Veils by wind rider

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Part 2

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Part 2

 

I wake up to the realisation that I slept with my eyes closed, and my naked body wrapped in a silken cloak that smells like a peaceful night and protection, and also to the jolting trot of a horse beneath me.

 

A pair of arms press me to the front of a warm body, keeping me from falling. It has been long since last Atar treated me like this… He knows I does not like it anymore after I passed the age of 15, so why does he do it now?

 

But the smell of the man behind me is not like his, at all. And we seem to be quite in a hurry, and people are afraid of pursuit…

 

—    Wrathful screaming, helpless screaming. A pair of trembling hands lifting me high to the suffocating air and tossing me away from the carnage that had been before my very eyes. Flame crackling; hungry fire, charred little bodies. —

 

I would curl into myself were I could. Now I realise that the man holding me is not my father, because my father is dead – in a most agonising manner, I reckon, although I dare not think further about it. And alongside the stark reality, I also gain the full feeling on my nerves.

 

My searing nerves.

 

I whimper. I cannot help it. Compared to when I last awoke, the pain now is so excruciating, blinding my senses for a long moment before I adjust on sheer will. Why now? Why only now? Why not when I first awoke, when I was safe – laid on a non-moving bed?

 

The man’s breath warms my right ear. My ear tip twitches. Then he whistles, low and soft, and I am soon distracted from my pain and discomfort. – The singer. I am with the singer again. But why does he not sing?

 

A finger caresses my temple gently, moving through my hair. Tears gather behind my eyelids, threatening to fall. How many times had Amil done that to me, even against my protestation, despite my growing age? Now I rue the complaints most bitterly. She is out of my reach…

 

The horse’s smell is on his hand, underlying the whiff of medicinal herbs and the stench of old orcish blood. Exhaustion weights it, but does not make it falter.

 

I open my eyes slowly, aware that Vása is perched on her heavenly throne. (So used to darkness, I am afraid her bright light might hurt my sight.) The man is still stroking my temple – now slightly upwards – with a finger. And now I can see a bracelet circling his left wrist, made of a beautiful opal carved into a large, rather fat ring that fits his forearm well. But it is – should be – a woman’s piece of jewellery; I can clearly see that the carver meant it to be worn by a woman.

 

It should be none of my concern, if not for the power I can feel coming gently out of it and into the man’s body. Unearthly power, not of Elven Working. And its power is boundless, limitless, unlike any craft of ours – and I find a desire wake in me to possess it for myself, to use the power as I wish.

 

The light reflects off of the bracelet as if mocking me, and I spy an inner glow within its heart, tempting but unreachable. It is powerful but aloof, distant and disdainful towards my coveting it.

 

How can it know? Does it have a mind of its own?

 

But regardless, it does well in deterring me. With visible effort (which is not all due to my injured state of body, admittedly), I lift my face a little and stare around, trying to gauge where we are, bending my thoughts away from the bracelet. I seldom went out of Ereigion, and never reached beyond five leagues away from its borders. The singer, however, told me that we might get far already when I woke up, and so I wish to see if it is true.

 

I stare ahead for a moment. Then, only able to see the heads – unkempt, dirty and sometimes caked with blood – of the people walking on foot or trotting on horseback before me, stretching in haphazard columns until they are swallowed by the hazy horizon, I shift my head to the left and peek through the corner of my eye. (The man has a good grip on me; too good, in fact, that it is rather hard to move as I wish.)

 

But I find only more bedraggled people there, refugees and soldiers mingling together, and I see the same on the other side. Everything is hazy further around us, also, everywhere I look, and I find it disconcerting. The sound of water is prevalent in the air, and my mind takes it as why we are fenced by fog, but my instinct still harbours some suspicion. (And despite the acceptance, I still cannot fathom why there is sheets of mist when it is in the middle of the day.)

 

The man never ceases his low whistling. It is a welcome change to the “clip-clop” of tired hoofs and the “srek-srek” of trudging feet. It is a background noise that is pleasant to the ears and manages to distract me from the fearful, restless murmurs surrounding me. We are like a disturbed beehive, ready to explode out on the slightest nudge. But if bees are dangerous when stirred, I believe we shall be in danger ourselves if we are scattered.

