.”

“Fight what?” Daeron asked. “Menelas—”

“It’s only a matter of time before my Lord’s victory is complete,” Menelas said, and a chill swept down Daeron’s spine. “And he will remember those who served him faithfully, Daeron. He is far more generous than the Powers of the West—”

“Menelas, do you hear yourself?” 

Menelas smiled at him, and it was a terrible smile, flat, as though he were not speaking his own thoughts but only repeating a script—and yet at the same time he seemed to really believe it. “You’ll see,” he said. “Here, drink. Do not fear anymore—the orcs will not harm you again, not if you do as you are bid.”

Daeron had no choice but to do as he was told. Menelas did not untie him, though the Men who had arrived with him put themselves between them and the orcs, a promise of both protection and imprisonment. He let his head drop back onto the ground, staring up at the sky. They were near to the mountains, now—steep slopes rose up at their backs, and the woods were thicker here, offering protection and hiding both to those trying to escape the orcs, and to the orcs themselves. 

He tried not to think of Eluréd and Elurín. Such thoughts were dangerous—he spared himself only a few seconds to hope, desperately, that Lossenol had not been killed and that he could get them to safety. Even if he took them to Amon Ereb, it had to be better than what the orcs would do. Then he tried to put them out of his thoughts entirely. Menelas likely did not have the skill to pry into his mind, but they might meet others who could. Even before he had been beaten senseless, Daeron had not been at his best. He was not strong enough for this—to withstand whatever Morgoth himself might do. He would either be tossed to the orcs for them to have some real fun, or he would end up like Menelas, or maybe something worse. If he was lucky, he would just be killed. But he would keep the twins secret—he had to, whatever else happened.

If he was going to die, Daeron thought, he would rather die out in the open—not in the dark pits of Angband. He wanted the last thing he saw to be the sky. The stars, if he could, but even just the clean blue of day would be something.

The day wore on. Menelas brought him food, but Daeron refused to eat. Menelas asked about his companions—about the children that the orcs had seen in his company—but Daeron refused to answer, only relieved that none of the questions suggested that Menelas had any idea who those children really were. Finally, Menelas said, “You must eat, Daeron, or we will have to force you. You cannot come before our Lord’s throne fainting from hunger.”

“I will not come before it at all,” Daeron said.

“Yes, you will. Please do not be foolish.”

Daeron didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze on the little patches of clouds and sky that he could see through the tree branches overhead. He was cold and everything hurt and one of his oldest friends had been taken and subjugated and enthralled. His eyes burned again, and when he tried to blink the tears away they just fell. 

Then movement up the mountainside caught his attention. After a few seconds he saw it again—a brief glimpse of silver hair catching the sunshine before the figure disappeared into the tree-shadows. Daeron’s breath caught.

Menelas had left him alone; now he returned. “Daeron,” he said, a note of urgency in his voice now, “you must eat something. We are moving soon. Do not make this harder than it must be, please. For the sake of our ancient friendship, I wish to help you.”

A horrible feeling of bitterness welled up in his breast. For so many years he had been entirely alone—and now he was reunited with an old friend only for it to be worse than if he had really been dead. “I mourned you,” he whispered. 

“I know. I’m sorry. But we can—”

“If our ancient friendship means so much, untie me.”

“You know I cannot do that.”

Daeron turned his head so he could look into Menelas’ eyes. “Menelas,” he said, reaching out with what little power remained in him. “Hear me. Come back to yourself. Please.” For a moment the glassy-eyed look flickered, and Daeron glimpsed his real friend, drowning in a deep well of horror and pain and fear-unending, a spirit in tatters and yearning for release—any kind of release—but unable to reach for it. He had been kneeling over Daeron; now he fell entirely to his knees with a soft gasp, bowing his head. 

And then the moment passed, and Menelas looked up again, wrong-eyed and calm once more. He said nothing at first, and just picked up the rag again. Daeron pulled away but didn’t have the strength to fight it when he was gagged—far more securely this time, with the rag not just stuffed into his mouth but tied around his head. “Do not do that again,” Menelas said finally, and something about those words in his soft voice was more horrible than anything else Daeron had yet endured. Then he sat back and made a gesture, and an orc approached. Daeron looked past him and saw that the camp was being packed up; they were moving on, and soon they would leave the mountains behind and cross into the Anfauglith—and then to Angband. He did not dare turn to look for another glimpse of silver hair, or to really let himself believe it had been more than his imagination.