Veils by wind rider

---

Part 3

---

Part 3

 

When I wake up, Vása is shining down on us through the leaves and branches of the oak tree, warm and golden and flickering with the movements of the living canopy above us. I can hear commotion just above the din created by the currents of the river, at the other side of it. And I can also hear the swifter breathing of the body that I am snuggling against. – Erestor is awake. And from the sound of it, he has been awake for some time.

 

He does not greet me upon my awakening, though. Neither does he look at me when I, still snuggling to him, get a juvenile urge to imitate the birds singing on the branches and do just that. He follows suit, in fact, after a while.

 

Lying here cuddled to each other on the moss and imitating birdsong, I feel like we are brothers out in a simple picnic. It serves to give us surface peace, a respite from the problems lurking in our minds, within reach of clear recollection. I certainly do not wish to touch upon them too soon. And judging from what he is doing, he agrees with me.

 

We play until the dappled light falling on us is no longer golden and warm. Vása is sailing upward towards her daily throne. – And my throat is dry, and my stomach is grumbling for sustenance.

 

He seats himself up, then, carefully disentangling our limbs in the process. “We are safe here. Work on your muscles. I am fetching water,” says he, without really looking at me. The distant façade he is putting hurts me, after our intimate closeness just moments ago. But he does not say anything more. With two water-skins fished from the top of his pack, he is gone towards the river – towards the racket made up of shouting Elven voices.

 

Belatedly, I get the notion that he goes there not simply to fetch water for the both of us. But I can do nothing about it, with my hröa being this weak and disused.

 

No, I may not make it an excuse for myself not to try my best. Atar and Amil would be so disappointed in me…

 

Gritting my teeth, I move my arms until my elbows are nearly perpendicular to my shoulders. I try to brace my body up on my elbows, then, but fail spectacularly. My head thumps heavily against the blanket and the mossy earth underneath it, and my vision is blinded momentarily by stabbing pinpricks of light. I groan, but thankfully no one is there to hear it.

 

I do not want to appear weak in front of everyone. It is not safe to appear weak before anyone, save perhaps Erestor. I do not want to appear weak, especially, before Fimlin.

 

But if not for him, I would never know that the Sindar – many of them, probably, if not all – regard us Ñoldor as weaker than they are; foolish, conceited and brash. These clashing opinions make me confused and lost, and I do not like the feeling.

 

I shall show them that I am not the average Ñoldor. I will stray from the path laid before me by my parents, if it pleases them. – I will show Erestor that I am worth his sacrifice, and that he does not have to fend for me anymore. Perhaps, then, I can gain a semblance of family again? I have ever heard about foster siblings…

 

No, I have fantasised too far, and tarried for too long. I must work on my muscles, simply because I must, for my own benefit.

 

I clench and unclench my hands, and move my fingers around one at a time. The stiff muscles protest vehemently to the treatment, but I determinately go on.

 

Thus, I am firstly not aware of any spectators watching my effort. Thankfully, though, it is only Erestor, garbed in his tattered clothes which are no longer filthy, grasping the water-skins in each hand. His damp hair, and damp and flushed skin, tell me that he has just taken a bath in the river. His face, when I look up at him, is impassive. He does look at me approvingly, yet the emotion stops only on that.

 

He is hiding something; something terrible. Was he really confronting Fimlin by the river? Dare I try to find out?

 

I decide I do not, half a moment later. I have not enough strength and will for the attempt. – So, instead, I turn my face away and ask about breakfast.

 

We fall into a light conversation about vegetable stew, then. (It is the meal he wants to cook for our breakfast, or so he says.) His replies are brusque, but not as tight or distant as before he went to the river, “fetching water.”

 

He seems to be delighted by my many questions. His bearing slowly relaxes, as he prepares the meal on a small fire on the edge of our small camp. So, while I first did it with hesitation and not a small amount of trepidation, recalling how upset my parents were with my chatter when they were working, now I do it whole-heartedly. I have always been attracted to the lores concerning the earth and the wildlife that inhabit it. My family and friends called me odd, and they could not understand why I seemingly behaved more like a Morequendo than a Ñoldo. (And that was not a praise, at all.)