 

I only realise the other purpose of the whistling when it is already too late. My eyelids drop shut on their own volition, and sleepiness comes down on me like a gentle mist descending upon the water. (The cloak also hugs me, as if a gentle, warm night solidified into a tangible thing and wrapping me in its protection.) My head lolls towards the man’s neck, as I slip into another deep healing sleep.

 

He has tricked me. Strangely, though, it does not evoke any rancour in my heart when I next gain full awareness of my surroundings. There is a lingering peace in my being, and a dreamlike quality that only enhances the peace. – And he is there, the singer, sitting nearby with a few other people, talking in low, worried tones over a cold meal – or so I smell.

 

And I hurt no more, from the bodily pains that I suffered. And I am also no longer on horseback, but instead lie on a blanket on the grassy earth. Birds sing above me, in the tree… It is odd, surmises my spirit, but I do not know why – I cannot explain it to myself.

 

I move my fingers, trying to alleviate the stiffness on them, relieved that there is no pain involved in the attempt. It has an added bonus, though, apparently. The rustling sound my fingers create attracts the attention of the singer.

 

He scoots to where I lie, asking, “Are you hungry?” And my stomach replies promptly with a growl, not heeding my mind’s command. I blush deeply.

 

He chuckles. With a hand gesture over his shoulder, he seems to summon one of his companions to him. He manoeuvres me around, then, until I am braced against his front. Only now I see that his companion bears a bowl of congealing soup and a cup of water. As not appealing as the soup looks, I cannot help but salivate in anticipation of filling my stomach, empty for too long.

 

I lift a hand to receive the cup that is offered to me. – I try at least… and fail. I turn my head away, hiding my tears of frustration. Have I fallen so low as to be spoon-fed? It is shameful enough that I am braced against someone’s front like a toddler learning to eat. Must I complete the act by drinking and eating from another person’s hand?

 

But my stomach chooses this very moment to let out a more persistent growl. I clench my jaw. My body has betrayed me most shamelessly, and right now I despise it.

 

And a spoonful of the disgusting gravy-like substance is pressed between my lips. Argh – they are so forceful! Have they never known any courtesy?

 

The singer and his companion practically force-feed me. I cannot even spit out the cool (not even tepid!) semi-solid substance, as the singer clamps my mouth shut and works my throat gently to force me to swallow each time. Rape, it is rape, I tell myself. However gently it is done, it is done without my willingness, forced. Tears cloud my vision, so I close my eyes, and retreat deep into myself, numbing my hröa and willing my fëa into an unfeeling state. That, at least, I can do.

 

Alas, I cannot flee from the dreams that my subconscious mind conjures in lieu of reality. The vivid recollections of Ereigion’s demolition returns to haunt me, and I have nowhere else to escape to, again. Every moment of it pierces me just as deeply and sharply as before.

 

Then a blinding light cleaves through the memories, shattering them into pinpricks of colours and sending them towards the fringes of my mind, scattered as if they are weak and inconsequential. But it does not hurt me, and instead guides me into a deeper sleep, where I can rest safely without the disturbance of dreams. My spirit seems to recognise my saviour’s, but – for the love of Arda – I cannot recall who it is. –

 

My fëa and hröa slowly ease open their links with reality after a while. And I return to consciousness – to the slow, deep breathing and the rhythmic heartbeat of a strong but lean body, onto whose warmth I have unknowingly draped myself.

 

My head rests upon somebody’s chest, and my right cheek and nose are pressed to it. I am practically snuggling and cuddling to this unknown man.

 

My cheeks heat up. I am glad that everyone else seems to be asleep, so – hopefully  nobody will ever see me in this compromising position. I cannot inch away towards the empty space beside this sleeping body, as his hands are wound around my torso, thus hampering my ability to roll over. (I do not think I can move too much yet, anyhow, judging from the stiffness of my muscles and joints born of long disuse.)

 

I faintly recall the man’s smell – cool breeze and damp grass, underneath the layers of travel and battle odors. But like the fëa of my saviour, I cannot put a name to it.

 

Twilight greets my sight when I open my eyes. Rána is in full bloom, then. I would love to see his vessel, beautiful at this time, but my position does not permit me to do so. – Yet regardless, it provides me an ample light to observe my surroundings, and I use the chance well.

