The land of Beeches and Snowdrops by Raiyana

“Are you sure you wish to remain here rather than visit Celebrimbor, sellig?” Glíwen asked, but her daughter just nodded.

“You know I wanted to stay home until Medlimel had her babe,” Glíweniel chided.

“You are a stubborn soul,” Glíwen sighed, but she smiled fondly at the willful young elleth. “But you are a good friend, sellig, and I am pleased that you will keep your word, though I will miss you while I am gone.”

“I shall go south after the babe has come.” Glíweniel promised, picking up her mother’s cloak and handing it over.

“Promise me that you will not go alone, sellig,” Glíwen frowned, wrapping the cloak around her and picking up her pack.

“I am not that helpless, nana,” Glíweniel complained, “I have been trained in the bow and the blade, same as any other Silvan!”

“I know, sellig,” Glíwen said, cupping her face, “but,” the sadness in her eyes made her daughter’s breath catch. “Two hunters may see more than the eyes of one.”

“Yes, nana, I know.” Glíweniel whispered. “Eglossion will go with me after the birth and keep me safe on the road. I promise.” Her mother rose slightly, kissing her forehead. Glíweniel nodded, tightening the straps that tied Glíwen’s luggage to the elk who would carry her south.

“Gin iallon,” she said. Swinging herself onto the animal’s back, she shared a final smile with her daughter, before setting off with a gentle command.

“No gelin idh raid dhîn, a no adel dhen i chwest, nana.” Glíweniel called, waving until her mother was no more than a blue speck on the edge of the horizon.

“I don’t like this, Glíweniel,” Eglossion grumbled. “The small birds are silent. Something is wrong with the woods.” Glíweniel knew what he meant, but waved off her prickly friend’s concern when the birds began chirping once more. They continued on for another half league.

“What is that smell?” she asked, before it suddenly dawned on her. Badly burnt meat. At first, she would have steered her elk far away from the smell, the clever animal already turning to avoid it, but the sound that suddenly reached her ears made her spur her mount onwards instead. A pained scream, abruptly cut off. Either whoever had screamed had been attacked and was now dead – or they had fallen unconscious. The healer’s heart that beat in her breast would not let her move on without at least seeing if there was anything she could do to help. Glíweniel ignored Eglossion’s angry yelling; her friend would catch up easily.

What she saw when she reached the clearing where the scream had sounded made her wish she had given breakfast a miss. The two ellyn, strangely armoured, in plate that made her think they had come from the west, had obviously been in combat with…something. One of them, his armour rent in places and singed on the left side, appeared to be alive still, but the other… he was little more than crispy, still smoking meat. Glíweniel shuddered. Behind her, Eglossion uttered a low curse.

“We should leave here,” he said, pulling on her hand. At the same moment, the half-burned one moaned.

“We will tend him.” Glíweniel said, her voice brooking no disagreement with her orders. Eglossion cursed again. “Fetch water, and make a shelter. I’ll get a fire going.”

They managed to get the armour off the ellon who was stubbornly clinging to life. Eglossion had grumbled, but Glíweniel had saved the one he called Lachon. Sitting in the tent while Eglossion saw to the burial of the dead ellon, Glíweniel studied her patient. His hair was pale, like moonlight, and his skin, too, was lighter than her own. His armour and sword were of good quality, she thought, though she knew little of metalwork. Her own people favoured arrows, metal used mostly for the long-handled knives they wielded for everything from hunting to eating. Stroking one of the unburnt patches of skin on his good arm, Glíweniel wondered at the multitude of tiny golden hairs that rose in the wake of her finger. The fist he swung was a surprise, catching her above the eye with unexpected force as he screamed. Glíweniel blinked, dumbfounded, staring into his blue-grey eye as the screams continued. “You are safe, mellon, I swear,” she tried to tell him, but doubted he actually heard her. Trailing off to whimpers, suddenly the blue eye rolled back in his head, and the stranger was unconscious again.

Eglossion had sat with the patient while Glíweniel had been boiling the herbs she needed for burn salve, but now he was off hunting something for their supper, preferably a fat bird they could turn into broth for Lachon. She had picked one of the small snowdrops that clustered beneath the trees, once more taking up position beside the cot; though this time she dared not touch him. Eglossion had not liked seeing her split eyebrow. When his eyelids fluttered open, he did not immediately scream, which meant the balm was working, at least a little. Glíweniel had never treated a burn this large before. Picking up her small pot of salve, she tried to speak to him once more, slow and clearly, in case he would not understand her woodland speech patterns.

“Who are you, child of Doriath?” As she spoke, her fingers danced lightly across the burnt skin, smoothing the cooling balm over the burns. The ellon grimaced with pain, but did not cry out – another good sign.

“My name is Hwiniedir, Braigion. My father is a Lord of Doriath. Where am I? Who are you? You are not Sindarin.” He mumbled, slow and painful sounding, as though his throat was sore. Glíweniel thought he might have inhaled smoke from whatever had burned him so terribly.

“I am a Silvan, Hwiniedir. Wood-Elf. I am Glíweniel.” She gave him a soothing smile. His eye-colour really was amazing. “You were found by my friend and I, along with the body of another Elf, both of you badly burned. You are in our tent.” Wiping balm off her fingers with a scrap of mullein leaf, one of her hands began playing with her hair, an unconscious habit. Lach- no, Hwiniedir, followed the motion with the eye he had left, as her words filled the blue-grey orb with tears. The other ellon had been special to him, then, Glíweniel surmised, grieving for his loss.

“There are Sindar in the forest, Glíweniel.” Eglossion barked, flipping the tent open. His face looked distinctly unhappy. “We should leave Lachon for his people to find. Return to our forests.” He had a point, Glíweniel knew, her nana would be waiting in Eregion with Celebrimbor. Still, the thought of leaving her patient to fend for himself made her uneasy.

“He is Hwiniedir, and he is hurt and weakened with loss, Eglossion. We cannot abandon him without knowing he will be found by someone who would not seek to harm him further.” Glíweniel kept her tone mild, but Eglossion still snarled unhappily at her, before ducking outside once more. She heard him pick up his bow, stalking off with a low curse. Hunting something would help his mood, Glíweniel knew, letting him go with a soft shake of her head. “Do not mind Eglossion.” She said, turning back to Hwiniedir. “He does not trust strangers, even our distant kin,” Glíweniel smiled, squeezing his clammy hand.

