The Leafless Winter by StarSpray

One

Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it…
- "Starlings in Winter," by Mary Oliver

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Winters were not gentle on the Valinorean coast. Storms lashed at the rocks and the cliffs, and the winds came down from the north to howl around Elwing's tower, carrying the chill of the Helcaraxë and, sometimes, the echoes of grinding ice. Even Alqualondë could be unpleasant, though it was more sheltered by the shape of the Bay of Eldamar, and the powers of the Lindar and of Uinen. Sometimes Elwing departed from her tower for the season and went to dwell in Tirion or in Valmar. Other years she welcomed the wildness and the cold—and the isolation. Most of her visitors came by boat up from Alqualondë, and that was impossible during the winter months, and very few ever wanted to brave the shoreline paths in bad weather either.

As autumn faded and winter loomed, Elwing paced her tower, up and down the stairs, filled with a restless energy that was as familiar as it was unwelcome; it chased away sleep and, when she did manage to rest, it brought dreams of fire and smoke in echoing caves, and of blood mingling with seawater. Her mother had wanted her to stay with them in New Menegroth for the winter, but after learning that not only had three of the Sons of Fëanor returned from Mandos, but they had come to speak with her father and he had accepted gifts from them, Elwing couldn't remain.

"It is time to move forward, Elwing," her father had said, looking at her with solemn eyes. "The world is changed and Doriath is no more—"

"They should never have been released in the first place," Elwing had snapped back.

"That is not for us to judge." He had been so infuriatingly calm. "I am not asking you to do anything, Elwing. I am only telling you what I have decided. The Sindar will dwell in peace in Valinor alongside the Noldor, including the Sons of Fëanor, and Fëanor himself should he ever return. And I, Dior, will leave the past where it belongs." He had taken her hand in his; it was smooth and uncalloused, and warm. "We are not only of the line of Lúthien and Elu Thingol, Elwing. We are also children of Beren and of Barahir and Emeldir, and it is the nature of Men to look forward."

"It is not the nature of Men to forget all wrongs."

"Nor did I say so."

Elwing had departed then, aware that her father stood silent and still as he watched her leave in a flurry of white feathers. Now she stood at the highest windows in her tower and flung them open to let in the chilled air and the smell of coming rain. These faced the mountains, away from the sea. She leaned over the sill and inhaled deeply. The scent of pine off of the Pelóri mingled with the chill and the damp, and all combined it was invigorating rather than draining. For a moment she closed her eyes and thought about taking flight—but the wind was gusty and unpredictable, and she didn't fancy being blown all the way to Tol Eressëa.

She wished she could forget. Elwing had never seen the three brothers who had been released from Mandos—but she thought they must greatly resemble the brothers whose faces haunted her worst nightmares even still. But even if they did not, how could she attend festivals and gatherings in Tirion where they might also appear, and smile and pretend as though everything was perfectly all right?

Then she opened her eyes and looked down to see a lone figure emerging from the trees, on the path that wound down the coast from her tower to Alqualondë. At first she thought it was Minyelmë, who had come to spend the winter with her before, but Minyelmë never wore red, and though she was of a height with this figure, she was more slender. Elwing leaned farther out of the window, and then gave up trying to get a look from afar, and climbed up onto it. At this the visitor looked up, and she caught a glimpse of alarm on his face as she jumped, flinging her arms out to become wings, feathers buffeting her and slowing her fall. When she straightened again, wings returning to arms, a few feathers drifting to the ground around her feet, she saw the visitor clearly.

For one wild, mad moment she thought it was Maglor, somehow crossed the sea to finish what he had begun in Sirion. But no—that was impossible, and once she got over her fright she saw that though the faces of the brothers were very alike they were not identical. Part of it, perhaps, was that Maglor had been hollow-eyed and gaunt, splattered with blood and half-invisible in the smoky darkness. This brother was unarmed, and not nearly so unhealthy looking. There was a faint flush to his cheeks.

"There are no Silmarils here," Elwing said, as the wind picked up, whipping her hair about her face.

The flush on his cheeks deepened. "The Oath is no more," he said. "The Silmarils have found their long homes, and there they will stay."

"Then why are you here?" Elwing asked. "And which one are you?"

His mouth quirked wryly as he bowed. "I am Caranthir, lady."

"Then say your piece, Caranthir son of Fëanor," said Elwing, "and then go to Alqualondë—you owe Olwë and his people more than you owe to me."

"We have spoken with Olwë already," said Caranthir. "My brothers have gone to Eressëa, and our mother awaits us in Alqualondë." He paused, very briefly, and added, "She sends her greetings to you." Elwing did not answer. Caranthir had not walked all the way to her tower on a day like this only to pass on a hello from Nerdanel. "We expect nothing from you," he said after a few moments, which he seemed to need in order to gather his thoughts. This brother, perhaps, was not a speech-maker like some of the others. "But on behalf of myself and my brothers—of Celegorm and Curufin, at least—I came only to say that we are sorry. For all of it."

The wind gusted again, colder this time. Caranthir drew his cloak more closely about him, but Elwing did not move. The words sounded hollow, but she felt that they were sincere. Perhaps it was because he had not tried to make them pretty or convincing. It wasn't enough—but also, of all of the brothers Caranthir had done the least to her. "Thank you," she said finally. There was nothing else to say—she could not and would not offer anything in return.

Caranthir bowed and took his leave. Elwing watched him disappear down the path, and then took flight, circling her tower before wheeling away, fighting against the wind as she flew up into the mountains. She chose a landing spot at random, and found herself in a dark hollow beneath towering fir trees. There was no wind, here, but her breath misted in front of her face. Beneath her feet was a thick carpet of brown needles that deadened all sound; there were no birds, and no insects. A stream flowed nearby but it was very small this time of year, and even what sound it made seemed flat, as though Elwing were hearing it through cotton stuffed in her ears.

