Veils by wind rider

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Part 5

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Part 5

 

I blink, realising that my eyes were open when I slept, for the first time in days. But was it a true sleep, though, or simply a trance induced by outside forces? – Then again, what kind of outside forces?

 

The promised rain is drumming on the fragile-looking roof of the lean-to, yet it never gives in under the onslaught. The river is chattering louder than usual several paces away. And the rocks outside my meagre shelter join in the din happily, as the falling droplets pound them and the new, little currents hug them. Yet there is a melody in it all, somehow, underneath the apparent chaos and cacophony. There is a harmony made up of harsh beauty and raw power displayed all around me, and that both rejuvenates and scares me.

 

I curl tightly around myself, burying half of my face in my pillowing arms.

 

I have somehow, some time ago, ended stretched out on the bedding and wrapped under the night-cloak. (What does Erestor wear, then, if he left the cloak with me?) It settles me, for a moment. It is surprisingly warm, lying beneath it, and also dry. It helps me fend off the roiling mist that otherwise covers my head, caressing me as if with actual fingers.

 

– Well, I must stop thinking it that way, or it will frighten me too much. – But it already does… I remind myself that I am just a fourty-year-old, who moreover has never been alone on his own before. I am entitled to some mindless fear and irrationality sometimes – am I not?

 

My ears pick up a strain of melodies amidst the clamour; small, sweet and childlike. I grow more scared. Erestor said nobody would be able to find me here, and yet here I am hearing a child sing. Or is it a lost child from the new encampment of the refugees? But then it will be worse, since people will seek for the lost one and thus come here…

 

– Will there be anyone seeking for me if I am lost? –

 

The sound of the joyful little song becomes louder, and now I can pick words in it: praises to the hearty rain and handsome – (Handsome?!) – river. It is broken or accompanied in intervals by childish laughter, innocent and totally carefree. It entices me to find out who it is.

 

I peek out of the hem of the night-cloak, – and freeze.

 

A small shadow flits on the edge of my vision, then comes quickly into it with the accompanying sound of little bare feet on wet rocks and in tiny pools. The sky, dark with clouds and rain and fog, is then cloven by an arc of light. The child squeaks, its song cut midway, just as it comes into my full view in the glimpse allowed by the lightning. And when the inevitable thunder roars, I suddenly find a wet, shivering small ball visiting my personal space. – It is my time to squeak.

 

And the intruding… thing… giggles nervously to my response of frightened surprise. Insolent little creature.

 

But still, I cannot ignore it for long. A part of me calls to tend the tiny child burrowing into my belly. And the same part also reminds me that it will be almost like regaining what I have lost.

 

However, my hand strays towards the child nestling in the curve of my body on instinct, before my mind can decide on any action. I uncurl myself while tugging the child towards me, peal off its sodden clothes, and bring it under the night-cloak for warmth and some semblance of dryness.

 

It is a male, and indeed an Elven child. I sigh. What have I gotten myself into?

 

My other hand, the one that is not loosely encircling the trembling body of the child, creeps outside the night-cloak towards the pack of provisions Erestor left for me. A blind groping around its outer side yields me a towel – folded small and bulging in a side pocket. I tug the item free from its compartment, and sneaking it under the night-cloak wrap it around the tiny body in my one-armed embrace. “Sssh. Here. I have no clothes small enough for you, but this will do,” I murmur to him while manoeuvreing his limbs around the length of the towel. I keep murmuring to him soothingly, babbling sweet nothings to distract him from the lightning and thunder that now seem to eagerly join the choir. And at last, the task is done: The little one is now bundled in a makeshift one-piece that winds between his legs and shoulders just as well as his torso and midriff. He should be warm and relatively comfortable now. (I know, because Amil had me in similar attire once, and taught me how to do it to my little brother and sister when they were added to our family.)

 

I wipe most of the water from his hair with the edge of the night-cloak. It is not as easy as putting him in the towel, though. He seems to like snuggling close to me more than having his hair dry – or drier, at least. I have to coax him to move a little – (“A moment. Just a moment, little one. And then you will have me. How does that sound, eh?”) – so that I can dry the locks covering the front part of his head. But afterwards, he does not take any more time in demanding my earlier promise to him. He snuggles under my armpits and latches around my torso as far as his limbs can get, not wanting to budge even a finger.