 

Rows and rows of people are sprawled on the ground, with grass and – seemingly – whatever garment they could find as bedding. The faces are haggard and etched with recent horror, and they – all of them – sleep with eyes closed. The stench of blood and days of accumulating filth make me gag, and aware that I am cleaner than most of the refugees. (Why?)

 

I can sense and hear movements in the perimeters of the makeshift camp, and know that we are guarded as we sleep. – But how if we are to be ambushed now? How well can those gaunt-faced men and women and children fight for themselves, barely awake and sluggish with bone-deep exhaustion? Their state of body must not be far better than my own; and judging from my earlier memory, they have even less rest than I did.

 

How far are we from the nearest sanctuary? Is there even something like that in Middle-earth, now?

 

My parents often talked in whispers in Amil’s jewel workshop or in Atar’s blacksmith forge, when they thought I could not hear them, minding my little siblings. Sauron’s power had been growing steadily, in the absence of real opposition from the free peoples of Middle-earth. He moved slowly but surely, methodically, cutting routes of supply and escape, ruining supporting villages, until the larger bases he aimed for crumbled like a trapped animal dying of cold and hunger. He had routed half of Middle-earth, creating large splodges of ruin both in the east and west, and who knows what he has accomplished by this moment. – Ereigion is certainly lost to him, now, and it was not a small settlement of the Ñoldor.

 

A chill that has nothing to do with the weather seeps into my marrows on that train of thoughts. Are we trapped now, after so long and so hard trying to flee the carnage of our homeland? Has Sauron just been playing with us, like a cat with a mouse before it decides to kill its prey?

 

The person lying beneath me stirs and shifts slightly, and I freeze in surprise and terror that is not connected to Sauron’s cruel actions. He murmurs something unintelligible, then shifts some more and grips me tighter with an arm. He uses the other arm to brace himself upright, and moments later I find myself sitting sprawled in his lap, still gathered in his embrace as if it were the most natural thing for him to do in Arda.

 

He does not look at me even once, though, and his breathing becomes slightly more ponderous when he at last – apparently – finds a more comfortable sitting position. Is he that tired? Is it because of me?

 

Is he the singer? But if he is the singer, then where is that unfeeling healer and the crass stranger? – Not that I want to meet them all, though. (One is enough.) Just… why is the singer always with me when I wake up?

 

I am too afraid – and too ashamed, somehow – to ask him directly.

 

A gust of breeze blows overhead, bringing the scent of oaks and pines and rich earth in it, tinged with the exhilarating fragrance of rushing water. I inhale deeply on the mixture of smells, not wanting to miss every bit of it. It promises safety and the comforts of home. It promises long years of happy living among the trees, and, even though I was born and raised in a packed city of blacksmiths and crafters, I am not exempt from the allure of the vague vision.

 

The man tilts my head up to face him, and smiles down to me knowingly. – He feels it too, and sees it, and wants it. – I give him a tentative smile back.

 

He seems to be taken aback by my reaction. But he refuses to say anything about it on my questioning stare.

 

Maybe wishing to avoid my gaze, he angles his eyes upwards, to the sky, to the sailing Rána. A truly genuine smile lights up his face, then, chasing all the weariness and distress from his features. A brief jealousy blooms in my heart, that he would rather give the smile to the Moon than to me, but I swiftly quash it down. It is heresy, comparing myself with the Moon. – But I do like a good attention…

 

I think that he has forgotten me, but I am mistaken. To my joy, he looks back down after just a moment, and stares right into my eyes. – But he is apologising, through stare alone.

 

But for what?

 

I gulp. He has never stared at me like that, and I thought he was just incapable of apologising, like my proud father. And now that he is really apologising to me, I find the act more than unnerving. I wish he kept staring at the Moon instead.

 

Another smile curls up his lips, but this one is devoid of warmth and mirth. I would recoil if I could; but his arms keep me in place. He rakes through my features with his eyes alone, as if savouring the sight of something he has saved from a wreckage. (Perhaps it is so, literally in either occasion.) And I feel so vulnerable, so open, because of it.

 

Then he opens his mouth, and whispers, “I am sorry that I hurt you. You had to eat, and neither I nor my friend had any strength left for a prolonged argument. I am sorry if what we did reminded you about which you would rather forget.” It takes much from him to admit that, I can see it in his eyes – ever kept locked on my own. And I feel unworthy of such an effort, such an act of bravery.

