If You Need Somebody, Call My Name by Astris

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If You Need Somebody, Call My Name

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Once again, I find myself putting my trust in you, the Queen had told her, a kind smile on her face, and all Nellas had been able to think of was how brilliant the blue of her robe was, darker than the evening sky and so bright against the underbrush––and the Queen of Doriath had left her palace to speak to her, had met her under the trees as though Nellas were the ruler and Melian the subject.

Watch over her, would you?

The woods of Doriath were vast, and Nellas preferred to wander them alone, traveling as far as she could, until the Girdle hummed before her feet and the world outside leered cold and grey through the shimmering veil, until the stars were dimmed by the clouds from the North. Yet she stayed near Menegroth at the Queen’s bidding, biding her time, waiting for a child to come out and play with her.

(The girl’s brother had played with her, once—she remembered him, could not have forgotten him, and she wondered if this was all she would ever do, sit and wait for the coming of one who would someday leave her.)

Watch and protect—this is what you are to do.

It was a chilly spring morning when she caught a glimpse of movement at the edge of the wood, a barefooted girl-child stepping into the forest without a trace of caution, examining the tracks of a long-past animal with honest curiosity. Nellas’ first thought was one of surprise––this is Túrin’s sister, this golden girl with a smile on her face? She cannot be––they are nothing alike––

She kept to the shadows, waiting until the girl had passed close enough for her to see that she was not, in fact, a child, not by the standards of Men (which Túrin had spoken to her of, when she had last seen him––because Elves did not age as Men did, and a child in Elven years might be a grown man before his playmate had reached her own maturity). There was a brightness in her eyes, as though she were fascinated by every new-sprung bud on every twig, and every moss-streaked tree trunk she passed. She took time to glance up at every tree, yet did not notice the elf lurking behind the thornbushes, gathering a remarkable collection of scratches.

Nellas did not stir until the rustle of dead leaves under her feet had faded into the distance. Her heart was pounding a little too fast, and her tongue was heavy in her mouth––she knew that if she had stepped out and attempted to greet the girl, no words would have come. It was hard, sometimes, to speak, even when she knew that none were there to hear her but the trees and the birds, and when there was another there it was that much more difficult. It had been hard to speak with Túrin even before he began to grow into a man, and even harder to enter the King’s halls and speak there.

(And maybe it was only that she was afraid to try, and afraid of what could happen if she spoke to another, because once the words left your mouth they were the other person’s to keep and use for whatever they wished––a silly concern, and she knew that, and yet she could not have commanded her feet to move from behind that bush even if she had wanted to.)

Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow, if she comes, I will meet her as if by chance, and ask her what her name is, and speak with her as though both she and I were the same as any other.

(And she will leave me, as did her brother, and I will be alone once more––)

Nellas worried at her lip with her teeth, running her hand along the rough bark of the tree beside her. Perhaps it would be better to not speak to anyone at all, and maybe she was not, after all, the best person to be watching over this fragile human, not if it meant befriending her.

And yet––

I trust you, the Queen told her, and she nodded, clenching her hand around the tree branch beside her, a twig snapping off under her fingers.

“I won’t let you down,” she whispered, and a bird above her head burst into song as though in response to this.

 

* * * 

 

The forests in Dor-lómin had been utterly unlike this one, and Niënor couldn’t stop staring at everything she found, couldn’t bear to not take the time and devote herself to each and every flicker of sunlight, every cast shadow that flitted across her path. Maybe it was the magic of the Queen Melian, and maybe it was simply that it was new, and completely foreign.

There was a sort of brilliant vitality to Doriath, a warmth that seemed to change the quality of the very sunlight. She wondered if the Girdle stretched above the forest, encompassed the entire realm like an overturned bowl (it would be the most practical protection, certainly, especially if the Enemy had winged spies, as was rumored), and if it did, if it somehow refracted the sun’s light, lent it this enchanted quality. Perhaps she should ask someone, later––not the Queen herself, certainly; Melian was no doubt far too busy dealing with matters of state to answer such a silly question.

She wandered deeper, forgetting for a time the slight chill in the air that had numbed her fingers and toes. It was not until she heard a soft rustle from up ahead that she froze, looking up and searching for the source of the noise.

“Someone there?” she called, and immediately regretted it––there could be no malignant being here, not with the Girdle guarding the wood, but Eru alone knew what sort of animals could be prowling the area, searching for likely prey.

Right. Prey. I’d give them more than a handful to deal with, but in the end teeth and claws would probably win out over unarmored flesh, no matter how good I might be with a knife––

She found that her fingers had strayed to the knife at her side of their own accord, a knife her mother had given to her for her sixteenth birthday and that she had carried with her out of Dor-lómin, despite the fact that it was old, because it had not lost its edge over all those years. Her mother had told her it had been her father’s, that he had left it there for his wife to use to defend herself, and it would do no harm to give her daughter some protection against harassment by the invaders.