 

But they did not watch the small leaves of some evergreen shrubs furl into needle shapes in winter. They did not watch a rabbit burrowing a hole for its new den, or eating a leaf in its dainty way. They never stopped long enough by a tree to see a pair of squirrels playing catch with their remaining store of nuts in spring. – They were always in hurry to their workshops or forges, or some other appointments, and forsook the world we were born into. But I did not complain, most of the times, because then the wildlife would just be mine to watch and cherish.

 

Here, though, I have to share the fascination with Erestor. A part of me loves it, having yearned for such a person for my whole life. Yet another part of me wishes to keep the wildlife to myself, mine alone. – And the latter is swiftly crushed down by the realisation that Erestor is not a lone Morequendo in a city of Ñoldor. I suspect that Fimlin is one, and the Non-Elf certainly counts as one, and I do not know how many more they are outside of these three people I have personally met.

 

Erestor is certainly proficient in herb lore, as he describes to me where to find and how to pick certain herbs, and differentiate between the edible and poisonous parts or species. He tells me about some medicinal herbs and how to prepare them, and what to do with them afterwards. And not long into the conversation, I am reduced into just making sounds of surprise, appreciation or question. He outdoes me by far!

 

Then I taste the stew he makes, after long tormented by its delicious aroma wafting out of the pan with the vapour, and it is… exquisite. My father could not make anything this good, and my mother less.

 

He laughs when I close my eyes and smile in bliss after he feeds me the first spoon of it. “I take it you like it?” he asks when I open my eyes again, grinning sheepishly.

 

“How did you make such a good stew with such a limited range of ingredients?” I blurt. I wish to learn from him. Then I can be a good man, and maybe a good husband someday.

 

He must find my pleading look funny, because he falls into another bout of hearty laughter, which lasts longer than the previous one. Yet afterwards he focuses himself on feeding me, just smiling enigmatically.

 

He only capitulates when I frown at him. (Well, at least I do try to frown. But he tells me, laughingly, that it looks like a cute pout.) “There are certain advantages to being an only child,” he says with twinkling eyes. “That is, if you are not too lazy and spoil yourself silly.” There is a dark background to this statement smilingly delivered. I can feel it. I can even imagine tasting it in the air. But I dare not ask him, for fear of ruining the warm moment we have built again for ourselves.

 

“Well, I was not an only child,” I say quietly, unable to help myself, “but now I am.”

 

Surprisingly, contrary to the other occurrences where my recent past surfaced, he does not try to gentle the memory or soothe me by any means. He just feeds me another spoon of the stew while smiling sadly.

 

We are quieter, then, and he finishes his own portion of the stew after feeding me in the same silence. Awkwardness hangs between us, but – to me – at least it is not the cool distance from early this morning, or the turmoil of yesterday. He takes my bowl and spoon from my lap alongside his, afterwards, to rinse on the bank of the river. I stare worriedly at him, noting that cacophony is still going on by the far bank of the river, but he shakes his head – knowingly. “I shall not be long gone,” he promises.

 

I do not believe him, but I cannot make him stay. The cooking and eating utensils do need washing. We need to calm ourselves down also, away from each other, sadly. There are yet too many unsolved problems between us, for us to stay with each other for long periods of time at once.

 

I return to working on my fingers, then my hands, and my arms. I will the muscles and joints to loosen up, grinning happily when I manage it. I have been sensing the swift return of my strength here, amidst this peaceful, pristine wilderness far from people. No refugees to remind me of the recent horrors, and no one like Fimlin to try my admittedly thin temper. I can feel the muscles aligning, and the joints rejuvenating. When Erestor returns with the wet but clean utensils we have used for breakfast, I am in the process of attempting to reach for the nearest water-skin.

 

I firstly think he will instantly seek to help me; but I am – yet again – mistaken. He busies himself drying the utensils and stowing them away back in his pack. But I can see that he is watching me from the corner of his eye, alert and ready.