 

Taking care of him digs up the memories of my little siblings in their late babyhood. It does not pain me as much as I have assumed, however, with my being distracted by his antics. Every time the recollection turns to pain, I – perhaps accidentally, perhaps not – have to evade the little one’s licking tongue or tugging hand on my ear or nose. And then the memories are no more smudged by the twins’ last moments, and I can laugh at their innocence once again.

 

I laugh, and weep, and hug the strange baby boy close to my chest, finally returning his embrace. I do not know what he does to me; so natural, yet so unearthly at once. All the same, I wish to thank him, with all my being. – “…Thank you.” – Just that. I cannot say more than that, to relay the gratitude I feel. But he is a child, like I am still, and a child does not need many words to say something.

 

And he does understand, it seems. Cooing tenderly, he wipes at my wet cheeks with his splayed fingers. – And I remember Ellesarë doing that to me, while her younger brother by three twelve-counting busied himself kissing my burnt fingers. It worked on them when they were hurt, they said, so it must work on me too. – And it did work, soothing the sting of Atar’s harsh rebuke delivered to me before his apprentices, balming me when Amil just said I was too careless to be a proper blacksmith.

 

We cuddle to each other for a long moment afterwards, just lying under the night-cloak doing and saying nothing, and my mind is truly at rest for the first time ever. No urge to do better for myself or to show off. No desire to learn this or that, save to finally know what true peace feels like. And Sauron can no longer get at me through the memories of my family’s last moments. – Because he indeed does it, now I realise, enhancing our trauma manifolds while we yet cannot accept that he has defeated us. He uses our Ñoldorin pride and vanity to orchestrate our downfall, just like his old master did in the Land of the Powers. (But have other people realised that?)

 

And then, in a truly childish fashion, the little one suddenly breaks into a nonsensical song composed of cooing and humming, while his hands fiddle with the lace on the top front of my tunic. Then one end of the lace vanishes into his mouth, followed by the other moments later. “No, no,” I murmur, a bit startled to find that the tie is undone. I let my fingers ghost down his legs and then the soles of his feet, and he shrieks in surprised delight, kicking my belly. I groan. “Little one…”

 

The deep, peaceful moment is broken quite in an anticlimactic way, and I can only smile wryly at it. Nobody will believe me, anyhow, if I tell them that a young child – only slightly older than a toddler, I reckon – was the one bringing about that moment. I will have to say no, if they ask about the child’s specialty or visible talent, and that will not endear this notion to them any. After all, it is a norm that nobody believes the word and wisdom of an ordinary baby. – A baby who is now giggling and yelping madly, wiggling and flailing his limbs frantically, as my fingers attack his ticklish spots.

 

“Yield, now?” I smirk.

 

“Ai!” he squeaks. “Yes! – Hahahahahahaha… Stop! Aaaahh…”

 

The night-cloak is tangled around us now, wrapping us tightly. It is somewhat a chore for me to release the both of us from it, especially with the little one wriggling around and whinging in his unexpected confinement. “Lie still for a little while, would you? It was your fault, anyway. Laces are not there to be suckled at.”

 

He does lie still, for a moment. But then he pipes up, “Then what are they for?”

 

I pinch the bridge of his nose – in a lucky shot in the nearly total darkness. “What was this one holding, the one you put into your mouth?” He squeals in protest and swipes at my hand, trying to pry it loose from his nose. He does not answer, though, when I finally release it, only giggling – hard.

 

Well, at least he is lying still now.

 

I disentangle him from the night-cloak (and a bit of the bedding) and rearrange everything back to what it was. “Now,” I say in my sternest tone while giving the little one a disgruntled glare, “no suckling at any parts of my clothing again, all right?”

 

He utters a sound caught between “Oh!” and “Ah!” And my mind, through two decades of experience dealing with mischievous little siblings who preferred gestures to words, interprets it as, “No, I do not like it at all. But I shall obey you, just because you are mean to me in your punishment.”