“Thank you… your kindness is valued.” Hwiniedir’s words were halting, hesitant and pained, his voice rough from smoke and screaming, but Glíweniel heard the low words and accepted them with a brilliant smile.

“Rest now. I will watch over you.” Smoothing back a few pale strands of hair, Glíweniel waited until he was asleep once more, before moving outside, finding the expected bird by the fire where Eglossion had left it. Shaking her head fondly, she began to pluck the animal while a small pot of water boiled in the fire. She would have to spit-roast the bird, she thought, cutting off a few of the fattier pieces to boil with some herbs for a nice broth. While it cooked, she’d clean Hwiniedir’s sword, she decided, humming softly as she set to her self-appointed tasks.

The horse that burst into the clearing made her scream in fright, but Glíweniel was quick to arm herself, pulling the knife she wore at her belt and grabbing Hwiniedir’s sword in her other hand. Her bow was too far away, still strapped to her pack, but she wouldn’t let anyone Man or Elf harm her patient. Snarling at her opponent Glíweniel fell into a low crouch, ready to defend.

“I know that blade!” the armoured stranger cried, his words marking him as Elven, “Give it to me!” Glíweniel believed his words, to a point, but his own naked blade did not make her feel inclined to drop her only means of defence.

“I will not!” she snarled, though it was rather unwieldy, being made for a taller body and shaped for use with two hands.

“I told you, Silvan, I know that sword! It was made for the youngest son of Faerbraichon, and you will tell me how you came by it or I swear I will run you through for his murder!” he shouted, anger colouring his every word and motion. Glíweniel blanched. The sound of a birdcall, an emlin, among the trees behind the aggressive ellon made her feel marginally safer. Eglossion was back.

“Put your sword away, stranger, and face me. You would die before the strike landed!” Eglossion stepped between the trees around the clearing, his longbow ready to fire. Glíweniel breathed a sigh of relief.

“I expect she took it from me when she tended my wounds, Captain,” Hwiniedir croaked, making both elves turn their full attention to him.

“Hwin!” Glíweniel cursed loudly. He should not have left his bed; there was no way he was healed enough. Forgetting the ellon with the sword pointed at her back, Glíweniel dropped her knife, wrapping one arm around Hwiniedir’s good side and taking most of his weight.

In her arms, Hwiniedir trembled.

“You live!” the stranger cried, dismounting swiftly.

Gliweniel hissed darkly, still not convinced this ellon was trustworthy. “Eglossion!” she shouted.

The Silvan stepped up to the armoured elf, dropping his bow and putting his knife to the captain’s throat. He cleared his throat. With a sheepish expression, he sheathed his sword, giving her a gentle smile. Glíweniel did not let down her guard, keeping herself between the stranger and Hwin – she liked calling him Hwin, it was like he was all hers that way… and she really shouldn’t be thinking like that, she knew.

“This is Glíweniel, who saved my life,” Hwin wheezed. “And he is Bronwe, mellon-nîn.”

Glíweniel softened her stance, and Eglossion put his knife back on his belt, stepping over to turn the bird on its spit.

“Have you news of my father, my brothers?” he could barely get the words out, but the whisper reached the apparent friend.

“You need to rest,” she chided, half-carrying Hwin back to the tent. The armoured ellon – Bronwe – followed. Glíweniel forced herself to ignore the way his skin felt pressed against her arm as she forced him back to his cot. He was unsteady, though apparently stronger than she had thought.

“Faerbraichon is well, no major injuries,” Bronwe began, though his face remained sombre – he looked only slightly less tired than Hwin up close – as he continued, “but Bregolion is dead and Glaerdon is missing.” Glancing at Glíweniel, who busied herself grinding up herbs in her small mortar, Bronwe smiled. “That you live will be news to bring great joy to our Lord. And your naneth… she had all able warriors out searching for you.”

“Then I am the last Braigion, mellon,” Hwin mumbled tiredly. “Glaerdon…” He croaked, coughing hoarsely. So the other one had been his brother? A sudden wave of sympathy overcame her, seeing again the face of her own brother, lost to raiding orcs.

“Amarth bal!” Bronwe swore.

“You are upsetting my patient, Captain Bronwe.” Glíweniel hissed, looking at Hwin’s pale face, which had paled further with the exertions of walking and talking. She had resumed her seat, gently pressing him down flat before swiftly smearing his arm and chest with more ointment, carefully covering the burned half of his face.

“Apologies, Lady Glíweniel.” Bronwe bowed. “Nesto Hwiniedir, dhen iallon.” As if she hadn’t already been doing that, Glíweniel thought waspishly. Doriath-Elves were an odd bunch, Glíweniel decided, but gave him a graceful smile.

“Dragon?” Hwiniedir asked, pain written in every line of his face.

Glíweniel silently began applying more of her burn salve to his wounded flesh.

“Dead,” Bronwe nodded, “though our losses were great.”

A dragon! Glíweniel had only vague recollections of hearing of such a beast, remnants of the war between the Noldor and Morgoth, she thought. Not living creatures… and certainly not here.

“You should regain most of the motion in your limbs, though the scars will remain,” she said, masking her worry. “Though the loss of your eye is permanent.” Hwiniedir said nothing but she could see in the steady blue eye that gazed upon her face that Hwiniedir had already realised as much, and was determined to be stoic about the loss. She smiled softly at him. Even slathered in goo and smelling like roast, there was something about his smile… “The grace of the Eldar will hide your ruined face,” she continued, ignoring Bronwe’s shocked expression, “and the passing of time might remove the scarring altogether.” She smiled gently at her patient, smoothing salve up over his shoulder and onto the burned parts of his chest. “You should remain here until you are stronger, Hwin,” she told him, not even realising that she had spoken his shortened name aloud. She would miss him when he left.

“Bronwe will carry word of my health to my father and our people and return in three days to fetch me,” he decreed, silencing another of the Captain’s protests easily. Glíweniel smiled at his announcement, feeling curiously happy that he wasn’t about to go away right this moment.

She told herself it was simple satisfaction that he would not undo all her hard work with undue strain, but she was hardly convincing even in her own mind.

“Lady Glíweniel, would you leave us for a quick word? I’m sure my Lord would appreciate a private message from his son. I promise not to upset him further,” Bronwe smiled his most innocent and charming smile at her, but Glíweniel wasn’t fooled in the slightest.