 

I manage to grasp the water-skin, but fail to lift it. Before I can lament the failure, though, he encircles my hand with his own and brings the water-skin up gently from the ground. He opens the lid with the other hand, then guides my own hand to put the rim on my lips. – And all the while, I can only stare confusedly at him. Why does he do this, instead of taking the water-skin into his hand and making me drink in that way – like before?

 

And again, I notice how practised he is, as if he has done this for times uncounted, to too many youths like myself. I wish to know…

 

I drink my fill from the water-skin, letting the cold, clean water slake my thirst and also my heart’s longing of it. I have only once really tasted water, and in a small quantity no less, after my flight from Ereigion; and it was not as clean, nor as crisp as this. Erestor seems to feel and do the same, afterwards, for it is a long moment before he finishes gulping the content of his own water-skin, and the previously-bulging thing is now slim once more.

 

Then, rather bluntly, he says, “You need a bath. I will wash you with a cloth if you cannot yet stand the cold water, but you do need a bath.” And he just smiles to my offended look. – Only when he is carrying me to the riverbank, having collected several items from his pack, do I realise that he was mostly teasing me. Sadly, I cannot give it back just as good.

 

Thick, roiling mist covers the opposite bank of the river when we arrive. That baffles me, since it is quite late in the morning already. But Erestor does not look perturbed in the slightest, or even curious. He sets me down on a slab of stone jutting over the rushing water, and puts down the bundle of items on a nest of pebbles beside me. “The riverbed is rather shallow here,” he informs me while untying the knots, his voice barely heard over the loud noises of the river. “You can test the water now if it is too cold for your current strength or not.” Then, perhaps seeing an embarrassed but determined look on my face, he hastily continues, “Do not hesitate to admit it – if you cannot take it yet. You would just make trouble for the both of us if you did.”

 

Turning away to avoid his gaze, I move my legs a little and manoeuvre them so that my feet touch the surface of the river. – I flinch. It is nearly icy! But I shall not let it weaken my resolve. I am strong enough for it. I am just not used to it yet.

 

However, Erestor seems to have a different idea in mind. He warns me to shut my eyes and hold my breath. Then, without any more words, my body is lifted up into lithe but strong arms, swung once, and pitched into the frigid water.

 

I would shriek if I did not fear of gagging and drowning. But still, without opening my mouth and choking on water, I am quite in a danger of drowning. My limbs wave uselessly around me, tangled in the night-cloak, floated away and slightly downwards by the strong currents. – I am numb, so numb. Yet the icy grip around me, strangely, prompts my muscles and joints to loosen up further, reacting to the immediate threat upon my life. – The river roars in my ears, seeming to be delighted with my predicament. Will it take me, then?

 

It must be just a moment, although to me it feels like hours, when the same pair of arms haul me to the surface. My head breaks through the water, but my body – shoulder-down – is kept underneath. Erestor is grinning at me, openly teasing.

 

I raise a hand, with visible effort, and swot weakly at his shoulder. My eyes widen with surprise on the act, not expecting myself to be able to really do it. But he just laughs, and laughs harder when I glare at him.

 

“Now, your bath, since you seem to be just fine in this kind of water,” says he, after gulping down the last chuckles. I blush. I have briefly forgotten the real reason of his dunking me into the icy water.

 

And as if perceiving my thought, he quirks his eyebrows in amusement. “We can play after your bath,” he says innocently. “I was once told that bringing someone’s muscles back to life is best done in cold water. And besides, you do stink.” From the way he says it, though, the accursed advice was spoken to him just recently, not suggesting the usual meaning of “once.”

 

My glare intensifies. – But he is already sneaking a hand under the night-cloak and slipping it over my head. I yelp, blushing redder.

 

“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” he tells me, in a more serious tone, when I am nearly crying from sheer terror and embarrassment. “We are both male, after all. And besides, I have been bathing you and taking care of your needs since a week ago.”

 

After that, I relax just slightly, and choose to look pointedly down at the glinting water. He seems to take it as a permission to proceed, because then he is scrubbing at my neck and shoulders and armpits – firstly with his hands, then with coarse sand he finds from the riverbed. Meanwhile, he hums absent-mindedly, and his eyes almost never leave my face.