The rustling intensified and she thought she could discern footsteps now, almost as though this were no beast, as though there was someone approaching her through the deserted forest––

“Hello?” she ventured, and hated the slight stutter in her voice, the tremble of fear, because she should not be afraid, this was a safer place than she had ever been in and there was nothing here that could harm her––nothing that walked on two legs.

(There is always someone, the frightened part of her whispered, and she half-agreed with that voice, because it was true, anyone could hurt you.)

“If–if there’s someone there, I’d like to let you know that I’d feel much more comfortable if I was able to see your face…” And if not, there’s a knife waiting for you, she did not add, because she would not draw her knife for a rustle in the bushes.

And a figure, finally, emerging with a hand upraised. She caught a glimpse of dark hair and a faded green dress, and her eyes widened.

Who…?

“No need to fear,” the elf––for that was what she was, now that Niënor could see her clearly–– said, smiling. “I did not mean to alarm you.”

“Right.” She let her hand fall from her knife, feeling a prickle of heat race across her face. How foolish, to be afraid of this maiden!

As if reading her mind, the elf smiled. “I apologize if I have discomfited you. May we start over? I’m Nellas.”

“Niënor. Daughter of Morwen.” The elf’s speech was subtly different from everyone else she had met so far in Doriath, and she found herself entranced by the liquid vowels and lilting syllables. “Are you––do you dwell here, in the forest? I have not seen you in Menegroth.”

Something flickered across the elf’s face, and she shrugged. “I––no. I live here, I don’t go inside––”

She trailed off, and there was silence. Niënor watched her. The trees above cast shifting shadows across Nellas’ sun-browned face, a chill wind blowing about them, and Niënor shivered, suddenly aware of the cold.

Nellas tilted her head to one side, and Niënor was reminded rather forcibly of a small bird, regarding something shiny. “Would you like to see where I live? It’s warmer than here, certainly.”

“I would love that,” she replied honestly, trying to keep her teeth from chattering too loudly.

 

* * * 

 

She discovered that the elf lived under the roots of a massive oak tree, in a hollowed-out cavern beneath the root bole. Nellas correctly interpreted her wide-eyed look as one of astonishment and laughed, the sound sudden and brief. 

“Did you think I lived in the branches above, hm? In a nest, perchance, made of twigs and leaves?”

Niënor shook her head, smiling. “No, of course not. This is––this is wonderful. How on earth did you create this?” It was more than one room, this underground dwelling, and the back room reached up into the trunk of the tree itself, the walls formed of living wood without a sign of axe or knife on the smooth surface. The roots writhed together overhead, forming an impermeable roof that was tall enough for both of them to stand comfortably under.

Nellas’ eyes flicked up towards the ceiling, then back down to Niënor, the corners of her mouth twitching with barely restrained mirth. “It’s asecret,” she replied, turning and retreating into the back room. “Have a seat!” she called back over her shoulder. “There are blankets in the back––I’ll fetch one to warm you up.”

Niënor found a chair, carved of a golden wood that seemed the same as that of the walls about her, and carefully sat, still marveling at her surroundings. From outside, she had hardly been able to tell that there was anything at all under the great tree––an animal den, maybe, in the shadows of the roots, but never something as elaborate as this.

There aren’t any marks that any person could have made, unless they were incredibly skilled in leaving no traces––and to carve a space out in the heart of the tree and not kill it, that would require something… something beyond anything any normal craftsman or woman would have.

She thought she remembered something almost similar to this, that the smooth, living walls called something to mind, an echo of another place, but she couldn’t quite capture exactly what it reminded her of.

Nellas returned bearing a woven green blanket and draped it over her shoulders. She clutched it closer, flashing a grateful look at her host and marveling at the softness of the fabric, the way it seemed to slip through her fingers––wonderfully soft, yet warm. It was the same material as the dresses of the Queen and her maidens, she realized, though a bit thicker than any she had seen yet.

“You should have known to bring a cloak,” Nellas was saying. “It’s still cold out, and even more so in the shade.”

“You’re not wearing any more than a dress,” Niënor pointed out, laughing.

“Right. Have you lived in the woods all your life, now?”

They laughed, and Niënor was surprised at how easy it was to do that, to laugh alongside someone as though nothing else in the world mattered but the moment they were living in. She wondered why she had never noticed that before.

It seemed mere minutes before the sun was setting, painting the sky to the west a dull orange, the light streaming in through the entrance. Niënor lingered as long as she dared, standing just outside and continuing to talk to Nellas until the stars above glinted down on her reproachfully––you should be back in Menegroth, they seemed to say, before someone gets worried and sends an army out after you.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” Nellas asked, as Niënor stood there still, stalling as long as possible.