Still, she got up with a small chuckle, ducking out of the tent to go help Eglossion with the bird.

“You’re fond of Lachon,” Eglossion said quietly. “No good will come of it, Glíw. The Sindar are not like us, even if we share their blood,” he sighed.

“I know…” Glíweniel replied, stirring the small pot that Eglossion had dropped chunks of meat into, sprinkling a few healing herbs into the water. “but Hwin is… mine.” The designation surprised even herself. Eglossion looked up with an incredulous stare. Then he collapsed in loud guffaws.

“You-“ he laughed, “you A-AND your nana!” Glíweniel scowled. Just because Glíwen had married an ellon from the North-Woods and caused a minor scandal, she had to hear about it every time she showed even the slightest inclination towards fondness for anyone! Slapping Eglossion’s shoulder with a mock stern look, suddenly Glíweniel too was overcome with laughter. It was funny.

Three days later, a contingent of Elven warriors returned to the small clearing. With them came Nenglessil, who embraced her only remaining child fiercely. Hwiniedir introduced her to Glíweniel, though he called her Nínimeth, for the small white spring flower he had seen her play with, and which she had told him was her favourite. Among the Sindarin, she was known as Nínimeth evermore, beloved by her people, but by none more than the elf who eventually took the name Thranduil, and who became the Prince of the Woodland Realm, crowned King upon the death of his father, Oropher.

“I have found Hwiniedir!” Bronwe’s breathless announcement rung through the small camp of the House of Brethil, causing an instant uproar. Lord Faerbraichon, whose leg was covered in bandages, making the limb stiff with a splint made from broken spears to keep his broken bones healing, jumped to his feet, nearly falling over in his haste to get to the armoured ellon. Behind him, Lady Nenglessel’s silvery hair streamed with the speed of her movement.

“My son lives?” she pleaded, looking past Bronwe as if Hwiniedir was simply hiding from her sight.

“My Lady,” the soldier knelt, “I swear to you, the young Lord lives. He was found by a pair of Nandorin, who have tended his wounds, but he is too weak to travel.” Nenglessel’s hand found her husband’s, squeezing tightly as she drew the first deep breath she had managed since he told her that their eldest had perished and the younger two were missing.

“And Glaerdor?” she whispered, as Faerbraichon bid young Bronwe stand. The Captain of her son’s guards – and Hwiniedir’s closest friend – rose slowly, bowing deeply.

“Lord Glaerdor perished from the dragon’s fire, standing between the fiend and his brother; the prince’s Nandorin rescuers buried his corpse.” Bronwe replied. Nenglessel barely felt the tears rolling down her face, as Faerbraichon’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her against his side.

“Thank you, Captain,” he mumbled hoarsely. “Go find yourself some food and then you may deliver your full report in our tent.”

“He is alive,” Nenglessel asked – pleaded – as she reached out to catch Bronwe’s arm, “tell me, my son is alive.” The Captain smiled gently, covering her hand with his own and lifting it from his arm, pressing his lips to her palm – among his kin the mark of a solemn oath.

“I spoke with him myself,” Bronwe swore, “he is hurt, but one of the two who found him was a true healer, and she said he will live. He was badly burnt, and he will bear the scars for all time, but he will live, my Lady.” Nenglessel nodded, believing him. With a final bow, Bronwe strode off in search of sustenance. Nenglessel found her hervenn’s hand, holding tight as she stared after the armoured warrior.

“Hwiniedir lives, Nena,” Faerbraichon murmured, kissing her ear.

“I wish to go to him,” Nenglessel said. Beside her, Faerbraichon sighed, kissing her temple. Pulling his lady into his chest, he felt her weep silently, her tears soaking his shoulder. For a long time, he did not speak, battling with his own tears as he stroked her hair. “I wish to go to him,” Nenglessel repeated, looking up at her husband’s grey eyes. Faerbraichon kissed her forehead.

“I wish to see our son, too, but we should let the Captain eat first, my Nenalassië,” he murmured, tugging her back towards their tent, using a broken halberd for a crutch. Nenglessel swore, momentarily distracted.

“Did I not tell you not to stand on that leg?!” she swatted at him. Faerbraichon chuckled.

“But our son is alive, meleth,” he replied, his breath leaving him in a gasp when Nenglessel picked him up and began carrying him back to their tent, tears still streaming down her face. “Hwiniedir lives, beloved,” the Lord of House Brethil whispered, when she had set him down on a low divan, cupping her face and pulling her down to him for a kiss.

“Glaerdor is gone,” Nenglessel whispered. “I knew it, somehow, melethron, but I tried to convince myself that I was wrong.” Crying, Nenglessel dropped into his lap, sobs shaking her shoulders as her fears of the past few days found release.

“I felt it too,” Faerbraichon replied hoarsely. He stroked her hair, his own tears falling like rain on her head, his arms crushing her against his chest as he let their shared grief overtake him. Faerbraichon hummed softly, his bulk reassuringly solid where they lay entwined on the low divan. “I believe we shall see him again, him and Bregolion, when we pass into the West ourselves. Then you can show us Alqualondë, and teach us all about the waves of your sea, how to sail the ships of Olwe’s people.”

“Do you think they will be happy there?” Nenglessel murmured, his quiet voice soothing her grief a little.

“Glaerdor will have so many new songs to learn, Nena, a whole new language, even!” Faerbraichon answered, hugging her close to his chest and pressing a kiss against the tip of her ear. “Bregolion will find new friends to test his mettle, I am sure of it. He has always been the most sociable of our elflings, even when he was small,” he murmured, smiling at the memory of his firstborn running along the streets of Doriath, playing with Lúthien and her friends. “I promise you, Nena, they will meet new kin, and find a new home in which to await our reunion.”

“I just… I can’t believe I will not hear their voices again,” Nenglessel wept. “My little boys.”

“I know,” he whispered back, “I keep expecting Bregolion to chide me for breaking my leg, or hear Glaerdor strumming his lyre… but Hwiniedir is alive, and that gives me hope.”

“Brego would tease you for years,” Nenglessel chuckled, tilting her tear-stained face up to catch his eyes.

“My sea-sprite,” he murmured, bending to kiss her. “We will weather this storm together; we will find our son and we will build a new home far away from wars started for greed, far away from any Noldor.”