She made her way to the stream and sat down beside it, dipping her fingertips into the frigid water. The shock of the cold sent her for a moment back to Sirion; she closed her eyes and was falling, not yet able to grow wings and save herself, and she hit the water hard, weighed down by her skirts and by the Silmaril around her neck. The Nauglamír had always been famously light, never a burden for its wearer. The Silmaril was nothing but a burden. The seawater had not been as cold as snow melt, but it had been cold enough, and all the air had left her lungs in a stream of pale bubbles that surged up as she sank down.

Overhead two faces, like and unlike Caranthir's, had watched, the flames of Sirion reflected on their star-embossed armor and in their eyes.

When Elwing opened her own eyes she felt tears on her cheeks, and wiped them away on her sleeve. She wanted Eärendil, but he would not return at least until spring, and maybe not even then. She wanted her sons, but they had long ago ceased to be the little boys with sticky sand-encrusted hands that reached for her with every little joy and every little hurt; Elrond dwelt in a valley far away from the sea, surrounding himself with mountains and streams and forests and a family of his own, and Elros had grown up and grown old and died, passing away beyond the Circles of the World, beyond the reach of anyone save Ilúvatar.

A soft rustle of fabric heralded the arrival of a grey-clad woman, tall and slender, her face mostly hidden behind a sheer silver veil. Tears slipped down her cheeks, too, a silent eternal stream of them. Elwing looked up but did not rise, as Nienna sat down beside her on the pine needles, robes billowing gently. "Snow is coming soon," she said. Her voice was very soft, not quite a whisper. Elwing imagined herself covered in snow, a statue frozen and white in the mountains, high enough that no one would ever see. It was, she thought, better than drowning, but not by much. But she did not want to go home. She couldn't face her empty tower, or the kindly sympathy of her kin in Alqualondë or Eressëa, or even Menegroth.

Though Elwing did not speak, Nienna seemed to know her thoughts. "Few of the Eldar come to stay long in my halls," she said, "but they are open to all. Will you come there?"

"I do not know how to find them," said Elwing. A snowflake drifted down through the branches over their heads, landing in the stream and drifting along for a few seconds before dissolving into the water.

"Go west," said Nienna as she rose to her feet. "Seek the way, and you will find it on the shores of Ekkaia." Elwing blinked, and Nienna was gone as though she were never there. Not even the carpet of needles was disturbed.

Elwing sighed, and got to her own feet. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply the smell of cold and coming snow, and of pine, and she listened to the whispers of the trees who so rarely saw any of the Children walk among them. It was calming to hear their thoughts, which had to do with the coming snow, and the rich soil into which their roots delved deep, all tangled together beneath the surface, and the fresh water of of the stream, and of the birds that had flown away for the season and whose nests and songs they missed in the deep quiet of winter.

As the snow began again, a few more flakes at a time, building up to what would be a long and steady fall, Elwing leaped into the air in a flurry of feathers, and wheeled away from the mountains, arcing out over the choppy grey sea before passing back over Eldamar and Alqualondë, where many colored lamps were lit against the growing cloudy gloom, and flew on through the Calacirya. She flew over Tirion, and heard the faint echo of bells away in Valmar, and flew on, over roads and fields and pastures, now brown and sleeping after the harvest, and over bare-branched woods that had, only a few weeks before, been alive with brilliant color. There were other mountains and hills, and valleys, and towns and hamlets. She did not stop; a flight across Valinor was nothing compared to her very first flight, and when she finally alighted on the very edge of the world, where the dark waters of Ekkaia lapped against the stony shore, it was evening. She watched the sun slowly sink over the far horizon; the sky was streaked with clouds lit from beneath with gentle golden light.

Ekkaia was calmer and quieter than Belegaer. The waters were darker, though, and as she watched the sunset it seemed to Elwing that the stars were brighter, where elsewhere the sun would still be too bright for them to shine yet. She searched for Eärendil's star, but he was off away somewhere deep in the heavens, out of sight of Arda for the time being. It was also warmer, there. The breeze off of the water carried no chill, and when Elwing knelt to let the waves wash up over her fingers, the water had no bite. When she turned back east she saw heather-covered hills, luminous in the fading light. And to the south, just in sight, she saw a rooftop and walls of pale stone. She had imagined something bigger, more imposing—like Mandos—but of course Nienna's home would be more welcoming—more homely. She kicked off her shoes and scooped them up to walk barefoot down the beach through the shallow water. The beach was pebbled rather than sandy, all the stones worn round and smooth as satin, and all different shades of grey and brown and black. There were, strangely, no seashells. Elwing stooped to pick up a stone, turning it over in her fingers and watching the glint of water on it with each movement.

When she looked up she found that she was not alone. It was not Nienna this time, though he was clad in the same sort of grey robes, which were soaked already up to his knees where he stood in the water. He smiled at her. "Welcome, Lady Elwing," he said, and bowed—a swift, graceful motion that hardly seemed formal at all. "I am Olórin. What brings you to the shores of Ekkaia, and Lady Nienna's home?"

"Nienna invited me," said Elwing. She hesitated. "I do not know exactly why I am here." That was not entirely true. She felt like one large wound that had been reopened, like her lungs were still filling up with seawater. But she was realizing that she did not quite understand what it was that happened in Nienna's halls, or what Nienna herself did for those who came to her. What good did someone else's tears do for the bereaved and the heartsick? The wind changed and came down off of the hills rather than in from the sea, and this time it held enough of a chill that Elwing shivered.

But Olórin only smiled kindly at her, and held out his hand. "That's all right," he said. "Come. My lady is expecting you."