Snow by Lingwiloke

Snow

Many thanks to Dawn Felagund for beta-reading this story and encouraging me to share it! :)

I wasn't quite sure about the rating, so I chose to play safe and go for an "Adult" rating. There's nothing too graphic in here, though, I think.

Update: Lyra drew an absolutely amazing illustration to go with this story!!! You can see it here: http://silwritersguild.livejournal.com/226847.html

Read Snow

I.

He feels the storm coming: a sudden chill in the air, the fresh smell of coming snow, a small shift in the sighing melody of the wind in the pine trees. Yet, he lingers, until the snowflakes, first drifting downwards in gentle silence, become needlelike shards of ice, driven into his face by the biting wind that nearly rips the tattered cloak from his shoulders.

When he reaches his hiding-place, a narrow crevice hidden by overhanging rocks, however, he finds it already occupied; a foul smell and harsh words spoken in a cruel tongue alert him to the presence of unwelcome guests. He is not too keen on a fight, but the howling wind that is well on its way to becoming a full-blown snowstorm leaves not much of a choice. Once decided, the orcs are dealt with swiftly and almost without conscious effort; they are a small and motley group and careless, feeling safe in their own territory – he has fought much worse in his days.

He has just begun the tedious work of dragging the foul-smelling corpses out into the snow when he hears it: a small, pitiful sound coming from what he believed to be a bundle of rags left in a corner. Expecting perhaps some small animal unfortunate enough to have crossed the beasts’ way, he lets go of his burden and, blade drawn, kneels down next to the bundle in the darkness. When he reaches out, it shrinks away from his hand and there is another frightened whimper. Gently, he draws the cloth back, and suppresses a gasp.

The elleth’s beautiful silver hair is matted and filthy, her clothes torn, exposing bloody scratches and bite marks, and her face… he has seen her before, he realizes with cold shock, at her wedding, Elrond’s laughing silver lady. She was smiling brilliantly then, her blue eyes alight with joy; but the lifeless orbs that stare at him from her face now are not the eyes of that lady. He knows that look - that empty, hopeless expression - has seen it far too often in his brother’s eyes, after he was brought back from the dark and yet never really returned to him.  His heart aches when he realizes that he is once again too late.

For a moment, there is the thought of a cold blade set to pale skin and a quick and painless death, but once again, he cannot bring himself to make that decision. He is an artist who has learned to see beauty even in death and sorrow, and even after all that has happened, when his fire has long burned to ashes, there is still that tiny spark, a tiny bit of himself that believes that there is still hope, if not for himself than at least for those who are not marred as deeply as he is, who do not bear the scars of ages and oaths and deaths unnumbered.

So his hand releases the blade’s hilt and he reaches out again. She is cold, so very cold, when he touches her cheek, and at first he fears he is too late to save even what little life remains in her; but then she stirs again, and whimpers, and tries to draw away from his touch.

He is no healer, but he has caused and received wounds enough to know how to keep death at bay at least for a while, and so he does what he can to ease her pains, although it is little enough. She does not seem able to comprehend who he is or even that he is trying to help her; she will not calm but is fearful and unsettled even though she seems to possess neither will nor strength enough to truly resist his ministrations.

At last, he tries to give her in spirit what he cannot give her in body, so when he has treated her injuries as best he can, he draws her close, and starts humming soothingly, then singing. The songs come to his lips easily, though he has not sung them for so many years, songs of his childhood in the West and songs he has learned or written himself since he arrived on the shores of Beleriand so long ago. He does not think, but lets the music carry him on, filling the dank cave with light to conquer the dark: the light of the Trees sparkling in the fountains in Tirion, the laughter and joy of children playing in the square; the clear, cool taste of cold water after a day in the sun, the wind in the grass of Lothlann, the free cry of an eagle in flight. The sun shining through new leaves in spring. The gentle lap of waves on the shore. A rare smile on his eldest brother’s face, the shining eyes of two dark-haired boys, the stern but content face of one they both love… the sounds and sights and smells that make up the voice of the world. He sings, until his voice is hoarse and his vision is flecked with darkness.

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II.

The storm still rages. It has been three days, and despite the cold, the stench in the small cave is starting to become nigh unbearable. He has not dared to leave her side long enough to get rid of the orc remains, for fear that she might simply slip away into nothingness. Crouched in the cramped space he hums small melodies and whispers soothing nonsense she does not truly hear, and he gives what little warmth he can by holding her close, like he held another so many, many years ago. The nights are the worst; when the already feeble light fades completely outside, there is almost nothing he can do to calm her.

It is on the morning of the fourth day, that the storm finally ceases. When the sun is high in the sky, he dares to leave for as short a time as he can manage, gathering anything that might be used to light a fire in order to melt and heat up some snow, so he may clean her wounds and wash her bandages.

On the fifth day, when he is coming back from a less-than-successful hunt (even though he can barely get her to take any food at all anyway), he sees tiny dots of black appear in the white below him, that come nearer steadily, and then turn from little dots into the figures of riders, spurring their horses as fast as possible through the powdery snow. Slipping into the shadows of the pine trees, he watches them approach, only letting his hand release its tight grip on the sword hilt when they are close enough for him to recognize them as Eldar by their stature and bearing.

Then, he hastily heads back to his hideout to try and light a fire outside the cave. It takes too long for his liking to clear only a small area from the snow, and the firewood he has gathered is still damp and will not burn properly. There is plenty of smoke, though, which is all he needs for his purposes. Only when he hears the sound of riders in the distance and is satisfied that they will not stray from their path does he leave the sputtering fire to die out completely, and slips back into the cave to check on his charge one last time. Wrapped tightly in his cloak, she still lies senseless, though when he tells her her sons are coming, he almost thinks he can see a spark of life in her eyes.

As he watches them carry her away from afar, he cannot help but wish that, just this once, the Valar will have mercy and grant his wish; that his foster son will not have to lose yet another one he loves.

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III.

The brothers arrive at Imladris in the dead of the night, shattering the nighttime stillness as they gallop straight to the front-doors of Elrond’s house. Leaving their panting horses to the first person to answer the door, they carefully lift their precious cargo down and rush her inside. Within moments of their arrival, the household comes to life with a flurry of frantic activity as a servant is sent to waken their lord, a room in the healing wing is prepared with bandages, herbs and hot water and the inhabitants of the house, wakened by the noise and shouts, join the general commotion. Windows light up, and there are hushed whispers and voices all over the house, spreading the news like a wildfire:

The lady …!

 

They never notice the bleak figure perched in a doorway just across the street. It stands, unmoving, until the shadows stop spinning and the street lies again silent and empty. Then it slides forth, a grey spectre in the darkness of the night, feet leaving no trace in the snow, cloak and fiery red hair unruffled by the biting wind. His hood is drawn in deep, obscuring his face, but now he tilts his head back, and keen eyes, of deep and ancient grey but piercing still, gaze up at the house.

All of a sudden, there is a cry from a window above, anguished, frantic, the words whipped away by the howling wind; then a sound as of something heavy hitting the floor, a soft whimper, almost imperceptible, and, eventually, silence.

The stranger still watches, unmoving again, and the silence lingers. Snowflakes sail down ceaselessly, cover what little traces of life, of living beings walking here, there were left in the snow; but none dare touch the silent figure on the street. It lowers its head now, and the grey depths are gone again, their expression unfathomable. And he turns, inclining his head once in what might be a last greeting, or a slight shake of the head, or nothing at all. Then he walks away, and the grey night embraces him, and he is gone.