“I wish I had never even heard the word Silmaril,” Nenglessel sighed, returning the soft affection. “I want that, Fea,” she murmured, “I want us to live in peace… and I believe we are close to the new home I have Seen. When we find the place of the snowdrops and the beech trees, we will build a home once more, my love.”

“House Brethil among beeches,” Faerbraichon smiled, “my Adar would have liked that, I think.” Nenglessel smiled softly, but she dozed off shortly after, letting Faerbraichon’s presence give her the comfort she needed to sleep – for the first time in days. Faerbraichon joined her; he might have joked about it, but Nenglessel was right to chide him for getting up and moving around – his leg was nowhere near mended enough for it, the complicated break requiring careful tending as it healed.

Hwiniedir was sitting by the fire when he heard the sound of hooves striking the ground swiftly. When she looked up with alarm, dropping the spoon back into her pot, he realised that Glíweniel had heard it too.

“Bronwe is back,” he mumbled, his voice still too rough for much volume. The Nando relaxed slightly, returning to her task of stirring the broth.

“Sooner than I thought,” she murmured, giving him a sideways look. Hwiniedir wanted to smile at her, but the involuntary move hurt his face; speaking was painful enough, no need to add to his misery with extraneous facial movement he decided. Turning to face the first horse bursting into the clearing, he forgot his decision immediately, recognising the silver-blonde hair and the blue cloak immediately. He struggled to stand until Glíweniel sighed and moved to prop him up just as Nenglessel leapt from her horse.

“Naneth,” he croaked, reaching for her.

“Ionneg!” she cried out, staring at him as tears spilled from her blue eyes, wrapping him in an infinitely careful embrace. “Oh, my little one,” she whispered, which made him chuckle as he rested his chin on her head with little effort. Nenglessel looked up at him, cupping his face on the good side and drawing him down to kiss his undamaged cheek gently. “You are alive, my Hwiniedir,” she murmured, “I am so happy to see you.” Hwiniedir swallowed hard, reading the grief in her clear eyes.

“Glaerdor is gone, Naneth,” he whispered, tears welling in his remaining eye. Nenglessel hushed him.

“I know, ionneg, I know,” she murmured, wiping away his tears gently, “but we will see him again one day, and share with him all the tales he has missed.”

“Yes, Naneth,” Hwiniedir murmured, somehow soothed by the light touch of her fingertips, feeling the love she bore him envelop his weary heart.

“You must be the Nando healer who has been tending to my son’s wounds,” Nenglessel smiled, turning her face towards Glíweniel.

“Naneth, I want you to meet Nínimeth, who has tended my wounds and saved my life.” Rallying his spirit, even if he was swaying on his feet with fatigue, Hwinidir tried to push the elleth forward, only to stumble when she let go of him.

“Hwin!” they both cried, helping him sit down once more. Hwiniedir swayed, ending up leaning against his mother’s side. Glíweniel returned to her cooking, glancing back at him over her shoulder. Hwiniedir smiled at her – he tried to, at least, though it was replaced by a grimace of pain as the expression stretched his burnt skin unbearably.

“You are your Adar’s son, ionneg,” Nenglessel chuckled, giving him a pale version of her usual bright laughter. She stroked his remaining hair gently, humming a soothing melody.

“Ada is well?” he asked, relieved when she nodded. Bronwe had told him that Faerbraichon was injured, but not how severely.

“Broke his leg when his horse was killed beneath him,” Nenglessel murmured, “I have demanded he stay off it till it has healed a little more or he would have come with me to see you.” Trailing her hand down to squeeze his hand, she turned her attention to Glíweniel, who was fidgeting by the fire. Hwiniedir realised that he had introduced her by the epessë he had named her in his head when she blushed at looking at him. “You are Nínimeth?” Nenglessel asked thoughtfully. Glíweniel glared at him. Hwiniedir shrugged, but did not apologise. “I have never seen a crimson snowdrop, ionneg,” Nenglessel chided, but her voice was fond, “I am Nenglessel, Lady of House Brethil of Doriath.”

“Glíweniel,” Glíweniel muttered, still blushing, “daughter of Glíwen of clan Oakheart and Drauchir of clan Wolfstar.”

“Lady Nínimeth,” Nenglessel knelt, taking her hand and making Glíweniel lift her head sharply, “I thank you for the life of my son.”

“My name is not Nínimeth,” she objected, waving off Nenglessel’s thanks. The older elleth simply smiled, her blue eyes bright with the light of the trees she had lived beneath.

“It is an epessë, sweet one,” Nenglessel murmured, “one you will wear for many years, I feel.”

“Naneth Sees things,” Hwiniedir interjected, the shrewd look his mother gave him clearly conveying that they would be having a conversation about the crimson-haired elleth promptly. He returned the stare defiantly. Nenglessel smiled, her blue eyes sparkling.

“A Dream-seer?” Glíweniel wondered. Nenglessel nodded.

“I See many things,” she murmured, “and I have Seen a land where beeches and snowdrops grow together. We came east in search of this land; in search of peace.”

Glíweniel wrinkled her forehead in thought. Hwiniedir had a sudden impulse to smooth her skin with his fingers, discover if it was as soft as he believed. “There are groves of beech trees in the Forest,” she said, finally, “north of where we are now, mostly. I do not think you will find any to the south; there are linden trees there, and on the other side of the Hithaeglir you will find my Uncle’s lands, Eregion, which is mostly holly.”

Nenglessel smiled.

Chapter 3

“She is good for you,” Nenglessel said, coming to sit beside her youngest son. “Nínimeth.”

“I… I think I love her,” Hwiniedir admitted, leaning into the touch of his naneth’s hand on his good ear. The stately silver-blonde elleth caressed his face gently, carefully not disturbing the burned areas.

“I can see that, ionneg[1],” she smiled, “and I am happy for you. You have always been my serious little boy, and the deaths of your siblings… I had feared it would break you, Hwiniedir.”

“I miss Glaerdor… I’m sorry, Naneth, I’m sorry I couldn’t save him…” Hwiniedir whispered, listening to Nenglessel’s gasp.

“I will always miss him and Bregolion, just as I will always miss your sister…” Nenglessel said softly, cupping his jaw and forcing him to focus on her, tears in her eyes, “but Glaerdor’s death was not of your making, ionneg; do not blame yourself.” Nenglessel smiled sadly, tracing the edge of the wound on his face. “For that, I blame only the dragon who burned him.”

