The land of Beeches and Snowdrops by Raiyana

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Chapter 4

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“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.

 

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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.

 

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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.

 

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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.”