starspray | A Thousand Winds that Blow

Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: M
Characters: Celegorm, Daeron, Elured, Elurin
Warnings: Violence/Injuries
Summary: When uneasy dreams bring him back into Beleriand, Daeron finds a pair of twins who have lost their home, and an enemy who has lost himself. The Shadow's reach is growing ever longer, and if they are to survive, they must do it together.
Note: Title from the poem "Immortality" by Clare Harner. Written for the Scavenger Hunt SWG challenge; you can see the prompts in the notes over there.

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It always hurt to speak of Doriath, but Daeron hadn’t expected the wave of fresh and brand new grief that washed over him when Nellas told him that he had been missed. That searches had been made. That Mablung had wanted to go after him when they realized he’d slipped out of the Girdle altogether—that he hadn’t only because it was too dangerous to leave the marches unguarded, especially after they learned that the Girdle could be pierced, and that he had been both heartbroken and furious at the choice forced on him—between seeking Daeron and doing his duty—that wasn’t really a choice at all.

Somehow that had loosened his tongue enough to confess to Lossenol the extent of his danger—the real possibility that someday he would just die of this—this awful, rending, consuming grief. He didn’t know what kind of reaction he had expected—but Lossenol had been fierce in his insistence that it wouldn’t happen, that he wouldn’t allow it to happen. That they would all make it.

“Whatever happens, however dark the world gets, we’re going to face it together, and we’re going to survive it, and we’re going to see the light again on the other side.”

Daeron sat by the river and put his flute to his lips, playing without thinking very much about the melody. He tried not to think about very much at all, but he kept picturing his old friends from Doriath. He had hardly spoken to any of them after the first time he’d gone to Thingol about Lúthien. Even before then, he’d been withdrawing, not quite as overcome with grief for Menelas as he had been when his parents had died, but even more afraid of what was happening outside of Doriath. The whole world had been on fire. Doriath had seemed like an island in a sea of flame and blood—and what happened when there was nothing left outside the Girdle?

Now he sat on another island, one in the sunshine when all the rest of the world was growing dark. It didn't seem fair—why should he have survived when Mablung hadn’t, or Beleg, or Lúthien or Thingol himself? Why was he saved and they weren’t? Did it matter, if Morgoth was just going to shroud all the world in darkness anyway?

No, that was despair talking. He was meant to be bringing himself out of that, not farther into it. It did matter. Eluréd and Elurín mattered, even if Daeron still didn’t understand why they had been brought to him, of all people.

Something at the edge of his awareness stirred. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Something had changed in the river’s song, just for a second, too quickly for him to tell what exactly it was. It was not at all like the way the Esgalduin had changed when Beren had come into Neldoreth, but any change was not something to ignore. Daeron put his flute away and scrambled to his feet. He ran up the river, following its course, hoping that he was only imagining it but more and more certain that he wasn’t. A stranger had entered his Girdle.

He saw the twins huddled by a boulder just a few seconds before he heard Lossenol’s voice in the woods, crying out. “Daeron!” Eluréd exclaimed as he reached them, only for Elurín to clap a hand over his mouth.

“Someone was coming down the river, and Lossë went to find them in the woods,” Elurín said. “He said if it’s an enemy he’d give his hawk’s call and we had to find you because it’s you they’re looking—”

“Stay here, birdies,” Daeron said, and ran for the trees. It was a matter of seconds before he heard the sounds of a fight—and then the sudden ceasing of them. “Lossenol!” he called.

Lossenol didn’t answer.

He finally found him, leaning hard against a tree, a hand pressed against his stomach, covered in blood. A few feet away was a body, unmoving in the leaves. Daeron stumbled to a halt, feeling like he was caught in a dream where everything was moving too slowly. “Lossë…?”

“Daeron?” Lossenol looked up. “You shouldn’t—”

“What happened—no, it can wait.” Daeron went to catch him when he swayed. “Come away—back to the river, in the sunlight.”

“You were supposed to run away when the twins found you,” Lossenol muttered, but he leaned heavily on Daeron as they made their way back through the trees.

“They didn’t find me. I felt something wrong.”

“Lossë!” the twins cried when Daeron and Lossenol finally left the trees.

“One of you start gathering firewood, and one of you run back home for the bandages and things,” Daeron said. “I need a pot to heat water, too.”

“I’m fine,” Lossenol said.

“You are not!” Daeron and Elurín lowered Lossenol to the ground by the boulder where the twins had been waiting; Eluréd had already taken off at a run toward home.

“I’m not going to die—”

“Clearly not for lack of trying!” Daeron snapped. As Elurín ran to start gathering wood he peeled Lossenol’s shirt away, revealing the bloody gash across his stomach, not far from the scar over his ribs that the orcs had given him. It wasn’t as deep as it looked at first, and it was clean. He bundled up the shirt and pressed it against the wound, and then looked for others—finding a few cuts on Lossenol’s arms and hands, the sort he would expect to find after a knife fight. They were shallow and the bleeding was already stopping.

