Shore Beyond the Shadowy Sea by Quente

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With wandering fire the woodlands fill

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The next day, the combined companies of Fëanor and Nimloth set fires around the keep, and archers above, to make sure that the wolves kept their distance. The wolves were already lurking in the forest, just out of sight behind trees and in bracket. Elfwine could feel their menace and their ferocity, waiting for their prey to show any sign of weakness.

He stood with Amrod and Amras on the west side of the river, bow strung and at ready. He was to sing the part of the wolves with Fëanor’s sons – a difficult singing, for it involved discordance. But he was full of the energy that always took him before battle, and his voice was rested.

Nimloth and Celegorm came and took their places with the rest. Taking a deep breath, Celegorm raised his voice in a long note that began softly and ended in a rising howl. Alongside him, others began to take up the cry, and soon Elfwine began too. He raised his voice with the others, and soon they were all a pack together, singing wordlessly for blood.

The music met the cries of the wolves as they recognized their own song, and Elfwine felt the darkness of their voices flooding the melody. Beyond the beautiful and brutal song of hunting, and eating, and hunting again, there was something else – a drive toward destruction that delighted in the savagery of it, of tearing and rending for its own sake.

He caught the edge of it in a wolf’s howl, and tried to sing it himself. After a moment of concentration, it was inside of him. He ached with it for a long moment until he began to understand – the desire to rend, to draw his sword and fight for the sheer love of destruction, with no heed of the consequences.

His fingers twitched for his sword, and for a moment he let the song possess him and pulled his sword half out of its sheath – the sheer, heady exultance that would end in blood. Elfwine’s voice rang forth all the louder; singing, he would burn a path through the forest, death behind him.

But voices steadied him on either side, and a hand gripped his arm, ceasing his motion.

Amrod and Amras, singing soft notes beside him, opened their minds to him. They showed him how to step into a place beyond the music and observe, as if from behind a glass, the movements of the song. Comprehend, contain, wait for the healing, they said. And, struggling with himself, Elfwine pushed his sword slowly back into the sheath.

It was a hard battle, to sing for the wolf and yet not succumb to the longing to join them – and through the morning, it became Elfwine’s sole focus. He sang, and struggled, and kept the hand on the hilt of his sword from drawing it.

As the day drew toward noon, Elfwine realized that his singing was getting easier. Around him, the voices surrounding the keep were joined by others – and for a while they all sang together. But then he felt it inside of the wolf’s song, and inside of his own part in it: a refocusing, a shifting, an acknowledgement and gentle guidance.

And soon, in the part of his mind that was open to the Elves around him, it was as if he saw someone dancing in the woods. A maiden made of the shift of wind on branches, the fall of a leaf, the shifting of the dappled shade – and she was dancing with the wolves, coaxing them from their savage mood, showing them the path home.

Soon the wolves began to change their song, and the Elves with it: they sang of long shadows and quiet dells of Neldoreth, the smell of the wind in the lowlands, the nights spent watching the moon wend through the trees, the comfort of the pack. The wolves wanted to be in their own woods. And quietly, in pairs and in small packs, they went. South, down the banks of the Esgalduin, toward home.

As the day wore on, the music seemed to soften, as if they sang the sun down toward the horizon. Looking out into woods, even the trees seemed oddly alive and waiting, as if dancing in the great music of the Ese that the Elves had woven together.

~

The company returned at sundown, where Nerdanel was waiting for them with cauldrons full of her throat cordial. Elfwine took a long draught of it, feeling the warm honey mead and mint and miruvöré heal him.

Celegorm looking tired, but Nimloth glowing. “Oh, I haven’t heard that kind of music in an age – several ages!” she said to Nerdanel. “It was grand! I saw the very trees waking up and looking about, as if Melian herself had returned to them.”

“And we all took care of the wolves,” Celegorm added dryly. “We reminded them of their part in the music and they took themselves away, back south, into Neldoreth.”

Nerdanel looked at Celegorm then, and Elfwine caught the light of pride in her eyes. “Well done Nimloth, and well done, my son!”