 

I can only sigh in defeat to that. I could never win against the whims of my baby brother and sister, so I do not put too much hope this time either. Grimacing with slight disgust, I tie back the lace on my tunic and reposition the little boy in my arms, while checking if his makeshift clothing has been undone in our playful scuffle.

 

“What is your name?” I ask when the both of us have truly settled down again. I just realised I still do not know his name. (And what name will I give him if… or when… he asks for mine?)

 

“Lómeseldo,” peeps the little boy from somewhere down on my right side. “But everybody calls me Lómiseil.” – He is playing with the loose threads on the bottom hem of the tunic now. I wonder if Erestor will be upset on finding out that his tunic is in shreds come morning…

 

“Not Lómion?” I ask him, phrasing the baffled inquiry in a teasing tone. (He only lets out a protesting sound at that.) What an odd name, I say to myself, puzzling on a possible intended meaning originally bestowed by his parents.

 

And thinking about his parents makes me realise that no one has come even near here to search for this little one. Odd. – Unless, nobody is aware that he is missing? Because neither storm nor flood should hinder a Firstborn from seeking for his or her child with utmost diligence. It just seems… wrong.

 

“Where are your parents, little one?” I ask again, purposefully skipping my turn to introduce myself.

 

The tiny but agile hands stop abruptly from ruining the lower part of my tunic. Guilt and concern gnaw at my heart. “What is wrong, little one?” He does behave rather sweetly for his age thus far, despite everything, and I would love to repay the aid he has lent me, even if he is not aware of giving it in the first place.

 

Yet he says nothing for a long, uncomfortable moment, only creeping upwards almost in a timid manner to my chest and settling there like a second blanket. “Little one?” I murmur, growing much more concerned by each counting. Instinctively, I pat his back softly and stroke his head, attempting to alleviate whatever burdens his young soul. He looks – feels – so vulnerable now, and I only realise that he has been behaving more confidently and maturely than most every children his age I have ever known or encountered. (Who are, admittedly, quite few in number.) I hate to have shattered his cheer and composure.

 

But I do have to know who is responsible for the well-being of this precious one.

 

“Are your parents in the new encampment?”

 

And now I feel like a monster, trying to pry the information out of his clearly-reluctant lips. But I have to do that…

 

He does not quite weep. Perhaps not yet. – “Far, far away.” – So softly-spoken, I barely hear it over the rain’s drumming and the river’s rumbling. And so old and weary… My hair rises on its end. Such a voice does not belong to a very young child. But there is no evidence to show that he is not like what he appears to be, since to all my senses he is as pure and innocent as only babies can be.

 

I settle his limp body – so small, so very small – further up, on my shoulder, and put a tender kiss on his temple. Dare I see into his eyes?

 

He seems to decide it for myself, as he creeps a little more upwards and kiss my cheek. Our eyes, just a finger apart, meet, locked inside each other’s gaze.

 

So old… So young…

 

Glowing, like Atar’s, like Amil’s. But it is not the reflection of flame like the true Exiled Ñoldor contain in their eyes; rather, it is the flame itself, lit brightly from within. – Like an Ainu.

 

“Far away,” he murmurs, almost a mewl, and I melt down. Whoever he is, he does not mean ill to me, and he needs comforting – like I did.

 

I kiss his forehead, his nose, his lips, his cheeks – a small gesture, a small comfort, a small gift. Crooning sweet nothings into his ears, I tuck him more firmly in my embrace and cradle him.

 

He sags further in my arms. His evened-out breaths tell me he is asleep. And soon, I follow after him into dreams.

 

I am not surprised when, on the first song of birds, I awaken and find my arms empty. It all feels like a dream, a very surreal dream. There is nothing to convince me that it is not. Even the storm has stopped raging some time when I was asleep, and the river has returned to its usual volume of chatter. Only the wet rocks and the newly-formed small pools among them tell me that rain indeed came down hard yesterday night. But nothing else.