 

I shake my head, tearing my eyes away from him. All that I have felt so far, all that I have done, now seem foolishly childish and nonsensical. I want to strengthen my denial with words, but what comes out of my lips is just bubbling and croaking jibberish.

 

His left arm leaves me and reaches behind him. It comes back bearing a flask, and he quickly unstops it. “It will soothe your throat and rejuvenate you a little,” he explains in the same low tone, as the rim of the flask is brought to my lips and I catch a strong scent of sweet cordial. I do not know how alcohol can soothe my throat, but refusing him after he has been so kind – and brave, apologising – is not what I would do consciously and willingly.

 

I open my mouth, and he presses the rim closer before tipping it up slightly.

 

I can barely hold back a gasp. The liquid burns me, although not in an entirely unpleasant manner. It travels down my throat quickly, and numbs it for moments afterwards, but then it feels much better. – He did not lie when he said it would soothe my throat.

 

I look up at him, wanting to voice my gratitude. Yet my tongue is tied, and it is not caused by the cordial burning through it. Verbally apologising and giving thanks was not a custom in my family. And indeed it was not the custom in most parts of Ereigion.

 

I look down again, sighing, my cheeks heating up with frustration and self-anger. But he just reaches behind him again, calmly, and brings a leaf-wrapped packet to under my nose for inspection.

 

“Lembas,” I tell him, mumbling. He lets out a sound of agreement, and peals open the packet. Breaking a small chunk from the topmost wafer, he pushes it slowly past my lips.

 

But it does not feel forceful, at all, unlike before. I do not know what is different from this treatment – something about me, him, or the both of us. I enjoy it, though, verily. He now behaves like an older sibling I never had, one that I always wished I had. I hope it stays this way for a long, long time. (Although I will not – perhaps never – dare to tell him this.)

 

He seems to feel similarly, growing even calmer by each bit he feeds into my mouth. – Yet he also looks to be practised in doing this, and I wonder who else received this intimate treatment aside from me. – A spark of jealousy tries to ignite my fëa, destroying the fragile peace I have just gained, but I dous it before it can do any harm. I will not ruin this moment with any recklessness in my part. It has been more than enough, and I have hurt people even as I felt hurt by them in turn.

 

Truth stings, and it tastes appalling, but I am distracted by the waybread and the man’s regular breathing and heartbeat, and thus do not notice as much. – Who is the man, though, really? He must not only be a minstrel; and anyway, someone who can sing is not always a minstrel. Now that I have the time and energy to think about it, the matter refuses to leave my mind.

 

It is why I find myself in another staring contest with the man, just after the last piece of lembas from the packet has vanished into my mouth. I scrutinise him closely, and he lets me. – Beautiful complexion nearly that of a female, touched only slightly by strong lines belonging to a male along his eyes. Blue-grey orbs like a merge between Vanyarin and Ñoldorin blood. Dark silver hair common among the Sindar but not among the Ñoldor. –

 

He is a Sinda.

 

Sindar are weaker, and less sophisticated, or so Atar and Amil said oftentimes. Sindar are crude, unable to create things of great beauty. Sindar are ugly, crass and without any kind of civilisation.

 

But he is a Sinda.

 

And he is beautiful. And he looks strong, calm, and so refined, even garbed in tattered clothes like now. And he apologised to me for his rough behaviour – while Atar and Amil never did. – But we are not to speak ill of the dead, are we?

 

He reminds me of someone else, too, someone important along the chains of command among the Exiled Ñoldor. It has something to do with “Elrond” as well – and the mystery makes me mad with curiosity.

 

He smiles, then, and says, “Well met, little one. With what name do you like to be called?” – He knows about my curiosity, judging from his odd tone, yet he skirts the matter – so smoothly, like a true diplomat, like Lord Telperinquar.

 

I shake my head, both to the puzzle that is he and his question. I have left my old life in the ruins of Ereigion, and thus my old name. I shall have it anew, far from the taint and taunt of old memories.

 

“I have none,” say I, in barely a breath. Then, steeling my heart for a disappointment, I continue, “Well met. Might I know yours?”

 

Someone snickers lowly behind us. The singer jolts, and so do I (and not only because I am sitting on his lap). The culprit of the amused, mocking chuckle then skirts around the blanket, and crouches before us.

