Chapter Text
Almost out. They were almost out. Lomion could see sunlight beginning to peek out through the thinning canopy of the forest, blinding and tantalizing. He carefully nudged Nordheg with his knees as Mother had taught him, giving the gelding permission to gallop as fast as he could to keep up with Mother’s much larger mare, Fancale. Mother looked back at him every few seconds to make sure she wasn’t outpacing him, but he didn’t want to slow her down.
He could have survived a few more years in this place, probably. He didn’t think she could.
Through the trunks of oak and elm he glimpsed an open field, covered with grass and wildflowers and scrubby berry bushes, and beyond that the glint of sunlight on the river. Just a few more rhythmic beats of the horses’ hooves, and--
A shadowy, wolf-like creature, as high as the shoulder as Lomion was tall, coalesced seemingly from nowhere, blocking their path and baring its teeth. His father might not be here in person, but the spirits of the forest obeyed his orders in his absence. Clearly, they were not going to be allowed to leave so easily.
Mother reined Fancale in sharply, stopping barely ten paces from the beast. She reached behind her, strung her bow, and loosed a half dozen arrows at it in the time it took Lomion to bring his horse to a stop behind her.
Having taken a physical form to menace them, the creature was vulnerable to physical attack, but it could still dodge with unnatural speed. Three arrows hit their mark even so, one in its shoulder and two in its flank, but it barely seemed to notice their presence, and advanced on them with the shafts still sticking out of its hide. It growled low and menacing, its message clear: Turn around and you won’t get hurt.
Going back wasn’t an option. They had to find a way through.
Lomion dismounted. He could feel the beast’s presence pressing on his mind, its weight in the spiritual realm even larger than it was in the physical. And he could feel a piece of himself that fit into its spirit. Not exactly, but maybe enough.
He made eye contact with it, as much as it hurt to do so, and he approached.
“Lomion, no, ” Mother cried. He hated to disobey her, but he hated the thought of her spending one more day in this dark cage even more. He took another step forward.
“I am the rightful heir of this land,” he told the beast, focusing all his hopes for freedom into a sharp spike of will and brandishing it before him. He thought of Anguirel, bound up with his few other possessions over Nordheg’s back, but a physical sword would do less good here than the one he formed with his mind. “In my father’s absence, you answer to me.” His hand was shaking, but if he let the fear overwhelm him, all was lost. “I order you to let us pass.”
He expected it to test him, but he was unprepared for the overwhelming dread that washed through him. For a moment, he was certain he was back in his bedroom, dreading his father discovering that he’d been practicing writing tengwar again. He took a step back.
He felt Mother take his hand in hers. “Be strong,” she whispered, not now able to shield him from the battle he had chosen to fight.
She trusted him. He couldn’t fail her. He gathered his courage once more and slammed into the beast with all the strength of his spirit. “ Let us pass! ”
For a moment, it seemed to be taken aback. It dipped its head and turned to the side. Its feet started to grow hazy. Lomion kept the pressure on, mind focused down to a single thought. “ Go away. ” He made the Dwarvish sign for the same sentiment, to add weight to his words and his will.
As he pressed his attack, a pain began to swell in Lomion’s head. At first he simply pushed through it, but it soon blossomed into a blinding spike of agony he couldn’t ignore. He gasped. Lost focus for an instant.
The creature rounded on him, pulsed with dark energy, and a series of his most terrifying memories flashed before Lomion’s eyes. The cave-in in the mines of Nogrod. Getting lost and spending an unexpected night in the winding forest. His father grabbing his mother by the throat.
He dropped to his knees.
The creature charged.
“NO!” Mother shrieked, and she was not behind him but before him, interposing herself between him and the creature. Lomion saw a glint of light on metal at her hand before the two of them crashed together. It roared; she roared back.
He wanted to close his eyes, to curl in on himself and make it all disappear, but he couldn’t look away while Mother was in danger. She drew her knife across the creature’s throat as its jaws grasped at her flesh. At the pinnacle of her stroke, she flung drops of black blood off her blade that evaporated in midair into puffs of black smoke.
She staggered back a step; so did the creature. It wobbled. Tipped to one side, then dissipated before it hit the ground into mist that dispersed on the breeze.
Mother clutched at her side. “You were so brave, my Lomion,” she said. “I couldn’t have done it without your help. Now let’s get out of here before it comes back with friends.”
Lomion pushed past the fading ache in his head, got to his feet, and made for his horse as quickly as he could. However, he paused and looked back when he didn’t hear Mother following behind him.
Her hand could not totally cover the red-tinted edges of the slashes in her white jacket. “It’s not very deep. Just a scratch, I’ll be fine.” she panted. But it took her far longer than usual to climb up into her saddle, accompanied by grunts and hisses of pain. He waited until she was ready before he nudged Nordheg forward.
“Ride on, Lomion,” she ordered. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Now he was the one looking over his shoulder, to verify that she kept that promise. Finally, they crossed out of the edge of the forest and into the open plain. The light of sun stung his eyes; he screwed them shut and buried his face in his horse’s mane. Nordheg, no more accustomed to the brightness than he was, slowed to a walk as they forded the river Celon.
He heard Mother laugh, really laugh, like he’d never heard before. He slitted his eyes open and watched her gallop through the grass past him, head thrown back, dark braids streaming behind her. Everything he’d gone through was worth it, to see that sight.
She circled back around and slowed her horse to walk beside his. “I know it’s bright, darling. I’m sorry,” she said, caressing his shoulder. “It’s all right. We can go as slow as we want now. We’re--” her breath hitched and she put a hand to her wounded side, “we’re free. He can’t stop us any more. Come on, I bet we can make it to the ford of Aros before nightfall even if we take our time.”