 

A sense of loss grows inside me; a gentle longing, a gentle ache. The memory of the little boy sustains and teases me in my renewed loneliness, vivid yet dreamlike. I cannot shake it off, and neither do I want to do it, if I am honest to myself.

 

I sit up carefully, reluctantly, and set the night-cloak aside. Vása’s light has not yet reached the part of the heavens above me. (Then again, my lean-to faces west.) The world looks mysterious and somewhat dreary under the grey light of the predawn, and the ever-present mist on the other side of the river only makes it look gloomier. I despise this gap between the sailing of the two vessels of light. And now I have nothing to distract me from feeling how the world seems to hold its breath, how there seems to be a thick silence blanketing the environment even though it does present various noises to the ears.

 

The edge of the night-cloak is soon tangled between my fingers, a sure sign of my agitation. (If Amil were here, she would have slapped my hand.) And then the bedding suffers from the same fate.

 

And there is something under the bedding… I did not notice it before.

 

I turn the bedding over, my eyes wide with hope and a spark of excitement. – There it is, a small clump of clothing just big enough for a very young child. And when I search in the side pocket of the pack, I find it empty of the towel previously stuffed there.

 

It was not a dream at all.

 

But will the little boy come back again to accompany me? Where is he now? Wandering off somewhere else? It is quite dangerous for little ones to venture out into the wilderness without any adult to guide and guard him or her…

 

Slowly, almost reverently, I pick the tiny garments up from underneath the bedding and spread them up over the night-cloak. They are made of dark wool, knitted rather coarsely but lovingly. But truly, it is too hard to correctly judge the right colour of the worn tunic and breeches, seeing that they are yet damp from last night’s soaking. I wonder if the little boy misses his clothes and will come back for them…

 

It is an odd notion, I tell myself, and I will get nothing from it. If he does come back, the boy will certainly tow his guardians behind him (his careless guardians, I remind myself) and my life will not turn any happier by it. Parents and older relatives can be too fussy when it comes to the handling of their children or little charges, I have found myself many times during my early childhood. (There was a reason why our neighbours and family friends were rather reluctant to babysit me, although they never let it be known by any means by Atar or – Eru forbid it – Amil.)

 

But… the little boy does not have any family nearby, does he?

 

I hang the damp garments over a leafy bush behind the lean-to, hoping they will still dry in spite of that concealed place, and hoping – above all – that Erestor will not find it. I do not want to share the little one with anyone else. For now, I tell myself, for now. – But “now” is a long time…

 

– “Cúmenel–! Pray tell, is this whispering true, that you refused to share with your siblings? You are no longer our only child, and well you should have known that by now.” Amil, snapping at me during one of my tantrums some time after she and Atar begetted Ellesarë and Ilinsor. –

 

My hands jerk in surprise. The recollection has caught me off guard. I stumble back, – right as Erestor arrives at the lean-to, with the non-Elf trailing behind him.

 

“Little one?” he asks me, puzzled and a little concerned. “Is something the matter? You look so pale. Did anything happen last night that has upset you?”

 

I shake my head, perhaps a bit too vigorously, but he seems to only pay attention to what I display on my countenance. And he seems to be such an expert at that, making it quite a hard chore to hide everything that has happened overnight. He has struck too close to the truth, and a little more probing will reveal it in its entirety to him.

 

A moment later, though, opportunity presents itself through the non-Elf. (I would rather discard him from any thought or consideration in other times, but he will do for now, unfortunately.) He taps Erestor’s right shoulder with his forefinger, murmuring something in an odd blend of Quenya and Sindarin. I frown. He has even mangled the languages!

 

And then, to my utmost relief, Erestor turns around and holds a small conversation with the non-Elf… in the same language. My frown deepens. Why does he follow the non-Elf, mangling those languages we have carefully built in yéni?

 

Erestor turns back to me, then, and I am caught frowning at him and the non-Elf. His mild stare turns as hard as the opal bracelet he wears on his left forearm. I stumble back towards the undergrowth behind the lean-to in a sudden surge of panic and fear. What have I done wrong? Is he rebuking my frowning at him? Because I know for certain that he is reprimanding me, very sternly. Surely it is not about my frowning on the non-Elf, though? My parents and everyone else that I have known in my life always said that Sindar, Nandor and Avari are beneath us, like the Teleri in Valinórë and their counterparts here in Endórë. But the Atani, the Sickly Ones they said, are totally uncouth and barbaric.

