Veils by wind rider

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Part 6

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Part 6

 

When Erestor wakes up, I am already seated by a patch of flowers I have never seen nor scented before. He apparently catches the same soft, subtle fragrance, for he swiftly removes himself to my side and peers at the tiny white petals strewn nearby. And they are beautiful indeed in their fragile seeming, swaying gently in the nearly constant breeze like a patch of solidified mist curling around just one place.

 

They remind me of the little boy from yesterday night. – And it is approaching night again now…

 

“Niphrodel,” Erestor whispers, accidentally close to my right ear. (It twitches, surprised by the proximity.)

 

But I am more interested in what he says. “Is it the name of the flower? I have never seen nor heard about it.”

 

He turns to me, reluctantly, a melancholy look on his face. “You would not have, I suppose,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “Niphrodel the silver-mist and elanor the golden-star did not live in Eregion, and neither were they brought there to be planted and tended. I brought them from my travels to… Lindon… and planted them there. But I do not know how this particular patch came to be here, while it was not there even this morning.”

 

Why the hesitation on mentioning the capital city? Does he harbour bad memories on Lindon? Or perhaps instead a deep, unfulfilled yearning? It could only be secrets he has to keep, too, come to think of it again.

 

Soon, however, I am drawn again towards the flowers, and the entrancing scent of their fragile-looking blossoms. Swaying there peacefully, undisturbed, they make me long for Lómiseil all the more.

 

I only do not realise, at first, that Erestor may be experiencing a similar longing towards someone else. I am startled out of my waking reverie when I turn to him, wanting to ask if we can have a meal soon. He is staring both intently and unseeingly at the flowers, with vivid particularity that I am sure I did not possess when I was doing a similar motion. (How can he do that?) Who is he remembering?

 

And then a tear rolls down his left eye, and my heart squeezes. But of course, my mind chides me; he is far older than I am. He must have experienced more losses – probably more horrible also – than I have. I can still remember those blue-grey eyes burdened by memories turning their gaze at me, into my very spirit…

 

Absently, my left hand reaches up and brushes the teardrop away. – And he jerks to reality, regrettably.

 

“I am sorry,” he whispers, touching my dry cheek in turn. “You must be hungry. Let us eat. Elrond left us some delectable berries he found in his search of medicinal herbs.” And then the moment returns to almost normal between us, with the same abruptness that nonetheless fails to startle me – somehow. He quizzes me on edible berries and medicinal herbs as he prepares a fruit stew. (I have never known that fruits can be stewed.) I have to dig up my recent memories for the answers; and so occupied I am with the internal search, I do not track the passing time.

 

All that I know is that the stew is ready, and the unique, fruity smell wafts tantalisingly into my nostrils. I do not tarry in downing the concoction, although my nose and mouth wonder at its oddness for a moment. There are strawberries in it, and raspberries, and thimbleberries, and I can even taste apples and another kind of fruit which I have never tasted before. I suspect, too, that he has added a bit of the sweet cordial he gave me once into the mixture.

 

He is checking the lean-to and its surroundings as I eat, commenting here and there about the structure or supports, or – to my astonishment – the view. The action and the words that accompany it make me ask how he can know so much and in so diverse a matter. – He only laughs and tells me he has travelled far and wide. And it does not really answer the question… I suppose he knows, because he comes to me, then, and kissing the top of my unkempt head says that the tale is for another time.

 

“I have to go now,” says he. “Elrond cannot manage the refugees alone. I shall be back here in the morrow, if naught else hinders me.”

 

The reluctant tone in his voice is more prevalent now than his last departure. Or perhaps I just notice it more keenly now. – Or a mixture of the two.

 

And he does not include me in “the refugees,” somehow. Does it mean I have truly become his charge and he my guardian? I do not dare ask, or wonder to myself, yet nonetheless I stare longingly at his back as he goes away into the deepening dusk. He conceals many secrets, too many secrets maybe, and I am both frustrated and curious about it. He is both so open and so close when regarding me, and that still baffles me greatly. I wonder if, or when, we are not going to be as awkward as this.

 

I seat myself on the jutting slab I have so often occupied before, in Erestor’s and my excursions to the river. The currents of white water roar and rush under my feet, licking my soles every so often. The other bank of the river tempts me now, as I empty my mind and heart of any thoughts and emotions, but it is not yet strong enough to drag me into motion. I am yet content just sitting on the boulder doing nothing.

 

That is, until I feel a small splayed hand resting on my left thigh, as I am combing through my unbound hair absently with my fingers. I start violently, nearly falling to the river below. And a young voice, not yet losing its babyish quality, giggles guiltily.