“Le velui, Naneth,” he whispered, staring into her sea-blue eyes; a perfect mirror of his own.

“When will you leave, Lady Brethil?” Nínimeth asked, disturbing the Lady by the fire.

“Nenglessel, pinig[2], call me Nenglessel,” she smiled. Tree-light shone in her eyes, giving them a lustre Nínimeth had seen only in a few of those Elves among her Uncle’s friends who had been born beneath their glow. Nenglessel patted the ground beside her.

“Lady… Nenglessel.” Nínimeth remained standing.

“My son needs time to heal,” Nenglessel continued, ignoring the younger elleth’s hesitancy and returning to stirring the pot before her. Her retinue had brought lembas, and a few had been sent off to hunt some game to feed them, but the pot was filled with a heavenly scented broth destined for Hwiniedir, who had some trouble swallowing things yet. “Hwiniedir is not yet strong enough to move, though I believe a few of his friends are making a litter so we can carry him back to our camp, Nínimeth.”

“Nínimeth is not my name, Lady Nenglessel,” the younger elleth protested. Nenglessel’s light laughter filled the small clearing.

“No,” she smiled kindly, “it is not. Just as Nenglessel was not my name, once; I was not Nenglessel when I was born on the shores of Aman.”

“You… you are of the shipbuilders,” Nínimeth gaped. “Uncle told me some of them crossed with the Noldor, but…”

“‘Crossed with’,” Nenglessel chuckled. “Makes it sound like a pleasant journey.” A dark expression crossed her face, “No, pinig, I came to Middle-Earth because it was that or death; I was a sailor for the Noldorin host under Fëanor, crossed the sea in darkness and fear, leaving my kindred slaughtered behind me. I did not ‘cross with’,” she sneered at the words, “I was pressed into service and when I saw my chance I escaped by jumping into the sea. Ulmo’s hands guided me to Doriath, where my kinsman ruled. There, I met Faerbraichon, and fell in love; the wounds of my past healed behind the Girdle, where I raised my elflings far from the terrible acts of the Sons of Fëanor who had stolen me from my home.”

“Uncle isn’t terrible!” Nínimeth protested hotly. “He’s so sweet and he’s the best metalworker I know!”

“I do not think the Noldorin were all bad, pinig,” Nenglessel murmured, her equilibrium easily restored. “They were scared; as scared as we all were when our world was plunged into darkness from one moment to the next. I’m not even certain what truly started the violence; it was so dark, darker than any night you have seen, I wager, and even the stars seem brighter since the making of Moon and Sun.”

“Uncle is a good ellon,” Nínimeth continued. “He wouldn’t want to hurt anyone. He’s always talking about peace.”

“Perhaps I shall meet him one day, Nínimeth,” Nenglessel mused, “and we may craft peace between us; small peace, compared to the grief that came before, but… I have no wish to see another Kinslaying in my lifetime. We have seen enough death; no more. Now is the time for peace; time to rebuild what was lost.”

“Why do you call me Nínimeth?” Tucking a lock of her crimson hair back behind a finely pointed ear, Nínimeth stared at Nenglessel.

“My son has named you thus, to honour your valiant deed,” Nenglessel explained. Nínimeth blushed.

“It is… not done.” She fidgeted with the hem of her tunic, tracing the border of embroidered leaves.

“What is?” Nenglessel asked, stilling her roving fingers and making the younger elleth look up sharply, her gold-flecked green eyes wide as they met Nenglessel’s calm blue-grey; the same colour as her son’s, which made Nínimeth blush furiously.

“Hwin- Hwiniedir… he is not my hervenn; I should not wear a name he has given me.” Nínimeth admitted, though the older elleth caught the flash of longing that crossed her face, feeling hopeful at the sight.

“Among my hervenn’s people, it is customary to reward those who have done you great service with an epessë,” Nenglessel said, running her long pale fingers soothingly over Nínimeth’s golden skin, “and I believe you will find that you are Nínimeth among the Sindarin evermore.”

“But he is not mine,” Nínimeth objected, “I have known him only a week!”

“And yet, you already feel like he is yours, don’t you, Nínimeth,” Nenglessel murmured. “I see it in you, pinig.”

“I- yes,” Nínimeth sighed deeply, closing her eyes. Nenglessel smiled softly, but said nothing. “You think it is foolish, don’t you?” the Nando elleth asked. “I hardly know him at all!”

“I am Falmarin, Nínimeth, not Sindarin.” Nenglessel pointed out, “As their ways are not my ways, so my ways are not yours; but I will tell you that I married his Adar within a few months of arriving in Doriath.” Nenglessel chuckled when Nínimeth’s eyes flew open. “The Sindarin like to wait a year between the hour of betrothal and the hour of the wedding, but it is not how I grew up; I had friends who waited less than a week from meeting to marriage.”

“You will see her again, ionneg,” Nenglessel promised quietly, waving calmly after the two elk-mounted Elves riding off in the early morning hours, Nínimeth’s hair catching the sun like it was made of fire. Hwiniedir stiffened beside her.

“Naneth?” he asked. Nenglessel hummed softly.

“I have Seen her in the new land we will find.” Looking at her youngest elf, Nenglessel smiled at the hope he couldn’t quite hide. He had been sullen and moody ever since Nínimeth had declared her and Eglossion’s intentions to move on, but Nenglessel had said nothing about the revelation her own conversation with the elleth had brought.

“We’re ready to leave, my Lady,” Bronwe said behind them. Nenglessel turned, giving him a gentle smile while Hwiniedir groaned at the imminent indignity to be heaped upon his head.

“You are just like your Adar, ionneg,” Nenglessel laughed, smiling down at him from her horse. Hwiniedir glared his best at her from his prone position on the littler, still slathered in healing goop and incapable of moving far under his own power. “He, too, does not like to depend on others.”

“We ride!” the young lieutenant called, and the group set off at an easy pace. On his litter, Hwiniedir winced when he was jostled too hard, but he did not cry out. Beside him, his Naneth sighed. Proud and strong, just like his adar, indeed, she mused.

“Nena!” Faerbraichon’s call was the first thing the returning group heard, resulting in the lady’s muttered grumble about her stubborn husband, as he hobbled his way towards them.

