Veils by wind rider

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Part 1

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Part 1

 

Blood… Heat… Scream…

 

I stumble drunkenly, uncaring, unfeeling. Sweat and blood and ash cling to my body, my wounds, my bruises. My battered hröa bashes against burnt, despoiled jagged surface at times, when my fëa is too frenzied by the onsetting madness to keep it balanced despite everything. But it does not matter; nothing matters, now.

 

I do not know where I am going. Just away, away, away – far away – from where my father was slaughtered – after watching my mother being raped and my little siblings being burnt alive. But nowhere is far enough. The smoke chokes me, even as it blinds me, stinging my eyes; and it carries the stench right into my lungs – home, workshop, clothes, blood, flesh—

 

No no no no. Pain, pain.

 

My own soul is burning; maddened and torn by the recent memories, until it shuts itself against all the recollection – the world – and bears the wounds alone. Nothing is around me, as far as I am concerned. No one bothers me. Let the orcs have me, take the shell that is my body. The Halls of Mandos will be a welcome relief…

 

I stumble again, and fall sprawled on the jagged, tortured earth. Too much pain. Too much torment. My mind folds into itself and I lose the ties to reality.

 

Melodies tug at my soul, then, faint and sounding afar, but insistent. The notes become louder the more I hear it, yet firm and still as beautiful. It is as if my mind is coaxed to unfold itself, to willingly return to the prior vulnerability that it has forgotten. And it resists, but not for long. Like all other Elves, song – and Song, and Music – has been a part of me since my conception, and this – sweet, light, even slightly playful – strain of melodies wakes up the primal core of my being. Caressing, cradling, guiding…

 

A male voice follows, an Elven voice. It matches the melodies perfectly, and it seems so familiar… The cadence, the style, so natural. I want to reach out to him, to say I appreciate his singing and his music…

 

And the smell. – My nose catches it even as the ellon sings. The carnage of my homeland is not far, and I recoil from it: the undertone of burning and blood and foulness. But it is not the only scent that my nose detects. Overpowering it is the smell of cleanness and fresh herbs, so contrast and stronger that it finally overrides the stench of slaughter.

 

I begin to be aware of my hröa after some inhalations; naked, only covered by a thin blanket, with my hair unbound. I search for pain, but find none. There is only numbness on several parts of my limbs, torso and sides, and a deep weariness that makes me think I have been turned into stone some time when I was unconscious. What has happened? Who has rescued me? This does not sound and smell like a camp of the Enemy. – And I have experienced it first-hand, although just briefly.

 

A finger ghosts over my left eye, then my right one. Dampness trails in its wake, slightly cold. It then traces my lashes with the same cool wetness, almost in a teasing manner. The soft gesture coaxes the muscles of my eyelids into movement, and I capitulate with ease, and gladly.

 

I blink, and blink again. My surroundings are dim, and I am thankful for that. (It looks like a tent, from the poles and thick-woven fabric I can see above me.) Someone is sitting beside me. And I am lying on a camping pallet, judging from how close the earth is to my back. I can hear the low breathing and sense the fëa – a male. But he neither speaks nor touches me again. What is going on? Am I really in nonhostile, nonthreatening company?

 

But he moves, then, and I am gently braced into a seating position. A soft whistle from his lips prompts the tent’s flap to open, admitting another person with a strong scent of herbs and fatigue about him; and it tells me, too, that he was the one who sang me into awareness.

 

I wish to thank him, but the words never pass my lips, for some reason I do not know myself. And then it is too late, because the singer is leaving me, and the new person – maybe a healer? – takes on his position, all without a word.

 

Now I can feel what I failed to notice before: tension. It was subtle, when I was yet with the singer, but now it has escalated to a tangible level, as those strangers exchange duty between them. I can sense reluctance in them as well, and that just baffles me more. Something about me – or in me – must have triggered it; but what? This half knowledge will only serve to upset me if it is not soon rectified. – I try to quell the juvenile urge to throw a tantrum or demand incessantly for the other half of the piece, and barely succeed. (My only excuse is that I am yet forty Sun-years old.)

 

The new person, whom I now really suspect is a healer, brings a cup to my lips. When I refuse to open my mouth, wary of the cup’s content, he sighs and murmurs, “It is but water – as clean as we can get here – to ease your throat.”

 

His voice is rougher than the singer’s was, somehow not entirely Elven in nature. Who is he?

 

He presses the rim of the cup to my lips and uses it to part them slightly. He will not take no as an answer, then. And I find it distasteful. Who is he to order me so, even without revealing his identity? He is not my father or mother!