 

The non-Elf taps Erestor’s shoulder again, but he does not budge now. Not relenting himself, the non-Elf murmurs urgently in that butchered tongue, pleading, while glancing at me at times. Is the… being… pleading for me? It is quite a weird notion to have, and an uncomfortable one at that too.

 

But odder are his eyes… They reveal an even blend of Elven and Mannish heritages, yet there is something other lurking in their depths. Something that reminds me of the little boy from last night. Something other-worldly.

 

– “Little one, do you even hear me?”

 

I flinch. My displeasure turns to horror. I have been staring into the non-Elf’s eyes for real, not the memory of them, and I did not realise it, too caught up in my analysis of his true identity. I turn my gaze and attention to Erestor, then, hastily. “I apologise,” I mumble, staring at his cocked eyebrows.

 

The non-Elf speaks rapidly to Erestor, meanwhile, as if he has made a great breakthrough in understanding or a startling scientific discovery. The look of disapproval and displeasure stays on Erestor’s visage in the end of his excited tirade, but it has softened a little. He bids me to come into the lean-to with a hand gesture, while nodding at the non-Elf as if agreeing – no, it must be just “approving” – his theory.

 

And then, when I am seated just inside the shelter, he crouches down to my level and holds my chin with two fingers. “What do you have against Elrond, little one?” he asks smoothly, like steel wrapped in velvet. His eyes bore into mine in almost a merciless intensity, and I nearly give in to my primal urge to whimper. I never even thought to find this harder, sterner side of Erestor.

 

– Elrond? Who? Where?

 

I stare dumbly at the mysterious Sinda before me. He cannot mean “Elrond” as the non-Elf, can he? Surely such an abomination – a mixbreed which should not occur – is not high in the ranking of the High King’s court? I heard whispers that Gil-Galad himself is not of pure Ñoldorin blood despite his high and noble lineage, but they remain rumours until now, and so there should not be any doubt about the matter. But even if the rumours are true, he should not—

 

“Is this what has been cultivated among Celebrimbor’s followings, even to the young ones? Perhaps even from the young ones…”

 

“Erestor…” It is truly a plea now, coming unashamedly from the non-Elf’s lips. But for what purpose? – My mind is jumbled with various thoughts and emotions now, and I can no longer think straight. Have I really failed Erestor, disappointed him? It is somehow quite a distasteful notion to my mind and heart, souring even my mouth. I was never prepared for this, never thought I would feel deeply for the Sinda. (He has been taking care of me, yes, according to Fimlin, but he is nonetheless a Sinda, and he also left me yesterday night for other people.)

 

I watch apprehensively, fearfully, as he snags the night-cloak from behind me with a hand, then carefully fold it. He shows me the folded material, then, with an unreadable countenance.

 

The night-cloak has never presented so much beauty – untouchable beauty – before this. It gleams faintly, like the shifting light in dark waters, but also as smooth as a dark silk. I am captivated by it for a long moment, and I do not dare look into Erestor’s eyes for now anyway.

 

Still, he forces me – again – to do so. And I can no more shirk from his words than I can from his firm support on my chin.

 

“You saw it as only a piece of garment to wrap your body and act as your blanket, then?” Oddly, there is a trace of humour in his voice – barely a murmur over the din of the river.

 

But then it vanishes again, in his next words. “It belonged to a woman of my Kindred once, and her descendent is now standing behind me, staring at the river.” – Elrond?

 

“It is surprising that you quickly identified the bracelet and latched on to it, while you did not do the same to this piece. But perhaps it was indeed intended that way by the weaver, as the bulk of her power did lie in subtlety, rather than outright strength like her mother.” – Does he really say what I think he says? Whose cloak was it, before it came into his possession?