“Fea!” she called, exasperated, but she smiled, sliding off her mount and into his arms, giving him a kiss even as she chided him for walking on his bad leg. Faerbraichon laughed, holding her hand tightly as he made his way towards the litter. Hwiniedir was asleep when his adar’s fingers stroked his pale hair – what was left of it, anyway – but he woke up at the sound of Faerbraichon’s soft cry.

“Ai, ionneg,” the Lord of House Brethil murmured, “I am so glad to see you.” Nodding to a pair of ellyn, he turned around, allowing Nenglessel to take more of his weight as they crossed through the camp slowly. Behind the two, Hwiniedir cursed as his wounds were jostled by the four ellyn lifting his litter, trailing after his parents towards their tent.

“Your son is in love,” Nenglessel whispered, leaning in close to her hervenn where they sat together, staring at their son sleeping.

“Hwiniedir in love?” Faerbraichon asked, almost laughing at the thought. “Don’t tell me he was saved by a new sword design!”

“Your jokes, meleth, have not grown funnier in the seven centuries we have had together,” Nenglessel replied calmly. Faerbraichon wrapped his arm around her, his eyes never leaving Hwiniedir’s slowly moving chest. While the journey had been kinder than transporting him on horseback, it had still taken a lot out of their son, but neither of them wanted to leave the tent, even though they had duties to attend to. In a way, Nenglessel thought, it was not unlike when each of them had been small, spending hours staring at her perfect babies from the warmth of her husband’s embrace. The memory was peaceful, far more peaceful than their current circumstances, but there was a sense of peace in this, too, she thought.

“Truly, Nena?” Faerbraichon whispered. “I had not thought it of him; he’s never looked twice at any of the Doriathren girls.”

“Pah!” Nenglessel scoffed, making him chuckle and press a kiss to her temple. “Those insipid ladies would never be good enough for my son. Perhaps Luthien; at least she showed some backbone, but the rest of them would never have a chance.” Faerbraichon laughed in her ear, always amused by his temperamental wife, so different from the ladies he had grown up knowing; his Nena was a breath of fresh ocean air and he still counted himself blessed that he had managed to win her heart.

“Tell me about her, then, this lady you think will be good enough for our son,” he murmured, stretching out on the cot and pulling her down to lie alongside him, closing his eyes and letting her soft voice wash over him.

“Her name is Nínimeth, though she will tell you she is Glíweniel,” Nenglessel began. “Her hair is like wildfire, and her skin is a golden tone I have not seen since I left Alqualondë. Upon her shoulder she wears an inked design that I could not make out properly.”

“Like yours?” her husband asked, tracing the tips of his fingers over the blue cloth that held the drawing of Ulmo’s waves that had been put into her skin almost a thousand years before.

“Possibly,” Nenglessel shrugged, “parts of the Nandorin culture reminds me very much of home.”

“Is this the land then, my Lady?” he asked. “Your land of beeches and snowdrops?”

“I think so, Fea,” she murmured, “though we have not yet reached the place where we will build our new home, I feel it is not far. When we can travel once more, we will head north.”

“Go to sleep, Nena,” he whispered, “our son is home and safe, and I will watch over you.” Stroking her long locks, the colour of starlight like their youngest son’s, he hummed softly, watching her blue eyes hide beneath pale lids, pressing a gentle kiss against her forehead. “Sleep now, Nena…”

[1] My son

[2] Little one

“The strangers seem to be meaning to stay – and some of their hunters are not bad at woodland scouting,” the breathless young hunter reported.

Which meant some of theirs had nearly been spotted during the reconnaissance he’d sent them on.

Which was worrying, but at least these… probably-kinsmen-of-some-descent were unlikely to be as dangerous as a raiding party of Orcs.

Drauchir frowned, standing in front of his lean-to. He missed his wife’s home, the carved wooden talan far south of his current location, but also far closer to where these strange Elves had made their camp.

He missed his wife, period.

And their daughter. Wilful and proud – far too like himself for his peace of mind – but also far more fragile than she would ever believe… no matter how much he trained her.

The driving need to make them both safe against any threats to their home was the reason he was here, the reason the young scout had flown back to him as if the Hunter’s hounds were running beside him.

At his side, a low yip, warm fur against his fingers and the heavy weight of his wolf pressing into his side for a moment, accepting the offer of a scratch behind her ear with another happy noise; comforting familiarity.

And then the scout he’d sent spoke the words that turned his path south as rapidly as his feet would carry him, his wolf-mate loping beside him and his long spear in hand.

“One of them,” he began hesitantly, eyeing the massive wolf warily, “a pale-haired, scarred warrior – looked like he had more than a good handle on his weapons – wore one of those armlets Glíweniel always makes… the leaf-carved wolf-tooth…” Pausing, the scout’s tension felt like a cloud hanging around him, but he bravely finished his report. “There was no sign of your daughter or Eglossion.”

Not my daughter, too, Drauchir snarled, flinging the thought at the young scout trembling in the face of his sudden rage. Losing their second babe, a boy not yet old enough to hunt alone, without being able to protect him was something neither he nor his sweet Glíwen had ever truly been able to accept.

Losing Glíweniel… it would fade both of them, Drauchir knew, and throw the tribes into utter chaos once more.

Glíwen! He called, the thought fleeing before him as swiftly as his mind could make it, travelling along the glowing strand that connected him to his wife no matter how far he and the rest of the WolfStars ranged. Is Glíweniel with you?!

The answer, when it finally arrived, Glíwen’s Ósanwë not as strong as his own, made a chill run down his spine.

No, husband… and I expected her weeks ago.

Playing with the small token his – Hwiniedir knew he shouldn’t claim her so, with no arrangement between them, but he knew, and found he couldn’t lie to himself – Nínimeth had left him, a large wolf’s tooth carved with a pattern of leaves, tied to a woven band and wrapped around his wrist at their parting, Hwiniedir smiled.

“You’ve got it bad,” Bronwe informed him, nodding at the armband. “But I’m glad for you. Nínimeth is… special.”

“She said this would give us free passage among the forest tribes,” Hwiniedir replied, holding up his wrist and examining the exquisite carving in the light of the setting sun. He frowned. “I had expected us to meet some of our distant kin already…” But they had met with no lone hunters or found any settlements near to where Faerbraichon had decreed they make camp.

Hwiniedir played with the tooth, losing himself to a daydream of its owner’s fiery hair and gentle smile, those fierce eyes playful and filled with interest when he spoke of their long-lost home.