 

True to his words, he massages the muscles on my neck and shoulders, and they are no longer stiff. (However, the skin remains rather numb to the touch, being surrounded by the frigid water.) As he works steadily lower, he tells me about the things he saw and experienced while he was out picking herbs and wild vegetables for our breakfast.

 

He is truly a story-teller. He wraps me in his words, and I surrender quite willingly, eagerly wanting for more and more of the vivid images and experiences he describes. And when he is done with it, I realise he has just finished with my toes. (And the story, too, is actually the recounting of a simple outing.) I do not know should I feel betrayed or amused with myself.

 

I settle for snorting, pouting and glaring woundedly at him. And he does not deny it – my undertone that he has tricked me. He does not let me complain more, though. Seeming to ascertain that I am now in a better physical condition, he brings me swimming around our side of the river – without warning, yet again. He drags me along and against the currents with an arm around my waist, and I am left to stay afloat as best as I can using my hands and feet.

 

It is quite enjoyable, actually, although I will never admit it to him. As infuriating as he is, he knows how to make me happy and distracted. And I cannot stifle the smile that graces my face when we are cavorting in a nearby small rapid. He instills a feeling of safety in me, somehow, and I begin to expect it from him – crave it, in fact. Because of the constant contact between us and the play we are sharing, I also feel closer to him – against my better judgement.

 

I am not aware that Vása has slid low on the western horizon, as I only focus my attention on Erestor, the river and myself. I complain when Erestor says we should return to our camp. Then he points the fact at me, and I can only gape. The sky is tinged with darker colours already, and now I am also aware – at last – that my hröa has been begging for rest.

 

“Can we play again tomorrow?” I ask in a sudden attack of shyness, not looking at him, as he is towing me towards the pebbly bank. Erestor just hums noncommittally, so I let out a whinging noise. – But since when have I started to be this forward to him?

 

– And the mist on the other side of the river never disperses. Does Erestor notice it? Is it a work of the Enemy? –

 

He seats me on the stone slab I was seated in the morning, after covering it with a piece of dry garment which looks suspiciously like a tablecloth. He climbs up to my side, then, and I realise he is just as naked as I am. A snort answers my raised eyebrows. Only when I stare petulantly at him does he elaborate, “I also needed my bath, you know, and one cannot bathe freely with clothes on.” I blush at his bluntness, but refuse to turn away when he chuckles in response to it.

 

He dries me with a scrap of fabric, then wraps me in the night-cloak. He dries and clothes himself only afterwards, before gathering the items he had brought back into a bundle. “We only have wine and waybread for dinner,” he says apologetically meanwhile. “I did not hunt any game this morning, and I did not gather enough leaves for a vegetable stew.” But still, my stomach grumbles on the dinner announcement.

 

He combs through the tangles on my damp hair after securing the bundle. Only then I know that someone has cut my hair much shorter than it was last. My face crunches up, upset and confused.

 

He sighs. “I am sorry, little one. I had to cut it when I treated your injuries. Much of the lower parts of your hair was glued to your burns.”

 

It is the first time the matter of my recent past is brought up. I stiffen. And Erestor himself looks uncomfortable. The companionable mood we have been in thins and threatens to dissipate. I do not like it. And I would like to put the past behind me, no longer mentioned – no less discussed.

 

We remain in an awkward, tense silence until the camp is in sight.

 

Someone else is standing by the oak tree, and comes to a tension on seeing us approach. A beautiful sheathed sword is gripped firmly in his hands, as if ready to proffer to an important person in a warrior ceremony.

 

Fimlin.

 

Erestor tenses up. I, riding in his arms, cower and try to bury my face into the nook of his neck. I can feel Fimlin’s stare on me, but the Elven-monster says nothing about my response to his presence.

 

“Are you alone in this side of the river?” Erestor asks flatly. I assume Fimlin nods, because then Erestor continues, “When did you come? And how did I not notice it? – Speak.”