They shared an affectionate look with each other, and Elfwine, watching, felt a pang in his heart. How did his mother Lothíriel fare? He missed her.

~

The next day, the folk of the keep prepared for a feast. Nerdanel took on the mantle of command, and soon organized everyone present to assist.

The people of Nimloth were sent to forage for vegetables in the woods and fields – this proved to be fruitful, for the game that ate the berries and tender greens had been killed, or driven away, by the wolves.

Elfwine was put to work with the hunters, and rode out in a party of Celegorm, Amrod, Amras, and Caranthir to gather what game they could. They concentrated on winged game, leaving the depleted kine to grow in number before any more thinning of their herds.

“It will be some time before venison returns to the table here,” Caranthir said. “I’ll send mother a store of dried meat for the winter.”

The partridge, turkey, and duck from the hunters were stuffed with herbs and spitted, tubers were baked and mashed with dill and pan drippings, and the beets and mushrooms and carrots and turnips were roasted into a wonderfully sweet-savory medley. Nerdanel made a confection of ground almonds that had all of her sons hovering near the ovens until she threatened them with washing pans, and soon everything was ready.

“We found you better raiment,” Amrod said, arriving at Elfwine’s rooms before dinner with a set of clothing.

“Caranthir wanted to dress you like a Nolofinwëan again, but we decided not to. We’ve gone through Amil’s closet to find things that might fit you. We thought that in honor of the night, we’d dress you in silver,” Amras said, laying things upon the bed.

Elfwine complied, and soon wore a flowing robe of silver embroidered in green at the sleeves and neck. It was Nerdanel’s, but because of the width of her stonecutter’s shoulders and arms, and the strength of her torso, it fit him well.

“I was correct,” Amras said gleefully. “We’ll take more from her closet for the rest of your wardrobe, no need to wear Fingon’s castoffs.”

“Do I need more clothing?” Elfwine asked, as they tended to his hair. “When I arrive in Gondolin and your father finds the equation he needs, will I not be sent back home?”

“He is not remembering his tales,” Amrod said to Amras. “Elfwine, when Men are touched by the Valar, they generally have a suitable wardrobe provided to them to perform their task, even if it is entirely ornamental.”

When they were done with Elfwine’s braids, leaving most of his hair down, they set a glimmering circlet upon his brow, silver set with green gems. “Ah, this looks especially interesting next to those strange ears of yours,” Amras said, poking at the curve of one with his finger.

“I’d better make them look more fitting,” Elfwine said, batting away Amras’s hand and humming the points back into being. It was surpassing strange to be an object of interest because of something quite ordinary.

And then, looking in the mirror, Elfwine saw that he looked like an Elven lord indeed; in his eyes was the smallest glimmer of white fire, set off by the silver in his hair and his raiment. He frowned at himself.

Amrod, watching, smiled. “You cannot join in the great songs without having a trace of them left within you,” he said.

But Elfwine felt strange, a person of two worlds, unable to fully settle in any.

~

In Calissir’s great hall, before the Elves gathered for the feast, they gave Elfwine a better sword.

“Our plight would have been grievous indeed if not for Elfwine Vandameldo,” Nerdanel said to the gathered throng. “He brought timely aid when we were besieged, and importantly, reminded us that some ancient evils are better persuaded than slain.”

Fëanor rose then, and took up a sheathed sword from a table, and gave it to Elfwine. “We do not swear oaths in this house any longer, but we shall not forget your part in our tale. And while you remain with us, we shall do all we can to aid you.”

Elfwine unsheathed the sword and gazed at it in wonder. It was masterfully made, and fit his height and grip perfectly.

“It will do, given the time I had to forge it,” Fëanor said. “But here it is. I named it Naurmacil, the Wolf-blade, after our battle, but you may find other names for it as you use it.”

Elfwine stared at the runes etched upon the sides of the blade. In Quenya, they read on one side, “Oath-friend of the House of Fëanor” and on the other, “I shall not battle alone.”

“I have not tried imbuing a blade with this sort of power before, so it is rather an experiment,” Fëanor said. “But it should bring aid to you of some kind or another if you ever find yourself in a tight spot. It might even serve to support your singing, if an Elf of power is not there to sing with you.”