Elurín returned, but his hands were shaking badly and he couldn’t strike the sparks. “It’s all right, Elurín,” Daeron said, somehow forcing himself to speak calmly. “Don’t rush it. Take a deep breath.”

“But—”

“Looks worse than it is,” Lossenol said, and grunted when Daeron increased the pressure on his stomach. “Promise, birdie.”

“It looks really bad,” Elurín said in a small voice.

“Take a deep breath, Elurín,” Daeron repeated. His own hands were shaking now too. “A few more seconds won’t do any harm. Just take your time.”

Elurín sat back on his heels to wipe his eyes, and then he took a deep breath as Daeron had said. This time he was able to make the sparks catch, and carefully started to grow the flames, adding tinder a little at a time. As he started to add bigger sticks, Eluréd returned with the pot for water—the same one Daeron had carried all the way from Ossiriand—and the kit of bandages and other healing supplies. Nellas was with him.

“Nellas,” Lossenol said before Daeron could speak. “Can you—I think he was alone, but—”

“If there is anyone else, I’ll find them.” Nellas ran for the trees. Just before she disappeared Daeron saw her leap into the branches; she would move through the forest with all the ease and speed of a squirrel.

Eluréd filled the pot with water to heat, and Daeron tried to remember the songs he knew for healing. Somehow they all seemed to have flown out of his head—it didn’t make any sense. Lossenol had been hurt much worse than this before, and Daeron had been able to care for him without panicking. As he wiped blood away from a cut on his arm, Lossenol caught his wrist. “Looks worse than it is,” he repeated quietly.

“I know,” Daeron said without looking at his face. “But that was stupid, getting into such a—”

“I know.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” he sighed. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? That’s all you—” Daeron stopped himself, and then just barely stopped himself from covering his face with his bloody hands. He took a deep breath of his own instead. “Eluréd, Elurín, can you sing the healing songs? I can’t sing and stitch at the same time.”

Eluréd came to sit beside Lossenol as Elurín tended the fire. The water boiled and Daeron used it to clean everything before he threaded the needle. Lossenol clenched his jaw and turned his head away, but made no sound as Daeron did his work and Eluréd and Elurín sang the healing songs together. The twins’ voices had begun to change as they grew, but when they sang their voices were still clear and bright, and listening to them felt a little like listening to Lúthien.

It didn’t take long, in the end, to bandage everything. It really did look worse than it was. As soon as Daeron gave permission both twins threw themselves at Lossenol. They hadn’t panicked in the moment, but now that it was over the tears flowed. “I’m all right, I promise,” Lossenol told them, an arm around each twin. “He was alone—we’re safe.”

“But he won’t be the last,” Daeron said, dread gripping his heart. “If he was sent from—”

“He was.” Lossenol looked up. His face was ashen, but his gaze was steady. “He knew who I was—that I’d been with you before. He said that they’re still looking for you.”

Daeron thought he would faint. To try to distract himself he started cleaning up the mess of bandages and bloody fabric. “So when he doesn’t—doesn’t return,” he began, voice shaking. He didn’t want to think about this. He didn’t want it to be true. It couldn’t be true. Surely the Enemy had other more pressing things to think about than him—

“There are any number of reasons someone going alone into treacherous mountains and dense forests wouldn’t return,” Lossenol said.

“But there will be others.”

“So what do we do?” Elurín asked.

“You leave,” Daeron said, mouth moving before his mind could catch up. “When Nellas gets back, you go to Nenuial—it’s safer there, and—”

“What do you mean you?” Eluréd demanded. “Daeron—”

“It’s me they want, so—”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Lossenol said, struggling to sit up straighter.

“You’re not leaving us!” Elurín cried.

“Elurín—”

“No, you can’t!”

“I’m not going to be the thing that gets you killed!” Daeron snapped. He finished gathering up the remnants of bandages and things, and left them by the river, ignoring Lossenol when he called after him. The danger had passed for the moment, and he didn’t have it in him to fight over what to do.

After he put everything away and scrubbed his hands until they were pink and raw but finally free of Lossenol’s blood, he went out into the woods. He didn’t go far before he knelt among the leaves and took a deep breath, and then another, struggling to call upon Melian’s ancient teachings to calm and center himself so he could sing. Once he more than halfway succeeded, he sang all the songs he knew of protection, of hiding, of shadows twisting against enemies, of shelter and safety, and when he ran out he made up more, until the afternoon was half gone and he had sung himself hoarse. It was more power than he had used in many years, and a far more extensive Girdle than he’d dared to attempt before, and when he tried to get up he just fell over again, landing hard on his knees as the world spun around him.