“Of course.” She smiled, and left.

 

* * * 

 

She did come back the next day, and the one after that, and nearly every one for the next year and a half. When it stormed too violently for Niënor to leave Menegroth, and when the snows piled up so deep that she could not burrow through, Nellas watched from between the roots of her tree as the wind tore through the wood. She was more aware of the silence at those times than she had ever been before, though the world outside raged on till she thought it would destroy itself in its throes.

Nellas found herself living from day to day with the knowledge that, when Niënor left, she would return––and leave again, but always return. Shelooked forward to those visits, and she counted her days well spent though she did nothing but talk to the daughter of Morwen, and expect her next coming.

She was content, and so was Niënor––it showed on her face, smiling and golden, and in her voice, like the summer sun.

And it may not stay thus forever, but a short time––yes, a short time could be enough.

 

* * * 

 

 

“Where did you come from, anyway?” Niënor asked on a breezy summer day as the two of them lay on the crest of a hill, observing the fantastic patterns of twisted white in the sky above them.

Nellas rolled over onto her elbow to stare at Niënor. “Come from? Here. Doriath.”

“All your life, you’ve lived here, then?” Niënor’s gaze hadn’t yet wavered from the sky, but Nellas could see the teasing tilt of her mouth from where she half-lay, half-sat.

“Yes,” she replied immediately, then paused, rethinking that––it could be true, but still. “As far as I know, of course.”

“No family to tell you? Are you one of the Unbegotten?” Now Niënor removed her arms from behind her head and stretched, shooting a glance at Nellas. “I don’t mean to bring up anything painful, of course.”

“Not at all, I just––” And how could Niënor speak so lightly of family, when her father had fallen at the Nirnaeth (or worse) and her brother had simply disappeared? “I don’t… I don’t really know,” she finished lamely, because she had never been sure if the shadows that danced at the edge of her childhood memories were really there, or only things she had inserted to make believe that she knew anything at all about her own past.

“Hm.” Niënor considered this, rolling a blade of grass between her fingers, and Nellas watched the motion as though transfixed by it. “You could always make something up, you know. If you can’t remember where you’re from, you could weave it anew with whatever colors you wish. Tell a story people would want to listen to.” There was something almost wistful in her voice, and when she met Nellas’ eyes there was an unreadable light there.

“Make something up,” she repeated, uncertain, and Niënor nodded.

“Whatever you wanted to tell, you could. It would be like living your life all over again, only this time you get to decide what happens. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

And just like that, Nellas understood. “And you… what would you say, if you could change it all?”

Niënor smiled. “Whatever I wanted to. But you would still be there, you know, no matter what colors I picked.”

She thought she knew some of the colors Niënor would leave out––blood red, and the blue and silver of an Elven-king’s banners.

And my colors would be gold for your hair and star-blue for your eyes and the brightest green for the dress you wore the first day I met you… but I think you know that already.

“And if you wove your own story, wouldn’t you know the end?” she wondered aloud, and her hand crept out over the grass, fingers entwining with Niënor’s, and the girl flashed a brilliant smile at her. “And sometimes the world’s all the brighter for the unexpectedness of it all.” The darkness as well as the light, she did not say––did not have to say, perhaps.

“I’ve never liked it when I knew the ending of the story,” Niënor replied. “That’d be a terribly boring way to live, don’t you think?” She rolled back onto her back, keeping her hand in Nellas’, and pointed to the sky with the other. “Have you ever wondered if the Girdle affects the weather patterns in this region?” she asked, and just like that they were somewhere else, still together but bounding through the endless realms of what ifand maybe––and that seemed to be where Niënor liked it best.

 

* * * 

 

Niënor emerged from Menegroth on an autumn day with a stormy light in her eyes, fists bunched in the fabric of her dress. Nellas took one look at her face and wordlessly took her hand, leading her deeper into the forest, to where a close stand of trees formed a green ceiling above the leaf-strewn earth.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, once they were sitting cross-legged in the green-lit space, the trunks curving protectively around them. Niënor shook her head wordlessly, brow furrowing with anger, and Nellas waited.

Finally, she burst out, “They all treat me like a child, because they don’t care enough to remember that we judge age differently, I am accounted an adult and they treat me as they would one of their kind who was my age. And it does not help when my mother insists on doing the same, as though I am some flower to be protected from all the cruelty of the world––as if I have not already seen that––”

Bit by bit, the story came out––the fact that the Elves of Doriath treated her as a child had grated on Niënor for some time, and the final straw had come that day when she had accompanied her mother to a meeting of the King’s council and been forced out, not because she was not qualified to hear what happened there (all adults in Menegroth were allowed to attend the open sessions of the council) but because she was tooyoung. 