 

And they are dead, butchered by the crowing and leering orcs…

 

No – no!

 

I turn my head to the other side from where he is sitting, but fail to inch away from him. Memories that I have managed to bury deep in my mind now surface, and with that the choking and tearing emotions I was saved from by my unconsciousness.

 

A naked sword, gleaming like the coldest ice under the stars and smelling like orcish blood, stands leaning against the wall near the flap of the tent, ready for instant use. A part of me sees it as a way to end my misery, while another part wishes me to use it to demand answers from this… creature. But alas, I am yet too weak to even crawl there, let alone use it for any purpose.

 

And how comes such a beautiful blade to the possession of a non-Elf?

 

–        Distraction, distraction. – I must distract myself from the memories or go mad. I must lock them back where they were or throw them out…

 

“Trying to forget it will never make it go away.”

 

My head whips around to the source of his voice, faster than I think I can do. He is gazing at me intently, knowingly, and he does not seem bothered by my outraged glare.

 

I attempt to speak, to snap at him, but my throat pains me when I open my mouth and suck in a breath. I wince feebly and turn away again. The rage goes cold almost in an instant, faced by the shameful reality. – He has been bracing my back so that I can sit upright, and he never lets go of it regardless of whatever I do to him.

 

But I do not wish to be indebted to anyone, less a non-Elf.

 

–        Water streams into my mouth, and I instinctively swallow. Before I can protest or reject his underhanded way of putting liquid into my body, another mouthful follows, and then another. Last, he brings a spoon into my mouth, and I taste honey – thick, rich, sticky honey – on it. I cannot spit it out, as it will just invite more trouble to me, so I am – yet again – forced to swallow it down.

 

What am I? Some kind of lifestock to be force-fed – perhaps for later slaughter?

 

Before I have time to properly build into the previous rage, however, he is already gathering his things and returning me to lying on the pallet. And then, with the same briskness, he leaves. No name. No farewell. Not even a smile.

 

I seethe alone and fruitlessly. How dare he do that to me? I am a patient here! He must not be a healer, then, despite the indications. Healers are gentle, and caring, and understanding. – I feel so uncomfortable, confined, and angry. Yet a sliver of guilt finds its way into my heart, twinging it and telling me that I was too harsh and haughty to him, while I should have been thankful for his assistance and care.

 

Some time passes, but neither of the two men returns to me. Outside, I can hear people pass by either in haste or restlessly, and around me are the murmurs of refugees: traumatic, wondering, lamenting. An air of sorrow, shock, denial and fear flood my senses as I open myself further into my environment. I am not alone…

 

I drift into an awkward, disquieted state of reverie without my knowing. My senses dull and gain a dream-like tinge, surreal and slightly distorted. The gate to my memories opens as my guard slackens, and I relive, again, the slaughter of my family. – I do not know if I scream, but I return to full awareness with my throat raw and throbbing, and someone patting my shoulder firmly.

 

He is neither the singer nor the non-Elf. And to my chagrin at myself, I am somehow disappointed with that.

 

He is less gentle too. In something almost like a growl, he demands what I wanted to achieve, shrieking like a dainty elleth raised in a city encountering a fat worm and projecting it mentally for all to hear. My cheeks burn with shame and humiliation, but the state of my throat makes retorting an agonising chore. And there is a dome of something – someone’s Working – that prevents me from projecting my thoughts to anyone. (Likely, it is the one that cut out my purported projected mental scream.)

 

But, after mocking me so, he does not leave. I glare sullenly up at him. But that, too, does not bother him at all. Like it did not bother the non-Elf… These people are confusing, and maddening in their own ways.

 

I am not accustomed to people not being affected by my stare too, to be honest with myself. I could usually cow or coax people – even my elders – by glaring at them or giving them a pleading look. Yet this person returns me stare for stare, and I am in turn cowed by it. It is like being forced to swallow a foul concoction, this new and unwelcome experience. And it is also akin to seeing myself in a mirror and finding an ugly face staring back at me. I hate it…

 

The newcomer uncovers an oil lamp sitting on a nightstand beside the pallet. Now I can see him properly, and note the faint sneer curling his lips. (Perhaps this is what he has aimed for by illuminating the tent? Who knows? He seems like the type of person who likes to bask on someone else’s suffering.) I intensify my glare, and he suddenly chuckles.

 

“Be careful, little one, or your eyes will pop out of your head. I have no wish to be confronted by Elrond or Erestor about a folly which is not mine.”