 

“Yes, Sir. – I came alone here, upon notice and permission from young Lord Elrond. I came here early in the afternoon. I crossed the river by swimming, farther from where you swam. I do not know for certain why you did not notice me, but I do have some guesses pertaining to that.” Clipped, precise, formal, truthful. Distant, unfeeling, brittle. I cringe. Are all warriors like this? (I now suspect Fimlin is one, from his stance.) And why does he address Erestor like that – as if to his commander? He dared to be insolent even to Erestor, so why does he now change his mind?

 

I replay his words in my mind, trying to find clues about his real feelings and thoughts on the matter.

 

And the longer I observe it, the more I – try to – recoil into myself. He is surrendering himself for judgement from Erestor, and expects the harshest of it.

 

Sometimes, I heard people whisper about how the Fëanárion lords punished wrongdoers among their troops in the past. And then I would have nightmares for days, and I would not dare tell my parents, because then I would have to admit eavesdropping on forbidden matters. But now the memory comes back to haunt me, and I find myself shivering involuntarily in dread. – What will Erestor do? As much as I hate Fimlin currently, I do not wish him dead.

 

I can sense Erestor nodding to his report. And then he steps up and lays me on the blanket, and faces Fimlin directly. I wish he did not think to get rid of me, so I could at least attempt to do something to distract him. Now…

 

The two of them look at each other, separated by two arms distance. Then Fimlin steps up, half unsheathes the sword and bows at Erestor. The half-naked sword is presented to the latter, balanced on his palms, and I gaze wide-eyed at it, unable to look away. It is the blade I saw once in the tent, and it still shines coldly but brilliantly – especially now under the Sun’s rays.

 

Erestor takes the sword, grips the hilt and unsheathes it fully. The sheath clatters dully to the ground, but neither of them heeds its fall. Their faces are grim – and Fimlin especially, tight. And then he kneels, looking at Erestor’s bare feet, his braids falling away from his neck.

 

His neck…

 

The blade is tilted up, and moved down—

 

I shriek, and coil myself into a tight, shaking ball of flesh. I do not know how long and how much I scream, but my throat hurts from it, and I do not care about it.

 

But then an unfamiliar pair of arms lifts me from the blanket, and cradles me for a moment before passing me to a set of more familiar ones. I cease screaming by sheer surprise. Erestor’s voice sounds in my ears, then, baffled and concerned. “What is wrong, little one?”

 

I want to scream “You!” but something holds my tongue back. Fear? But it does not feel like it. I am not being afraid for the moment – not for my own self, at least.

 

A faint “Oh” reaches my ears, then, and I perk up slightly in insane, morbid hope.

 

“Explain.” Erestor sounds frazzled, unnerved.

 

And then, miraculously, Fimlin’s voice answers the order. “The Fëanorians took this bit of our culture and warped it to their purposes, Sir, and this child must have only heard about the warped version, given where he was raised.”

 

I want to retort, to defend – anyone – perhaps my lost society, perhaps the “Fëanorians” (as Fimlin so crudely put it), but have not the heart to do so. I am simply glad that I can still hear him speaking, and maybe argue with him in the future. – But now, what I really want is a good meal before a good sleep.

 

I am on the verge of doing the latter (skipping the first), when a hand touches the side of my jaw, then slipping lower towards my chin resting on Erestor’s shoulder. My face is carefully tugged away from its usual hiding place, and I am made to stare – blearily – at Fimlin.

 

– Oh. It must be his hand, then. –

 

But he just looks at me for a long moment, saying nothing, without any rancour or scorn in his deep grey eyes – so like a Ñoldo’s. And I just passively stare back, unwilling to pull my fëa from the brink of the tantalising dreamland, and not wanting to move my hröa for any reason.

 

He smiles, then, and I blink sluggishly. The smile is… soft, if I dare interpret it that way. But is he really capable of such a thing?

 

His eyes hold solemn laughter, as if he can guess at what I think about. (Or am I projecting out my thoughts again?) Then, to my utter surprise, he kisses my forehead, tenderly. A soft sigh escapes my lips as an instant response to it, and I duck back into my hiding place in embarrassment. I am such a baby!

 

The world soon dissolves into rays of dream, though. And Erestor keeps my nightmares away, pushing me deeper into a healing sleep.