“You’re the only one––you don’t treat me as a child,” Niënor concluded, grabbing Nellas’ hand. “You should be ruler of Doriath, not Thingol, not if he doesn’t bother to acknowledge the most basic facts of nature––”

Nellas did not correct her, did not tell her that Thingol had been the most aware of the differences between elves and the Secondborn. He had been the one to allow Túrin to fight on the marches despite the fact that, had he been an elf, he would have been barely old enough to start shooting a bow. (And he had been the one to lose his daughter to the creeping darkness of mortality––her time was running short by now, and he would not have forgotten that.)

Niënor fell silent, and Nellas continued to watch her. The sunlight, filtered through the leaves above, cast her hair with green shadow. She saw the rise and fall of her chest as Niënor sighed and closed her eyes.

“I guess it won’t matter, in the end,” she added quietly. “I can’t stay here forever, anyways.”

“Niënor––” Nellas said before she could stop herself, and then shut her mouth with an audible noise, something like shame making her stomach roil. How could she presume that her concerns mattered when it was Niënor’s life, how could she––

Her eyes opened and she regarded Nellas, frowning. “It’s true. I’ll leave here in the end, no matter what, and I don’t want to spend the next seventy years here waiting to die. You wouldn’t want me to do that either, would you?”

Reluctantly, she shook her head. “I––no.” But how could you leave me, and how could I survive you leaving me when that’s all anyone ever does to me?

Niënor shifted, rising up on her knees and taking Nellas’ hand. “But––but Nellas, what if––I know you don’t leave the forest, but maybe… maybe if you were with me––”

“I would come with you,” she blurted out, a blatant lie, but anything to get that pleading light from Niënor’s eyes, that wounded-animal look, fearful and lonely and far too familiar. “I would––Niënor, anywhere.”

You don’t deserve to be lonely, but I am too afraid to be worthy of you––I cannot, Niënor, I never could.

You deserve better than this––than me.

Yet Niënor smiled and tightened her grip on Nellas’ hand, the anger in her eyes replaced with that shining excitement Nellas knew so well. “Then someday, I promise––I’ll leave and I’ll take you with me and we’ll see the world together, all the better for that we will both be seeing it for the first time––”

Something welled up in Nellas’ heart, soft and fluttering like the leaves above, and she leaned forward without thinking, pressing her lips to Niënor’s cheek and inhaling her scent, warm and bright like a flame was burning within her, shining from every inch of her skin.

“You missed,” Niënor whispered, half-laughing, and before Nellas could protest she had wrapped her fingers in her curled brown hair and pulled her closer, lips meeting. Her mouth tasted of summer berries and sweetness. Nellas kept her eyes open to watch Niënor’s eyelids flutter, a gleam of blue visible from under spun gold.

In that instant, had Niënor asked her to leave with her, she would have gone willingly and without a second thought.

 

* * * 

 

The things you noticed about the one you loved were funny––always the small things, things you would have never even remembered existed until you saw them in that person.

Niënor’s shoulderbones protruded like the beginning of wings, sharp and smooth, and Nellas entertained herself for hours with them, running her fingers lightly over them and feeling Niënor shudder and relax into her. Niënor’s hair carried the scent of the court of Menegroth, and it should have reminded Nellas of the last time she had ventured inside, should have terrified her, but somehow it failed to.

Niënor claimed that Nellas smelled like the forest, like trees and the earth after rainfall––like green light, she said, if light had any sort of smell  at all. She joked that maybe to elves it did, and Nellas smiled, neither confirming nor denying it.

She loved teaching Niënor things about the forest she had lived in all her life, and if there was no one who knew it better than her (besides, perhaps, the Queen Melian) then likewise there was no one quite as ignorant about it as Niënor. She took delight in learning, soaking it all up as if this was her only chance to hear the words, as if she didn’t know that Nellas would be happy repeating it to her every day for the rest of eternity.

Is this what it means to love someone? Nellas wondered, and had nothing to compare it to. She thought it must be like this.

The trees––which had always had names, in her mind––were strangers to Niënor. Nellas taught her the names in both her language and the language of Doriath, laughing as Niënor wrapped her lips around the new syllables.

“Ash,” she said, pointing to a tree, and Nellas shook her head.

“Birch. See the white bark?” And she would guide Niënor’s hand up the papery trunk, white scraps peeling off under her palm and falling to the ground like snow. 

A few months later, true snow fell from the steel-grey sky, the sun painting the fallen drifts in diamonds and crystal, and Niënor showed her how her mother had taught her to lay down and spread her arms and legs, outlining a shape she called a bawâbi in the snow. When Nellas asked what that was, Niënor shrugged.