For a little while he just sat there in the leaves, listening to the birds singing around him, knowing himself to be—for the moment—safe. His protections still could not compare to Melian’s, because he was only an Elf and could not and would not tie himself to the land in the same way, but they would be enough to at least give them more time if the worst happened. He could stay a little longer.

He had been happy, these last few years. Of course it couldn’t last—of course it had been a mistake to let himself believe it might, that he might really get to keep what he’d found.

Before he could get up and make his way back home, Eluréd came to kneel in front of him. His eyes were red but he seemed very calm. “You aren’t leaving, Daeron,” he said, in a tone that was not reminiscent of Thingol so much as Beren.

“No, I’m not,” Daeron sighed. “Not today. I’m—”

“No, not ever. It’s—Ada, you can’t. If you leave then—it won’t be good, it won’t fix anything. I just know it. I don’t understand why you keep trying—”

“Oh, Eluréd.” Daeron held out his arms, and Eluréd fell into them. Somewhere nearby a nightingale burst into song, and Daeron had to close his eyes against the sudden sting of tears. “I do not want to leave you,” he said.

“Then don’t,” Eluréd said.

“It’s not that simple—”

“Yes it is!”

At fourteen, Eluréd was too big now to sit comfortably on Daeron’s lap, but he pulled him in anyway, tightening his arms around him. “Listen to me,” he said, half-whispering because otherwise he’d lose his voice entirely. “Don’t interrupt. I told you that years ago there was a price on my head, and now today we have learned that I have not been forgotten—that the Enemy is sending people to look for me. That puts anyone with me in terrible danger—Lossë was injured today because of it—and it will be so much worse if they ever find out that you are alive. I’ve sung as much protection into these woods today as I can, but it won’t last forever. It might not be enough. I love you so much, Eluréd. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much, before I met you and your brother. It is because I love you that if it comes to it, I will leave you.”

He could feel Eluréd’s tears soaking into his shoulder. “You’ve got it the wrong way around,” he whispered. “I can’t explain why I know it, I just do. If you leave—then all is darkness. Please, Ada, I need you.”

“I’m sorry,” Daeron said. “I’m so sorry—I spoke in haste, earlier. I was frightened—I’m still frightened. But I won’t leave you unless I absolutely must.”

“But—”

“I can’t promise more than that, Eluréd. Even you can’t know all that the future holds. But I will promise,” he added, drawing back to lift Eluréd’s face so he could look into his eyes, “that if we must part, for whatever reason, I’ll do everything I can to find you again, whatever long it takes. I can’t promise that I’ll succeed, but I will try.” He thumbed the tears from Eluréd’s cheeks.

“Daeron? Eluréd?” Elurín’s voice drifted through the trees. “Where are you?”

“Here,” Eluréd called back. He wiped his own face and got to his feet, drawing Daeron up after him. Daeron swayed, suddenly dizzy again. “Daeron did what he’s always warning us not to.”

Elurín came around a tree, and looked worriedly between them. Daeron sighed and held out his arms. Elurín immediately ran forward into them. “I’m sorry, Elurín. I’m not going to leave. Hopefully none of us will have to leave, if what I’ve sung into my Girdle holds.”

“You’ve overextended yourself,” said Eluréd.

“Only a little.” Daeron kissed Elurín’s temple. “Love you, birdie,” he whispered. Elurín tightened his arms around him.

When they returned to the village they found Lossenol sitting on the bench by their door. He hadn’t put on another shirt, and sat with his arms crossed over the bandages. Without looking Daeron in the eye he said, “We need to dig a grave.”

“I’ll do it,” said Daeron. “You aren’t in any state to—”

“You look like a stiff breeze will knock you over.”

“Can we help?” asked Elurín.

Daeron hesitated. Lossenol said, “We’ll all go. He was—he deserves the kindness of a grave, even if he was an enemy.”

“Of course,” said Daeron.

The boy was where they had left him. Eluréd made a small, pained noise. Daeron went to kneel beside the body, and Lossenol quietly told the twins where to start digging. Lossenol’s knife was still lodged in the boy’s chest, and Daeron carefully pulled it free. He had brought more water from the river, and bunches of niphredil flowers, and now he gently washed the body’s face and hands, and closed his eyes, and combed some of the snarls out of his dark curls with his fingers, chanting quiet songs of mourning as he worked. After a beat Lossenol joined him; they were ancient songs, hardly changed from when they had first been sung by the shores of Cuiviénen. There were some newer verses that spoke of Mandos, but Daeron did not sing those—the words of uncertainty and grief were more fitting for a child of Men, since Daeron did not know any funeral rites for the Edain or for Easterlings, or anyone else.

When the body was cleaned and neatly arranged, with flowers twined in his curls and tucked into his hands, the grave was ready. Eluréd and Elurín lifted him by his tattered cloak, and gently lowered him into the ground.

