The land of Beeches and Snowdrops by Raiyana

---

Chapter 2

---

“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.