"A being of great power, long ago. Mother always used to tell me the stories of our people from before we crossed the mountains––it was something from those. They are great winged women, terrible and beautiful."

Nellas showed her the footprints of animals in the snow, the feathery marks left by the wingtips of birds. Niënor showed her how to shape snow into balls and hurl them at trees and squirrels and each other, splattering everything with soft white.

And when they were both cold and flushed and trembling, Nellas would wrap her numb fingers around Niënor’s mittened hands, and Niënor would lean in and brush her lips against Nellas’ cheek, and in those moments her mouth was warmer than anything she had ever felt.

(The warmth would fade––of course it would, it always would. Her mistake was thinking that what she and Niënor had could endure unchanged in this glittering wood, as she had for as long as she could remember.)

 

* * *  

 

 

“Mother’s leaving. I have to go with her.” Niënor’s eyes were wide, breath fogging silver in the moonlight, and Nellas stared at her for a long moment, uncomprehending––go with her?

“But you––” The words were clumsy in her mouth, everything about this wrong. Why was Niënor here, in the middle of the night, why was she saying this–– “Why would she leave?” she finally asked, hating the childish whine in her voice and the fear.

"She wants to find my brother. Or––or something. She's leaving, anyways, and I can't let her go alone, I can't." She shook her head. "Nellas, please, you have to ––"

"You never say his name," she blurted out, the first words that rose to her mind, "You never say it. Do you even know it?"

"Who?" Niënor blinked. "Nellas, I––"

"Túrin. You know his name, right?" You aren't leaving me for someone whose name you don't even know, whose face you never even saw––

"Nellas––"

"He's probably changed it by now, he liked changing his name to suit whatever fantasy he had at the time––"

"Come with me, Nellas."

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Looked away, unable to meet Niënor's eyes. "I can't."

"But… Nellas, why?" There was almost an accusation in her voice, humming under the words: Nellas, you told me you would come––you promised.

She turned away, eyes skittering over the dark forms of the trees, wishing she could run into them and bury herself in the cracking branches until she woke up and this was all a dream. "I've never left the forest." It was true––it was not why she couldn't. She was a coward, it was as simple as that, because she wouldn't brave the outside world even for the one who loved her most.

Niënor grabbed her shoulders, wheeled her around to face her. Her face was hard, everything about it radiating sheer determination. "Nellas, I must go. And I wanted you to come with me, because then… it would've been better, you know?"

Nellas shook her head, a choking tightness rising in her throat. "No," she whispered, and then, hating the way her voice was breaking: "Don't go, Niënor."

"I have to." She slipped one hand into Nellas', offering her a smile, and Nellas couldn't force her mouth to respond in kind. "I'll come back, then, if you won't come with me––I'll come back." She kissed her, touch fleeting and warm, and then stepped away. She hastened towards the edge of the clearing, then turned, mouth-half open as if to say something––and then she closed it and spun away, disappearing into the trees.

Nellas waited until even her keen ears could not distinguish her footsteps from the rest of the world to bury her face in her hands and cry.

 

* * * 

 

I have to follow her.

The thought of crossing the Girdle made her shudder, made her fingers twist into themselves and her stomach tie itself in knots. She was afraid, she was a coward, and Niënor could not have possibly wanted someone like her to accompany her––

She climbed into the highest branches of her home tree and lay back against the trunk, missing the sound of Niënor's voice. She replayed their conversation over and over, hating everything about it, hating herself.

The last of the winter snows melted, and she still hadn't left the small circle of land around her tree. Sometimes she curled up under the blankets Niënor used to wrap herself in, burying her face in them and pretending she could still smell her there.

And in the end, it wasn't her love for Niënor that prompted her to follow, but the Queen's words, so long ago––watch over her. Because the longer she waited, the stronger the feeling grew: that something terrible had happened beyond the borders of Doriath, and Niënor needed her.

 

* * * 

 

Her feet carried her to the western border of Doriath one clouded morning, mostly without her consent.

The Girdle split this stretch of Sirion neatly down the middle, the water flowing smoothly to either side, shining in the sunlight. She stood knee-deep in the water, watching the invisible barrier hum before her, a curious tingling sensation borne through the water and into her. To the south were the oak-trees of Nivrim, still within the Queen's protection, but north of that––on this bank––there was nothing but a steep, rocky slope and beyond that the fair plains of western Nargothrond.

Are you out there somewhere, Niënor?

She reached out, and her fingers passed though the Girdle with little more than the faintest spark jumping up her arm, making her shiver. The air beyond seemed colder, though she knew this could not be.

One step more and she would be beyond the realm of Doriath, out of the Queen's protection.

She closed her eyes, then thought better of it––she wanted to meet the world with open eyes, no longer cowering in the shadows of the trees as she had all her life. She had changed, perhaps (and if she had, she knew what had caused it––or rather, who).