Maedhros glanced sharply at his father and looked at the blade, inspecting it for a long moment. “Hmm. Well, I see no darkness bound up with this blade, nor anything that might turn the power of it amiss. But father, if you find yourself suddenly in Middle-earth surrounded by orcs, it will be very hard to fetch you back again.”

“That might be interesting,” Fëanor said, eyes alight, and Maedhros put his face in his hand.

Elfwine sheathed it. “I will wield it wisely,” he said, and slid the sheath onto the belt at his waist. It sat feather-light upon him, although Naurmacil weighed enough in his hand. He bowed then to the company. “I have learned much from everyone here. Thank you for allowing me a part in the song.”

Fëanor spoke next of his gratefulness to Nimloth and her people, but Elfwine did not much attend to his words, instead stealing glances at his sword and admiring the fine work of it.

In Middle-earth, Naurmacil would be an heirloom of his house. In Edoras, Elfwine would hang it in the great hall of Meduseld, where all could see it and wonder how a blade of the work of Fëanor came to Rohan. He felt tears come to his eyes then, unbidden, and wondered at his own mood.

When the feasting began, Caranthir claimed a seat to one side of him, and Orvanis the other.

“You look perplexed, little rat. What troubles you?” Caranthir asked, pouring him a small glass of Nerdanel’s cordial.

Elfwine drank, feeling it ease the lingering exhaustion in his mind and pain in his throat. “I am no hero to be honored thus, I am simply a Man lucky enough to catch the eye of Garsecgesfréa and come to a place where my memory for singing the long tales matters. When I return home, I will once again be a beginning shipwright and reluctant prince.”

Caranthir shrugged philosophically. “By that same chance I was born to Fëanor, for good or ill, in a time when my skills were needed,” he said. “Still, you did your part once you were here, when you could have refused to aid us, or had not the necessary skill, and that speaks to your character.”

“But now is not the time to dwell on these things. You are called to feast, and revel, and enjoy,” Orvanis said. “And if we can’t do that when the time is right, what is the point of all this fighting?”

“I suppose,” said Elfwine, smiling at them.

“Soon there will be music, and that, perhaps, will ease your heart,” Caranthir said. “Although my brother Maglor is the best musician out of all of us, Amrod and Amras have their own kind of skill.”

After feasting, the tables were cleared, and the room was made ready for music and dance. A small group of Elves gathered with instruments on one side of the hall, and Amrod and Amras stood before them. Then, Elfwine was treated to a rare performance – the brothers sang, in twined harmony, a part of the history of the land.

Their voices rose and fell to the sound of harp and pipe, and before Elfwine’s eyes spread the history of Beleriand during the years of the long leaguer. They dwelt upon great hunts and swift rides across the countryside, upon their friendship with the House of Bëor in Estolad, and the joy they found in these Secondborn. Elfwine felt they were singing of Bëor for his sake, and his heart felt full.

They ended their song during these peaceful years, and perhaps it was well, given all that came after. But Elfwine sprang to his feet and applauded, and felt a wild urge to throw himself upon a horse and ride out into that wild land, looking for adventure, for an army to join, for a dark lord to overthrow.

Orvanis laughed at him. “I think that means it is time for dancing,” she said.

The folk of Nimloth took up their instruments, and an energetic music of flute and drum followed. Elfwine found himself caught up in a long line of dancers weaving in circles around the hall, feet stamping and hands clapping in time to the beat. He did not know how long he danced, shouting and turning and weaving, until finally he stumbled into the person before him.

Orvanis caught him. “Careful, now,” she said, and then pulled him out of the throng. He noticed, after a moment, that the sky outside the keep was touched with the light of dawn. “It is time that children of Men go to rest, especially one who is still recovering!”

Elfwine thought about protesting, but then yawned, and rubbed his eyes sheepishly. “You were right, Orvanis. I was thinking overmuch.”

“I know,” she said, and pulled him away to his room.

The night of music and dancing had been glorious, but when Elfwine’s head met the pillow, he fell immediately into slumber.