The land of Beeches and Snowdrops by Raiyana

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Chapter 1

“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.

 

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