She lifted one foot out of the muddy bottom and the current caught her leg, forcing her to stumble forward, arms flying out to catch herself. There was a soft crackle, all over, and then she was gasping for breath in the open air, feeling as though her lungs were filled with something a bit too heavy.

There, she could almost hear Niënor saying, that wasn't so bad, was it?

No. It wasn't. She shook her head, splashing further downstream, to where the Girdle cut inland and away from Sirion. Further south, she knew, were the ferries of Aelin-uial––she would have to cross the river there, because the current this far south was too strong to swim. She clambered up onto the bank, shaking the water from her legs. She had bunched her dress up over her waist to keep it from getting wet; she focused on loosening that and ignored her continued light-headedness. Even that was steadily passing, though, and when she straightened up the world seemed a bit clearer. She almost looked back, then decided it was best if she did not.

No point in going back now.

"I'm coming, Niënor," she whispered, and began walking south.

 

* * * 

 

She did not know how many months she had lost in Doriath, or how much time had passed in the outside world––from what some of the march wardens said, the two did not always seem to line up perfectly. What she did know was that a summer and a winter had passed since Niënor had left, and it was now spring, the ground soft and the ice melting and the flowers poking green heads from the loam.

Westwards lay the realm of Nargothrond. She would head that way, skirting the areas she thought to be heavily populated. If Niënor was there, well and good. If not… if not, then she would look elsewhere. Northwards, perhaps, or east.

Doesn't matter where, you know. You brought me out of the woods, Niënor, and now that I am out I will find you.

 

* * * 

 

Nargothrond had fallen, and only an empty shell remained, and the crumbling end of what used to be a bridge looming over a roaring river. There were scorch marks on every stone, and great gouges in the walls. Nellas only stayed for about a day, still hoping she would come across Niënor––no such luck, of course. The only movement she saw was a small, furtive figure ducking into and out of the ruined hall in the evening, and she did not wish to investigate further.

The sound of the wind was somehow mournful, whistling around the corners and howling through the broken turrets, sending a chill down Nellas' spine. She left with the taste of ash in her mouth and the small beginnings of fear.

Where next?

She walked the lands to the west of Nargothrond, watching the moon above cycle from light to dark and back again. Now when she saw others she approached them, asked them if they had seen a girl with golden hair, perhaps with an older woman who could have been her mother. No one had ever seen her, but she learned other things: that Nargothrond had fallen in the fire of the dragon and everyone in it had been killed or enslaved, that refugees fleeing to Doriath and elsewhere were dying in the wilderness, starved and Orc-hunted and wounded. Only a few ever made it, and from what she heard those few had mostly made it through the border nearly a year ago. Almost no one had made it that far north since.

She thought she would know if Niënor had died, and still was afraid that somehow she wouldn't, that she would wander this wasteland until the sun died and the moon faded, still looking.

The woods north of Doriath reminded her of home. She traveled there and slept in a tree for the first time in a long time. In the morning, she woke to find a girl with brown hair and a dingy stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest watching her.

"Who're you?"

Nellas shrugged and swung down from the branch, landing lightly on the ground. The girl's eyes widened until they seemed ready to pop out of her head.

"Momma says I shouldn't climb trees," the girl said, tilting her head to one side. "It's not safe."

"I've been climbing trees for a long time," Nellas replied, kneeling so she was at eye-level with the girl. "I need to know something––""

"Momma also says I shouldn't talk to strangers." The girl shoved her rabbit into Nellas' face, grinning. "This is Alla. I'm Gaeliel."

"I––my name's Nellas." She pushed the rabbit away as gently as possible, smiling. "I'm looking for a woman with golden hair. She's about as tall as me, a human––"

The girl considered this. "The Lady Níniel has golden hair," she finally said.

"Níniel?" Tear-maiden. The same––could it...?

"She's very pretty." Gaeliel nodded solemnly, looking down at her rabbit and making one ear twitch with her hands. "I won't be so pretty when I grow up, probably."

Nellas straightened up and placed a hand on her head. "You're perfectly beautiful, Gaeliel."

The girl smiled up at her. "Maybe... maybe you could come to my house, Nellas? Momma would want to meet you. She could tell you all about the Lady, I bet."

"Lead the way." Nellas let the girl take her hand and pull her down the narrow path.

 

* * * 

 

Gaeliel's mother didn't seem too concerned by the fact that her daughter had brought a strange woman home––was, in fact, so cheerful about the entire thing that Nellas had to wonder if this was a common occurrence. Inevitably, her pointed ears were noticed, which only served to make her reception warmer. She reflected on the fact that the mere fact that she was an elf seemed to give her credit in the eyes of most of the Secondborn. A holdover from older days, she supposed, when the Eldar were still held in high reverence.