“Is there anything else we must do?” Eluréd asked as they all helped to cover the grave again.

“For someone we know, we might say some words of them, give their name to the stars,” said Daeron, “but we do not know his name, or anything about him.”

“He was young, and he was afraid,” Lossenol said softly. “He died alone and far away from home, and for nothing.”

“And now he is free,” Daeron said. Lossenol shook his head, and didn’t answer.

They gathered stones from the riverbank to cover the grave, a smaller cairn than Daeron would have wished, but his strength was fading fast, and Lossenol was in more pain than he would admit to. Nellas had not yet returned, but if she was making as thorough a search as Daeron expected her to, they would not see her again for some days.

Those days were tense. Lossenol was restless, frustrated with the weakness that came from blood loss and angry with Daeron for what he had said by the riverbank. Those words had been the result of panic, but though Daeron had apologized to the twins he knew Lossenol wouldn’t accept the same, and so he didn’t try. He was sorry that he had upset Eluréd and Elurín, but he wasn’t sorry for the words themselves. If others came looking for him, he would leave—he would lead them on a merry chase until he could be sure that Eluréd and Elurín and Lossenol were safe, even if it meant he was never able to return to them.

He didn’t sleep much. Instead he sat outside, watching the leaves fall and trying to master the fear that had gripped him in a tight fist and wouldn’t let go. It didn’t work, and when he did doze off it was only to fall into dreams of the orcs—of ropes biting into his skin and cold mud and dark laughter all around. They all tried to return to their normal routines, but it was hard, especially with Nellas absent, and the uncertainty of what news she would bring back.

Finally, Nellas dropped out of the trees. “Nothing,” she announced as the twins ran to greet her. “I found his trail and followed it as far as I could—I think he was the one whose footprints you found before, Lossenol.”

“I thought so too,” said Lossenol. He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, face grim. “Could you find where he crossed the mountains?”

“No, I did not go that far. But there must be many ways across the Ered Luin—just because the easiest one is where the Dwarves have made their roads, doesn’t mean there aren’t other ways, especially for small parties or single travelers. At least it seems so to me. I met an Ent in the north woods, and he promised to keep an eye out too.”

“But will more come over the mountains?” asked Eluréd. “Can they be spared?”

“If the Enemy thinks his victory there is nearly complete, he may be turning his thoughts east,” said Daeron.

“I don’t think he came looking for Daeron in particular,” said Lossenol. “I think he was sent merely as a scout, to get the lay of the land. He knew who I was and that I’m connected to Daeron, so we’ve not been forgotten—there was probably some sort of reward promised to him for news of us—but I don’t think that was his main purpose.”

“In that case, more will certainly be sent,” said Nellas, “though perhaps not by the same paths—and perhaps not very quickly.”

“I’ve strengthened my Girdle, as much as I can,” said Daeron. “Warnings should be sent to Nenuial and the Dwarves.”

“I’d go to the Dwarves, but someone stole all my things,” said Lossenol. Daeron had taken his sword and bow and hidden them away behind the goat pen, where Lossenol was least likely to look for them. He didn’t want him going out before he had regained his strength; his refusal to reveal their hiding place had earned him a cold shoulder and some dark looks on top of the lingering anger from the riverbank, but he didn’t care. At least Lossenol was alive to be angry with him.

“I’ll go to Nenuial,” Nellas said.

“You’ve only just returned,” said Daeron. “They should be warned, but if there is no immediate threat it does not have to be this moment.” He glanced at Lossenol as he spoke, and received a glare in return. “I’ll give your sword back when your stitches come out.”

Nellas looked between them as Lossenol growled out his frustration, teeth bared, before he disappeared inside again. “Daeron…?” she ventured.

“He’ll be fine,” Daeron said. “Are you all right, Nellas?”

“Yes, of course. I’m a little tired, but that’s all. What makes you think that that scout was after you?”

“He said so to Lossë.”

“Lossenol spoke to him?”

“I was trying to avoid having to kill him,” Lossenol snapped from inside.

“Can we go to Nenuial with Nellas?” asked Eluréd.

Daeron wanted desperately to say no. But there was no immediate danger, and he thought it might be good for them to visit friends, to see little Mithon and to be reminded that there were still good things and safe places in the wider world—and for them to be doing something. “Yes,” he said, “but stay close to each other while you’re traveling.”

“We will,” said Elurín, “if you promise to still be here when we get back.”

“Why wouldn’t you be here?” Nellas asked, alarmed.

“Of course I’ll be here,” Daeron sighed. “Someone has to stop Lossë from tearing his stitches.”

“I can hear you,” Lossenol growled.

“I know.”

He saw the twins and Nellas off the next morning, and tried not to imagine what else might be creeping over the mountains behind him as he watched them disappear down the forest path.