 

I dare not ask, and he does not tell me either. He stows the cloak into a satchel at his side, to my utter disappointment, and resumes his steady, indifferent tone. “What makes you think that we, whom you call Moriquendi, are lower than you are? What makes you think that Men are low beings, creatures of the Enemy even, when Luthien did anything to be with her spouse Beren – a Secondborn? And who do you think Dior was, if not a mixbreed? Luthien was in fact a half-breed herself.”

 

I have never thought it that way. The truth was never presented at me, and now I feel inexplicably inadequate, shameful, low. I hate it.

 

And how many things do I hate thus far? How many things have I been distancing myself from or ignoring?

 

Too many.

 

I cannot shirk away from the truth… and I hate it.

 

And Erestor tightens his hold on my chin briefly, demanding my attention. I give it to him nearly out of instinct. And then I have to do a triple take of his look, because it refuses to lodge in my mind – the emotions that it communicates.

 

Pain. Resignation. Broken yearning. – So different from his earlier impassivity. And it hurts, hurts so much. I have forgotten how hurtful it can be to my soul. It is as if ages had passed since last I instigated that look on his face, and I have gladly forgotten it, and now I despise the return of the remembrance.

 

“I dearly hoped that you could truly be my charge, be under my protection,” he whispers. The admission sounds just as hard to come as my effort to keep staring into his eyes, into his soul. My heart squeezes. Is he going to discard me now, then? Find me too disdainful of his own heritage and that of the people around him, too hurtful?

 

“I cannot take you in, while you hold my family and other charges in low regard. I can bare you spitting at me, but not at whom I adore and respect as an older sister, or indeed other people related to me in one way or another.” A question blares just underneath the soft-spoken words, one that I feel very important, crucial – horrifying.

 

It dawns on me, really dawns on me, when he continues. “Should I go, then? I shall not ask you to do anything you do not wish to do in the depths of your spirit. And I know that the root of this matter is not newly planted just this moment.”

 

He is speaking of my parents, of the ideals they drilled in me and my siblings. He is saying that he does not wish to taint the memory of my parents with his views, of probably the general view held here outside the lost Eregion. But it is too late, really. It has already been too late for him to think about that, to say that, now. He – and everything else – has already done it long before this, and I am powerless to stop it, to turn away from it. And still, I cannot fault him. Truth is bitter, and often not palatable, and well I know that recently.

 

But all the same, I feel an inexplicable anger towards him that he has cornered me into this situation, this moment, this vital decision, without any preparation. And I return his pain with just as much pain, and loneliness, and helplessness. – Let him think. Let him judge. Let him say…

 

“Should I go now?”

 

Should he? Shall I let him go from my life, as he implies? Or shall I cling to him like a baby to his mother, never to let go again? I have my pride, the indomitable Ñoldorin pride according to my family and neighbours and an insufferable one to Fimlin. Yet I also have my sorrow, and loneliness, and fear. I have my longing as well; too similar to his, maybe, to be just a coincidence. Which one should I choose? Which one will lead me into ruin, and which will lead me to peace?

 

I shall choose peace, as fragile as it may be.

 

My hröa trembles, and my fëa screams for help. But no help is forthcoming. This is my choice, and my choice alone. Alone…

 

I close my eyes, lurch to my knees and fling my hands before me, stretching, reaching. Another lurch nearly at the same time, forwards, and another pair of hands grasp mine in an iron grip.

 

Tears pour down my cheeks unchecked. My body cannot stop shaking, convulsing. I cannot bear it, the realisation that I have inadvertently chosen. But which would I choose, really, if I were less hasty, less wild? Would it not still be this, the easiest yet the hardest choice between the two? I am confused, and disorientated, – and so, so tired.

 

My grip on reality slackens, and my mind blanks. The disorientation remains, however, distorting all my senses and rendering them numb to both dreams and dreamlike consciousness. I do not know how long I stay that way, and partially I do not care about it. The only thing I care about when I at last resurface fully to reality is that Erestor is once more lying beside me, and the non-Elf – Elrond? – is nowhere in sight or sense. – And I catch a scent I never caught before, during my time sheltering in this place…