The land of Beeches and Snowdrops by Raiyana

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Chapter 3

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

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