I am no Noldor, of course, but they would hardly know the difference, would they?

Nellas was served a rather

"The Lady Níniel visited this area a few months ago," she said in response to Nellas' question, leaning back from the table. "I think she and her husband live further north, about a half a day's journey."

"Husband?" Nellas blurted out, then tried to pretend she hadn't. Something in her twisted––had Niënor forgotten her that easily?

"Oh, yes, didn't you know? Turambar (who some say is the same as the mysterious Mormegil, none other than that great hero) found her nigh on two and a half years ago. She was running through the woods, lost, and no one knew where she'd come from––she didn't either, seems, because they had to teach her how to do everything all over again." She nodded wisely. "And now she's expecting. Smartest move a girl could make, marrying a man like that––"

"What does he look like?" she interrupted, slipping her hands under the table to hide their trembling.

The woman sighed thoughtfully. "Black hair and grey eyes, and he came to the Woodsmen carrying a great dark sword. Some say there is an almost elf-like light in his eyes, and as one who has seen him I can vouch for that––and also a flat-out terrifying light, what's more."

Túrin.

"Momma?" Gaeliel tugged on her mother's sleeve, pointing out the window. "The forest…"

"What's the matter, dear?"

"It's shining." She pointed at the window. They all turned to look. The sun had set a long time ago, but the horizon was glowing nonetheless, a dull, angry red that seemed to brighten even as they watched. Gaeliel shrank back against her mother, clutching her dress about her as if that would serve to protect her.

Nellas pushed away from the table and started for the door. Gaeliel's mother made a noise of protest.

"I wouldn't go out there tonight if I were you, dearie. That there looks an awful lot like dragonfire…"

"How far is it to where the Lady Níniel lives?" she asked, ignoring the woman's concerns. Her heart was pounding a bit too fast––something had gone terribly wrong, this shouldn't be happening. "It's up north, isn't it? Where that fire is?"

The woman nodded. "Half a day of walking for us. You could cover it faster, no doubt." There was stark concern in her eyes, and the hands holding her daughter's shoulders were shaking. "Be careful, friend."

"Thank you very much for your hospitality." Nellas smiled at Gaeliel one last time, then pushed the door open and hurried into the night.

 

* * * 

 

The air had the same bitter taste as it had had at Nargothrond, but where that had been old and faded this was fresh, smoke stinging her eyes as she drew nearer. She passed several abandoned homes and hoped that Gaeliel and her mother would have the sense to flee.

Unlike you, racing right into the dragonfire. What will this serve, if she loves someone else already?

She shook her head, speeding up, breath rasping in and out of her throat. She doesn't remember anything, not even that this Turambar is her brother. If she did, nothing would hold her to him––

The woman had said she was expecting by Turambar, hadn't she?

Don't think about it. Just go!

The glow on the horizon had spread to encompass the entire sky, a terrifying red-orange the likes of which Nellas had never seen.

Doriath never burned, she thought, and on the heels of that came a quiet, surprisingly calm voice: it will burn, in the end, won't it? Everywhere does when it all ends.

The fire was due north. She halted in a clearing, chest heaving, and suddenly was afraid. This dragon––a beast of Morgoth, the enemy the Queen's Girdle had always kept out––it could kill her, it could have already killed Niënor, and she could be hurtling towards her own death.

She had accepted that when she crossed the border that had kept her within it for her entire life.

Help me, Niënor, I'm afraid––

And then she felt a cool breeze like a small, soft hand, brushing through her hair, pulling her onwards, northeast to the heart of the fire. She let her feet carry her forward, pushing past clinging branches and leaping over protruding roots.

She came across a trail through the woods, five times a man's height in width and carpeted with glowing embers, the trees about it trampled and glowing with a dying light, and the marks of great clawed footprints torn through the ash. She stared at it for a long moment, breathing heavily and tasting heat at the back of her throat, fire and ash. Then she turned and followed the trail, already knowing what would be waiting at the end of it.

The trail met up with a river bank, the ground on the near side a smooth slope of mud, churned up by the footsteps of a giant. The other side was only a great cliff, plunging white and sheer into churning water. Nellas stood at the edge, spray from the rapids misting across her face and wetting her dress, already smudged with ash and dirt. The water was cold, the air baking hot.

The fire above had faded.

What happened? Is the dragon––dead?

The dragon was gone, certainly, if the absence of its fire was anything to judge by, and she thought she should be happy about that––if the dragon was gone, there was no threat to Niënor––but there was a heavy feeling to the air, as though something terrible had yet to happen, and her entire body seemed to be thrumming to the earth's song of impending danger.

She had started into the river's shallows, the current strong even there, when a great cry arose from across the river; a high wail of despair. She froze, shocked––she recognized that voice.