 

I look down, intending to glower at the intruder. But I end up just staring at him, captivated by his small form languidly stretching at my side, leaning bonelessly against the slab of stone I am sitting on. He is looking at me happily, expectantly, as if waiting for a treat which he knows I am going to give him. His dark eyes, gleaming a silvery sheen under the burgeoning starlight, dance with bubbling mirth. And for a while, I can forget how those eyes also shine with the accumulated thoughts and emotions of ages uncounted, or how his whole form glows more brightly than a Firstborn ever does.

 

But I have no treat for him…

 

Scooping the tiny body carefully into my lap, I think furiously for something we can do together, which might be enjoyable for him. – The boy is here! And we have tonight for ourselves, like yesterday.

 

Yesterday… But the little one is still wearing the makeshift one-piece I made for him from the thin towel I found in Erestor’s pack. It is no longer off-white in colour, but many shades of yellow and brown and even green and red. Noticing it at last, I laugh; baffled, incredulous, curious, but above all, tickled.

 

The little boy coos questioningly, looking up from – suckling at my tunic lace. (The little menace…)

 

“You need a change, first,” I grumble. Then I add with a sterner note, “What did I say about suckling at my clothes? That extends to shredding them too.” Because I have just caught his tiny fingers pulling at the bottom hem of my tunic – again.

 

He whinges. I raise an eyebrow. “I wanted to explore the riverbank, you know,” I hint. The thought has just come to my mind unbidden.

 

In the fraction of a moment, he has already latched around my neck and torso, uttering a protesting “Aaaahh.”

 

The pain of my recent losses returns, but dulled and distant. I miss my little siblings very much, something that never crossed my mind when they were alive and nagging and teasing me, but there it is now. If only I could have… No-no. I can never have him.

 

And as if perceiving my thought (while I am sure I am not projecting it out this time), the little boy stiffens briefly in my arms. I want to comfort him, to say that I know I can never have him for some reason, but I cannot do it. It would pose awkward questions, if I did it.

 

Wishing to escape any more awkwardness and reducing the mental distance between us, I rise to my feet with him snuggling in my embrace, walking back towards the lean-to. “You need your bath,” say I, “and I need it too. Here, I have saved you your clothes from yesterday. You can change into them later.”

 

But he has returned to putting my tunic lace in his mouth…

 

My first thought is, `I should change into a laceless tunic,” followed by, `Where should I find it?` But then an entirely new thought slips into my awareness: `Has Erestor found out about the miniscule garments I hung behind the lean-to in his inspection?`

 

I do not have to worry, it seems, for now, as I find the clothes hanging spread where I left them. Picking them up carefully with a hand, I shift Lómiseil into just one arm, then go back to the front of the lean-to. I drop the garments over the bedding, then divest the little boy of his dirty one-piece towel. I drop the towel on the slab I was sitting on, followed by my tunic, and then my trousers. The wiggling bundle of energy in my one-armed embrace makes divesting myself of my clothing somewhat a chore, but I manage it in the end without ever letting go of him. (Who knows what he would do if I let him roam free, with that much energy and excitement pooling in him.)

 

Then, imitating Erestor in my first introduction to the river, I swing the little boy once before tossing him into the water. I follow him directly, and catch his bobbing form before he can float far. He is giggling madly, splashing me and squeaking with overflowing mirth, and I have not realised then how I have missed that unique sound produced only by carefree little children.

 

We splash around in the river merrily, forgetting the time or who might be watching or listening. The mist gathers around us, but I do not pay attention to it. The flow of the currents and their patterns tell me enough about where I am, the depth of the riverbed, and how close I am to the riverbank. It is almost of an instinctive nature, given how many times I swam in Sirannon, which ran along the edge of our city, separating it from the Dwarves’ mines. It was not as wide as this, nor as deep, but it was certainly just as swift and noisy. And I brought my siblings sometimes, as a treat for them if they behaved well, to swim there. (Of course, all I did without my parents’ knowing, no less consent. They feared I would drown, and they viewed swimming as a Telerin pastime anyhow.)

 

And now I am bringing yet another child playing in the river… Perhaps I am indeed not destined as a Ñoldo? It is not quite a pleasant notion to mull over. I have been uprooted from the place of my birth and upbringing, and I do not wish to be also uprooted from the heritage I was born into. Nevertheless, the thought refuses to leave, only receding to the back of my mind.

 

“Hold your breath, little one,” I say on a whim. For added measure, I pinch his miniscule nose and secure his mouth shut with my fingers. Tightening my grip around him, I plunge under the frothing surface, away from the caressing mist, into the heart of the roaring currents. I paddle against them, weaving between currents, upwards, always upwards. And then, when a small fist slams into my hand, I quickly struggle back to the surface. I have forgotten how young the child I am holding, oddly, and now I feel terribly guilty about it.