“You will see her again soon, ionneg,” Nenglessel murmured, coming up behind him and squeezing his shoulder.

For a moment, Hwiniedir leaned back against her frame, receiving and offering the easy unspoken affection he had always shared with his naneth. “A few seasons, yet, nana,” he muttered despondently, running his finger down the long tooth.

None of them wished to think of the size of the beast whose tooth adorned his wrist, the fang stretching nearly half the length to his elbow; too large for a armlet, really, if not for the clever way it had been strapped down at either end in a double band. Nínimeth had worn it strapped to a leather armguard, but she had showed him how to slip the large fang free of the lower binding to use as a makeshift weapon in a pinch.

Hwiniedir did not like to think of her needing to do that, either.

South and some ways west of where Hwiniedir was contemplating the size of the wildlife in her homeland, Glíweniel was leaving the foothills of the Hithaeglir, challenging Eglossion to a race with a loud whoop of laughter.

“Sellig!”

“…Naneth?” Glíweniel mumbled in disbelief, reining in her mount and staring at her naneth’s frantic face, confused further when Glíwen nearly stumbled off the large horse she rode in her haste to reach her.

“You… you are not hurt,” Glíwen gasped, nearly in tears, “ai, sellig, we feared the worst.”

Dismounting herself, Glíweniel caught her trembling naneth by the shoulders. “But… why?” she wondered, glancing at Eglossion who shrugged, equally clueless. “We are not so many days past when you should have been expecting us to be cause for worry, nana.”

But Glíwen was looking at her wrist, at the leather armguard that used to be decorated with her wolf fang.

Glíweniel flushed, pulling her arm away and wrapping her fingers around the bare leather on her right forearm.

“So you gave it away,” Glíwen stated. “And then thought nothing of the uproar when your Adar’s people recognised the token, so you shut him out of your thoughts, too, did you not?”

“I always block the mind-speak when I don’t need it, nana,” Glíweniel replied hotly, “Adar-nîn knows how to knock, he just refuses to do it.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at Glíwen, who sighed, silently lamenting just how similar their daughter truly was to her stubborn-as-a-Dwarf father. “And yes, I gave my fang to Hwiniedir – I thought it would show the Pack that his people came with good intentions, that they came to the forest with my good will!”

Glíwen sighed again, praying to the Queen of Stars for patience. “And your Adar,” she pointed out, satisfied when Glíweniel winced, even if she did not wholly disapprove of her daughter’s need for privacy, either, “is convinced this scarred ellon parading around with your mark on him took it as a trophy, sellig.” Pausing, she tried to reach her mate, growling when the bond between them did not return a response. “And now he is not answering either, lost in the frenzy of the Hunt, I’m sure.”

Glíweniel jumped back on her mount, turning back towards the mountain passes, gripped by sudden fear.

“What do you think you’re doing, Glíweniel?!” her mother cried out behind her, but Glíweniel did not stop, hardly surprised to hear the sound of hoofbeat following her.

I will not let Adar kill my Hwin, she hissed, sending the words at her naneth with all the power she could muster, opening the oft-shut connection to her Adar to send him the same.

He did not reply.

He had awoken during the attack, figures shadowed and monstrous in silhouette moving among the bodies of his people, crying out a warning that died in his throat, muffled by both his own injuries and the large hand wrapped over his mouth. He had struggled futilely against the hands, none too gentle, but not exactly harmful – yet, though their grips promised that could change quickly – as he was dragged from his own cot and forced to his knees before the largest of the monsters.

But it was not a monster.

Staring up at what he had at first taken for an orc – though orcs never moved so silently when they killed – Hwiniedir had been almost blinded by the sudden flash of torches springing to life.

He had been almost more scared by the snarling face that met him, lit by the flickering light of flames, and the deep growl that emanated from the creature with a wolf’s head on an Elven body.

Until he realised that the snarling wolf’s head was just that, a head, long since cut from its body, still attached to the pelt that draped over the ellon’s shoulders like a fine cloak.

“This is the one,” someone spoke, Nínimeth’s soft cadence turned harsh in his mouth as he gripped Hwiniedir’s wrist, pulling at his arm with a force that made him happy he’d kept the gift on his uninjured side. “The Scarred One.”

The ellon standing opposite him meant them ill, Hwiniedir thought, looking at the wolf-pelt hood that shaded his face, the fangs and upper jaw still attached to the snarling face. He slowed his breathing, trying not to give away the very real fear he felt looking at that implacable face, a large scar running from one cheekbone down to his chin.

And still, oddly, the ellon only seemed focused on the wolf fang lashed to his wrist.

The ellon, his face still hidden, gestured silently, walking around Hwiniedir slowly, studying him like an animal of prey caught in a snare.

Across the clear space ringed with torches, Nenglessel whimpered, but Hwiniedir did not dare to catch her eyes. They had been surprised and subdued – he could see more than one body lying still as death outside the ring of fire – too quickly for him to save her, and Hwiniedir could only lament that he had not been able to reach for a weapon when he was captured.

An arrow flew into the space before him, landing precisely between himself and the prowling ellon. The feathering was a bright red, blood-like in the fiery light.

The ellon raised his face – scarred, but not ugly, Hwiniedir noted – staring into the crowd.

And then Nínimeth landed lithely on her feet beside the arrow, another one notched to her bowstring and aimed at the warrior’s chest.

“Was this truly necessary?” she bit.

Hwiniedir made a small sound, trying to reach for her, get her behind him, no matter how little it would help, but the sound and the gesture died at her next word, hissed out and slightly breathless:

“Was this truly necessary… Ada?”

He’s her father?

Hwiniedir felt faint, swaying slightly on his knees as a wave of confused fatigue washed over him.

The warrior did not reply, crossing his arms mulishly over his chest, and glaring at her.

“Release him,” Nínimeth ordered brusquely, and Hwiniedir felt the two who had been holding him down drop their holds as though burned by his skin, pushing away from him roughly.

He managed to kill the moan that threatened to escape him at the agony of his scarred skin scraping across the ground when he fell, unwilling to admit to the obvious weakness of his still-tender scars. Someone cut the rope binding his ankles together.

“Hwin!” she cried, whirling on the spot as she dropped her weapon to reach for him, the softness of her touch at odds with the hard look in her face as she’d glared at his attacker.