"Niënor!" she called, looking around, searching for some sign. "Niënor, are you there?"

There was a flash of white on the bank above and she craned her neck, scanning the top of the cliff for something, some sign of life, anything,

Please, sweet Elbereth, let her be there, please––

Another flash of white––a dress, she saw now––and a figure emerged at the very edge of the cliff, golden hair caught in the spray-drenched wind. Nellas could only see a pale blur where a face would be (because of the water drenching her face, she thought, and it was not because she was weeping, not) but still knew.

"Niënor!" Her name emerged as a scream, torn from her raw throat, and she started splashing into the river, rocks cutting into her feet, and the figure above teetered for a second on the brink and then fell, a scrap of white caught in the roaring wind, tumbling down and down.

No––

She hurled herself forward, scrambling on all fours over the great rocks in the riverbed, the rushing water battering at her, tearing her hands from the stone. She saw the splash ahead, white cloth billowing in the current, and then her arms were around Niënor, pulling her up and out of the river. She collapsed on the riverbank, coughing and gasping, fingers dug into the mud as though the river were still tugging at her, other hand caught in Niënor's dress.

"Niënor," she whispered, voice emerging as a hoarse whisper, and she dragged herself over, suddenly feeling so very tired. Everything hurt, her limbs bruised and battered by her crossing of the river. Her hands were bleeding, leaving smears of red across Niënor's cheeks as she brushed her soaked hair off of her face. Her eyes were closed.

"Niënor, you're not allowed to be dead," she told her, grabbing her shoulders and burying her face in the sodden cloth. "I came after you, Niënor, just like I promised, now don't be dead––" She felt something hot trickle over her cheeks and swiped the tears away angrily. "Niënor!" She shook her shoulders, entire body trembling, and nearly cried out when Niënor's eyelids fluttered ever so slightly.

Yes. There. Come back to me, Niënor, come back.

"I'm here, Niënor." She pressed a kiss to Niënor's lips, still cold from the freezing water. "Right here."

Niënor's eyes opened fully, wide and blank. She stared at Nellas' face, not a hint of recognition there, and Nellas' breath caught in her chest––and then something sparked there, something like memory. Niënor reached up, brushed her hand against Nellas' face.

"Nellas?"

"Yes," Nellas replied, wrapping her arms around Niënor. "I came after you, see?"

Niënor leaned back into her, a slow smile spreading across her face. "I knew you would, Nellas."

 

* * * 

 

Epilogue

 

Niënor's daughter was born in a house they had found south of Brethil, abandoned, windows cracked and a layer of autumn leaves wind-blown across the dirt floor. They managed to neaten it up in the intervening months, and as the days grew warmer and Niënor grew noticeably rounder (and took to hobbling around on swollen ankles, insisting she could help Nellas with whatever small chore she happened to be doing at the time), the small house began to feel more like a home.

Nellas had never lived in the same house as another person before. She found that alongside the small annoyances (the way Niënor snored ever so softly, which was only endearing until it was past midnight and Nellas still couldn't sleep) there were discoveries––the way Niënor sang absentmindedly under her breath whenever she was concentrating on something, the way she loved it when Nellas ran her fingers up and over the swell of her stomach.

If Niënor ever worried that, her child's father being who he was, the baby would be somehow different, she never spoke of it. As for Nellas, she decided to focus more on how wonderfully strange it felt to press her hand to taut skin and feel the child kicking back from within, the softest tremble that Niënor claimed she felt all over.

"A strong one," Nellas noted once, hands folded over Niënor's stomach, and when Niënor smiled and nodded, she added, "Just like her mother."

On a clear summer's morning, with the light of dawn slanting through the windows, Niënor gave birth to a fair-headed girl, beautiful and perfectly normal. Nellas held her for the first time, hair still damp, eyes still closed, and marveled at the delicate tracings of blue veins under translucent skin.

"I'd say she looks as though she has your nose," she told Niënor, "but she doesn't look much like anyone at the moment."

Niënor smiled, leaning back against the pillows. "She's beautiful."

Nellas joined her in the wide bed, careful not to jostle the warm bundle clutched in her arms. "Have you chosen a name yet?"

"Lalien," she replied immediately, smiling down at the child. "I think the world's had enough of weeping for awhile, no?"

 

---

Chapter End Notes

bawâbi - Adûnaic (the Edain languages themselves are proto-Adûnaic in some shape or form, says Elleth, who was incredibly helpful with this bit especially) for 'winged woman', a translation of Suruli, a term for the winged Maia (basically an insertion of the whole angel-thing in the context of Edain culture to justify the fact that Niënor made a snow angel and really that got more complicated than I ever expected -_-)

Lalien - a form of Sindarin, from 'laughter' (justification for that one also provided by Elleth who is a literal queen)