 

The crass man. He is the crass man who taunted me when I awoke for the second time in the tent.

 

I glower at him. But he just falls into another bout of sniggering. “So now you know decorum and manners, little whelp?” says he in a whisper. My cheeks burn swiftly in an exploding rage. Before I can let out any retort, though, he resumes in a darker and more serious tone. “Hurt him some more and Gil-Galad is going to know about all that you have done to him and everyone else. Oh, and that applies to Elrond as well.”

 

I cringe and turn away, burying my head in the singer’s shoulder.

 

“Fimlin,” a voice above my head growls warningly. I feel warmth flashing through my soul on the notion that the singer is defending me now. – But I am old enough to defend myself, and I am certainly able to do so. I must…

 

–        “I swore upon his father’s body that I would protect you as well as I do him. And I swore to Lord Turgon to include his descendents in my protection.”

 

– Whose father? Who is “he” that the man refers to? – Lord Turgon? –

 

“But you need not bring it this far. He does not mean ill. He is just ignorant, raised in so small and closed a society.”

 

– Does he mean it as a backstabbing defense? So cruel! –

 

“And how far would you take his ignorance? How far would others bear it?”

 

– I weep silently, my face safely hidden in the nook of the singer’s neck, unable to bear it any longer. –

 

“As far as it takes.”

 

– Does he really mean it? –

 

Low, harsh chuckles – almost a dark purr – from the harsh man.

 

“I am serious, Fimlin.”

 

“And so am I, son of Ecthelion.”

 

– Ecthelion?! –

 

“Fimlin!”

 

“He must know who you are, Erestor, who keeps him safe and well-cared so far despite his tantrums. Celebrimbor’s followings may be conceited and narrow-minded, but they lived in the Havens of Sirion once and must know about other realms.”

 

– I stifle a whimper. It hurts. It hurts so much. Please let me go…

 

“Enough!” –

 

And the singer – Erestor? – jerks my head up, away from the nook of his neck where I have been hiding my tear-streaked face, and forces me to look at the hurtful taunter before us. I struggle, and let out a soft keening sound deep in my throat, deep in my heart. The torture the Elven monster evokes in me hurts nearly as much as the slaughter of my family and home.

 

– “You hurt him deeply. See? A child, Fimlin. A mere child.” –

 

The singer is breathing fast and thickly, and across from us the taunter’s eyes are wide with indiscernible emotion. But I just want my sanctuary back, as fragile and short-lived as it turns to be. It hurts too much. I cannot even put voice to my tears, even though my chest heaves as if I am suffocating.

 

And then we are gone, the singer and I, in a flurry of action. And the taunter can only let out a soft cry of alarm – and some other emotions that I do not care discern.

 

A pack on his back and my trembling body pressed against his front, still wrapped in what I dub “the night cloak,” the singer bounds across the camp and weaves among the trees. Later I can feel him descending a narrow, steep trail, stumbling at times but never falling or slowing down, and the sound of rushing water greets my ears. – We are going to the water, and he is wading across it, never once stumbling amidst the strong currents.

 

Not too far from the river, he puts me down on a bed of moss under a big oak tree, and puts his pack beside me. Afterwards he just stands there, looming over me, his face tilted up to the heavens and his body rigid like a wooden pillar.

 

He is clearly distraught. But I do not know how to calm one such as he. I could calm the little hurts of my little siblings, but his are too great for my meagre experience.

 

I can try, though, can I not?

 

“Erestor?” I call him, timidly. – And that does it. He drops sitting beside me, the movement sudden and jerky as if he were struck by a crumbling blow.

 

I sneak a hand out of the folds of the cloak, and tug at his wrist. “Rest?”

 

I am reduced to monosyllables, apparently, but at least he can understand me. I am ashamed of my own voice, so young and lost and hurt, yet I cannot put my thoughts to words without it. (I once try to mind-speak with Atar when he was angry, and the force that knocked me back into my own head made me fall unconscious for a full day.)

 

He complies, after some heavy breaths, spreading a blanket upon the moss and stretching himself out on it. Then he gathers me into his arms, letting me snuggle to him and spreading some unused portion of the cloak over himself. The tension and roiling emotions are yet there between and around us, yet the night seems to croon a lullaby in the sweetest voice I have ever heard – and I fall asleep to the singer’s regular breathing and rhythmic heartbeat.