 

I flush with indignation and further humiliation. Turning my face away from the range of the light, I clench my jaw and slowly curl my hands into fists under the blanket that wraps me as far as my torso. He dares mock me this far! Has he always displayed this discourtesy to anyone he meets? Or, if not, how did I wrong him? I could not control my doings when I was sleeping! And the obliteration of my homeland is a fresh horror that no Elf can really be stoic about. Does he not know about these, then? Is his heart too numb for even a sliver of tact?

 

He lets out an unmistakable snort. My head whips around so fast that a muscle knots painfully at the side of my neck. I grimace, whilst giving him an automatic glare. He just laughs, rough and harsh and taunting. (I admit, my glare might look like a squint, given my current pain. – But he should not laugh at an injured person’s misery. It is so cruel!)

 

His sneer cannot be mistaken for anything else, when he stops laughing. And his words afterwards stabs me deeper than before: “Are you done whinging now?”

 

Whinging! As if I were a child of ten–!

 

But more piercing is his gaze, boring down on me with an abrupt solemnity and intensity. “I repeat,” says he,” are you done whinging? Because I do not wish to be responsible for undue distress that you cause to yourself needlessly. And also, if you are done lamenting the impotence of your glare, you had better rest now and save your recovering strength for the journey later. We cannot stay overlong here, while the Enemy’s minions are bound to catch up and ambush us.”

 

And then he is gone, covering back the lamp and slipping out of the tent so soundlessly that it is as if he were a shadow.

 

If I were able to move my limbs, I would have kicked off the blanket and chase after him to deal him a blow with my own two hands. People were never this insolent in Ereigion! Admittedly not all of them were good; but at least they never showed it blatantly like this.

 

… But then I recall a minor snippet in the one-sided conversation (if it can be called that) that he conducted. – Elrond. – The name tickles at my mind, its background half-way formed. Where have I heard it? Whom does it belong to? In what station? Somehow he reminds me of the High King Gil-Galad, of whom the people of Ereigion were afraid to name, not wanting to incur the wrath of Lord Telperinquar (and later, the fake, traitorous Lord Annatar). Someone important… Well, am I important, then, being in the thought of that elusive personage? I like the notion of it, yet dare not hope for it to be true. Above all, my parents had taught me caution when regarding everything. (It was vital when working in a forge or workshop, and when dealing with the subtle society of our little realm.)

 

All the thinking and anger tire me out, though. But I cannot sleep.

 

I close my eyes, and will my soul to relax. The recent encounter with the rude man keeps playing before my eyes, all the same, refusing to disperse. I attempt to even out my breath, to no avail. And the rising level of noise outside only serves to distract me further. I want to eavesdrop, but have no more strength left.

 

It is a torture that I would imagine being devised by the Enemy’s minions: I am suspended between the state of reverie and full awareness, my mind laden and adulled, and my strength sucked out. There is no warmth left in me, and it is as if my fëa has shrivelled – like a log caught on fire. I cannot scream nor beg for help in mind-speech because someone has put a ward preventing it around me, yet my throat is too raw and hurt to do it physically.

 

I am indeed trapped, as I was never before, even when my homeland was ransacked and razed by the orcs.

 

I hate those three people for it. I would hate them with a passion if my strength allowed it. But this hollow hatred tears at me, and it put more torment to my fëa and hröa—

 

Someone comes into the tent and sits beside me. But I am too far gone now, and my weighted mind is clouded by a haze of confused emotions.

 

A pair of blue-grey eyes – so weary and old, filled with the burden of horrible experiences – penetrate the fog and stare right at my soul. I cower, but cannot flee – except to Mandos.

 

`We never mean you harm,` says a male voice. The singer. I recognise the voice.

 

`Rest in peace. When you wake up, you will find yourself in another place, hopefully far away from here.`

 

And my hröa and fëa obey at once, too weary to refuse out of pride and too tormented to care about it.

 

Melodies burst forth once more, coming from his fëa, and the tumbling notes soothe my being, like no other before it. I do not know how long he sings, because his wordless song echoes pleasantly in my spirit and luls me into a state of rest, leaving him to disentangle me from the chaos I have wrought upon myself. It must be a painstaking chore, I dimly think; and yet he never complains, or gives out the song grudgingly, or half-heartedly, although he must have seen what I have thought of him and his companions…

 

Shame once again comes to the fore of my mind. But the melodies do not wash it away. And with my acknowledging what I have done, the tangled ruffles in my spirit disappear. The song floods my whole being, buoying me on its currents like a baby cradled to the bosom of his mother. And finally, I fall into a deep healing sleep.