“Nínimeth-nîn,” he coughed, letting her pull him to his feet and take some of his weight, worried by the look in her eyes that he had injured himself somehow in his struggles. “You have returned to me.” For a moment, she was the only one who mattered, the dark figures outside the light of the fires, the fact that it was her kinsmen who had attacked his people, his worry for his naneth… it all seemed to fade against the pure joy of her presence, the lilac scent of her hair wafting over him.

“She’s your daughter,” an elleth exclaimed waspishly behind him, ignoring them as she strode past to poke at the bronze chest of the ellon who had still not spoken.

Gesturing rapidly at her, adding a few in Nínimeth’s direction, the ellon’s dark look lightened slightly.

“No, this one is all you,” she chided, “my hotheaded wolf.” The ellon huffed, leaning down to kiss her, suddenly different from the dark glowering nightmare of the stranger before.

Hwiniedir’s mind was reeling, trying to look past the couple – Nínimeth’s parents – to check on Nenglessel, worried that he had yet to lay eyes on his own Adar… and worried, also, how many bodies lay beyond the warm glow of the torches.

“No, I gave it to him,” Nínimeth seethed, “so you and the rest of our kin should know they came here with friendly – I don’t care about Denethor’s abandonment!” Glancing at him, she seemed a little less worried, and Hwiniedir tried to smile. “Where is the Lady Nenglessel?” she asked, peering into the darkness.

Hwiniedir breathed a sigh of relief when Nenglessel stumbled into the ring of fire, looking shaken but unharmed, moving with the grace of a born queen.

“I had expected our next meeting would be less arduous, Nínimeth,” Nenglessel said mildly.

Nínimeth stiffened against him, glancing at her father before looking back at Nenglessel.

“My apologies for my kinsmen, my Lady,” she murmured, stepping away from Hwiniedir’s side before he could stop her, catching her wrist and making her stop, looking back at him.

You are magnificent.

A loud woof sounded by Hwiniedir’s elbow and he only had time to put himself between Nínimeth and the giant wolf leaping for them, pushing her away with a shout of alarm as it pounced.

The slavering beast of a hundred nightmares stood on his chest, growling. Hwiniedir struggled for breath, certain that this was the hour of his death even if the stranger he had thought would put his spear through him seemed to have given up that desire in the face of Nínimeth’s angry interruption.

“Agarwen!” Nínimeth called out. Hwiniedir closed his eyes, feeling the hot breath – foul-smelling and damp – rush over his face as the wolf prepared to tear out his throat. He thought he heard his naneth scream.

And then the pressure on his chest vanished.

Nínimeth laughed. “There’s my good girl,” she crooned, “now why did you let Ada attack these people, hmm?”

She was… playing with the wolf.

The wolf licked her face.

Hwiniedir had never been more confused, staring at the elleth playing with the giant wolf as though she had no fear of its fangs and powerful jaws, as though it was the equivalent of the hunting dogs people had used for flushing and tracking game in the woods of Beleriand.

“This is Hwin,” Nínimeth told the massive beast, scratching its neck and ears. “We like him.”

“Perhaps, sellig,” the elleth who could only be Lady Glíwen, said, “introductions are in order?”

“He is Drauchir, Lord of Wolves, mate of Glíwen, Lady of Bees,” Nínimeth gestured, “and this is Hwiniedir Faerbraichion, of House Brethil.”

“Where is Adar?” Hwiniedir asked, looking at Nenglessel who froze, tears in her blue eyes.

“He did not wake when they came,” she whispered, glancing anxiously back towards their tent as Hwiniedir’s blood ran cold.

“Dreamwine?” Nínimeth hissed, once more staring at her adar. “You put dreamberries in their food, didn’t you?”

“What are dreamberries?” Hwiniedir whispered, hardly daring to hope, Nenglessel’s hand tight around his, clinging to him with such force his fingers were turning numb beneath the burns.

“They have sedative properties,” Nínimeth replied absently, “how much?”

No reply came, but Nínimeth threw up her hands with an exasperated sound. “Ai, Ada,” she groaned, “why can’t you be more like uncle Elioron?!” Turning back to Hwiniedir, she sighed again. “Your Adar should wake by morning… Adar’s hunters only added ten berries to each pot – he ate more than you, and so will sleep longer, but dreamberries, while potent, are rarely dangerous… they’re a simple way to incapacitate an unknown foe, according to Adar’s reasoning, but not likely to be lethal, even in gluttons.” Looking back at her father, she scowled. “You should get what sleep you may find afore dawn, Hwin,” she murmured, raising her voice. “The Wolves will guard this camp tonight,” she ordered.

Hwiniedir was not reassured by the series of gestures her father made in response to that, but the rest of the elves clad in wolf pelts dispersed around the perimeter, his own people left to stare uneasily at their new ‘protectors’.

“I will look at your Adar and the rest of those asleep to make certain they have come to no harm,” Nínimeth promised. “I truly am sorry for Adar’s… mischief.”

“Mischief?” Hwiniedir hissed, taking a step towards her as his anger ignited in his breast, no longer smothered by his fear. “Your people attacked us, dragged some from their beds –” he raged, for a moment longing to strike something, once more reminded of the way he had barely resisted his captors and calling himself a coward. “If you had not shown up when you did, I don’t know that my head should still be attached to my shoulders!”

The spear appearing between them killed the words in his throat, the low growl from the ellon wielding it, once more looking more like a wild animal than an elf, an effective threat.

Nínimeth gripped the haft, lowering the weapon to lean towards him.

“If Ada had wanted you dead,” she whispered darkly, “you would have known naught of it afore finding yourself a spirit untethered… but we are no kinslayers.” Glancing at her father, she nodded. “Ada says you were brave. He respects that.”

“He says?” Hwiniedir laughed, turning to look at the dark scowl on Drauchir’s face.

Then he grinned widely.

Hwiniedir drew back a step.

What he had taken for a badly healed slash to the ellon’s face was that, yes, but the damage to his skin was the least of it.

“The Dark One’s servants cut out Ada’s tongue when he was young,” Nínimeth explained, “he speaks with his hands or Ósanwë.”

Hwiniedir reeled, one hand creeping up to touch his own throat in horrified sympathy. Drauchir made an impatient motion with his free hand and Nínimeth let go of his spear with a light chuckle.

“Let us go tend your adar,” Nínimeth murmured, taking Hwiniedir by the hand again and following Nenglessel’s path through the camp. “You can meet my naneth in the morning.”