 

I open my mouth, about to make a profuse, sincere apology, but the sight caught by my eyes stops the words from tumbling out of my lips. Lómiseil is practically glowing now, truly lit from within, and on his face I see the most poignant mixture of joy and sorrow I have ever witnessed. But he does not cry, and he does not look at me even when he is staring at my face. I can see his tiny rosebud lips move, but no sound comes out of his mouth. The motion resembles a word I know so well, though: “Ammë.”

 

It is one of the most unnerving moments in my life. And worse, I cannot disentangle myself from it.

 

And then several people emerge out of the mist around us, surrounding us. Panicked, I clutch the little boy close to my chest, fending him with my arms around his strangely-rigid form. It feels too much like Eregion all over again…

 

“You are safe, child. Nobody here means you harm.” A man with beautiful complexion and even more beautiful voice… like the traitor, the fake Giver. – Yet like the Song of the waters also, somehow, like one I know so well aside from the wildlife….

 

“It is approaching dawn,” another speaks, then, another man, but with an opaque look about him, like the mist—

 

Like the mist.

 

They are Maiar.

 

“Just like the one in your arms,” a woman chimes in a soft voice. – Tinkling brooks. Gurgling creeks.

 

I wish to deny it, deny her, but I cannot. She is right. But I do not want her to be right. Lómiseil is just another child, another lost child in this cruel world.

 

– “He is always a child since his beginning.” She smiles at me gently, sadly. “He is going to be a child until the end of this world, and more.” There is another message underlain in her tone of voice, of accepting, of parting, and I would really like to ignore it.

 

“He is alone, just like me,” I hiss out, at last. She nods. Now I can see that the other Maiar are clustered behind her, and I have been somehow cornered to the riverbank. This trick does not endear them to me any, and I wish to lash out at them.

 

A pair of miniscule arms tighten around my neck, shaking ever so slightly, and I become aware of hot dampness on my shoulder. My heart lurches and squeezes. Lómiseil. I have forgotten about him, again, although he never leaves the circle of my arms.

 

“I am sorry,” I murmur into his ears. Perhaps I am just too selfish, wanting his company for myself… But I do wish for his company, and he himself has sought mine twice in two adjoining nights.

 

“He has chosen you.” The woman’s soft, lilting voice caresses my eardrums. “You are not his guardian, however, in his eyes; only a friend. It can be just as precious as guardianship, still, as he does not choose his friends lightly. He has been wounded and neglected for too much and too long over the ages.”

 

Over the ages…

 

The truth has never hit me so hard nor so forceful before. “Over the ages,” I sigh, repeating the three words as if it were a horrible curse. If I knew…

 

But would I not just do the same, thus resulting in the same thing? I cannot change myself in two days – or one – and I feel I have already changed too much, even, in such a short time. And still, Lómiseil – the little boy – does not deserve to be second in my affection. I cannot give what he deserves, and I am not mature enough for taking care of him.

 

I am a failure.

 

The words spat out by my former neighbours and family friends and acquaintances return to the fore of my mind. I am unworthy. I am a failure.

 

A tiny hand alights on my right cheek, splayed like a little star. “You are not,” a voice close to my own throat peeps. I look down, and meet a pair of confused dark eyes the colour of starlit twilight. “I love you,” he says with confidence and conviction, so young yet so old… “Ammë would like you, if she were here. But she said she would be watching me till I join her, so perhaps she does like you.”

 

Youthful reasoning. Youthful trust. When have I lost it? (When Atar swotted my bottom sharply for the first time, for saying that he and Amil were more worthy than the Silmarili – just jewels – to me? When Amil broke my first ever carving of Lord Aulë, saying that His Lordship is never clothed in the guise of a Dwarf? Or some other time, some other moment?) And he never breaks it for the cruel, merciless reality around him. How fortunate he is…

 

I kiss his brow tenderly, smoothing away the faint crinkles there formed by his frown. “I love you too,” I whisper, and a load is lifted up from my spirit. It is as if I am freeing him, and in the doing I have freed myself. Free to love, unafraid.

 

I climb up a nearby boulder and perch him on my knees facing me. “Back?” I ask, and he nods. Children do not need many words.

 

“Up?” And I nod, rewarded by a beaming smile. He has put the sorrow behind him, for now, forgetting it for a time. Children do not need many words, indeed.

 

I perch him on my shoulders and grab hold on his swinging legs. Then, laughing and squealing with mirth, we take off along the water-licked jagged rows of boulders and stones and pebbles to the camp – my camp.

 

Children need real action. And we children love this moment.