The first step on the route to Gondolin, which even now she would not reveal to him fully. His eagerness to follow her along that road dimmed as he wondered more and more if their slowness was for her sake or his. He couldn’t ignore how her head dipped, how she leaned more and more heavily on Fancale’s neck as they traveled.
“Mother,” he said at last. “I fear your wound is deeper than you have let me believe. Is this not the land of your kinsmen? Could we find aid and healing somewhere nearby?”
She grimaced. “I suppose after half a long-year they must have returned home at least once.” She looked to the north. “Their chief hall is--closer to the pass of Aglon. But I think--you may be right--” She seemed to struggle even to take a proper breath. “Damn thing must have hit me--harder than I thought--”
He kept a worried eye on her as they turned to the north. He was prepared at any moment to ride as fast as might be required, but Fancale kept a smooth, even walking pace. It was probably easier on Mother’s wound, but the sun was beginning to sink in the sky without any sign that they were nearer to help.
Near sunset, Lomion heard yipping and baying in the distance to the west. He remembered that the world outside of Nan Elmoth had dangers of its own. “Wolves,” he called. He looked to his left and opened his eyes as far as he could stand, staring into the setting sun, but could see nothing yet. “Should we try and avoid them?”
Mother did not raise her head nor answer for several moments. “Not wolves,” she muttered at last. “Dogs.” With a weak gesture, she reined Fancale to a stop. “Friendly. Should--wait for them.”
There were no dogs in Nan Elmoth. Lomion knew of them only from Mother’s stories of grand hunts in Valinor. If they were truly a sign of approaching friends, he was glad of it. Mother seemed to be doing worse every minute, her strength fading with the sunlight.
Still, he felt uneasy standing here exposed in the open field. All his life the forest had been his prison but also his protection.
Soon enough, their welcome party came into view. At first Lomion thought that the brightness and the unaccustomed distance were playing tricks on his eyes. But as the leading dog drew nearer, he realized that it was simply huge , nearly the size of Lomion’s own horse, far larger than he had imagined from Mother’s stories. Trailing several fathoms behind it were some dozen riders, led by a silver haired figure charging at them at a full gallop, as well as a crowd of smaller dogs running alongside.
Lomion froze, not daring to move as the enormous dog approached him. It pressed its nose directly against his clothing, sniffing all over his arms and legs and waist and back. After a minute or so, it backed away and sneezed once, then moved on to do the same to Mother.
“Hi, Huan,” she croaked softly, fingers clutching limply at its fur. Whatever it was smelling for, it didn’t find anything to turn it hostile; indeed, it whined as if in distress.
By the time it circled back to its people, the silver-haired ner, tall and well muscled, was nearly upon them. He reined his horse in a couple of horse-lengths away and called out in Sindarin, “Ho, there, strangers. Are you aware on whose lands you--Irisse?”
He kicked his horse forward to close the distance between them, then dismounted swiftly and took Mother’s hand in his own. Lomion didn’t even think before he dropped to the ground himself and approached on sore, wobbly legs. This elf didn’t seem unfriendly, but Lomion wasn’t about to let Mother go unprotected.
The elf pulled Mother out of her saddle and eased her down to the grass in his arms. She didn’t respond when he called her again by her Quenya name. Her chest barely moved, so shallow was her breathing, and her eyes rolled under flickering eyelids. Lomion knelt next to her, frightened by her condition but unsure what to do.
The elf ran his hand over her wounded side. “What did this? What attacked her?” he demanded, as the remainder of his party arrived with their horses and dogs.
Lomion realized after a moment that he was being addressed, but between the sunlight, his exhaustion from the earlier fight and the long day’s ride, and being surrounded by strangers, he found that the ability to form words had entirely abandoned him. He could neither direct his tongue to form their shapes, nor even remember how they were supposed to sound. But the dwarves had taught him a fair amount of their sign language, and sometimes his hands could speak when his mouth stopped working. He wearily formed the signs for shadow and beast , as little chance their was that anyone would understand.
“Shadow-beast,” a voice said unexpectedly from above him. Perhaps one of the riders was also a Dwarf-friend?
“One of those dark spirits that patrols the borders of Nan Elmoth?” the silver-haired ner asked him.
Lomion nodded in affirmation.
“Everlasting darkness take them all! Those things poison the spirit even when they don’t tear apart the body. She might not have much time.” He rummaged in his saddle-bags and pulled out a sprig of some herb which he crushed between his fingers and held beneath Mother’s nose.
She revived enough to open her eyes at least. Looked up at Lomion and the one who held her, and nearly had the strength to smile. “Tyelcormo,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry, Irisse, we’re going to get you help. You’re going to be just fine,” he murmured. He looked up at the dark-haired ner who knew Dwarvish sign. “Curvo, who’s our best healer?” he asked, switching to Quenya. “Who knows the most about this sort of wound? Alcaranna, you think?”
“Yes, I believe so,” his companion answered in the same language.
“Is she still at Himring?”
“No, Cano asked her to treat some of his soldiers after that attack this spring, she’s been at the Gap for the last month.”
“Ugh, well it can’t be helped. I’ll send a pigeon for her as soon as I get back to the house.” He considered for a moment. “Actually, do you have pen and paper? I’ll write Tyelpe a note, get it done that much faster.”
His companion rolled his eyes but produced the requested implements from his own saddlebag. Tyelcormo jotted down a couple of lines, folded the paper, and slipped it under the huge dog’s thick leather collar. Then he lifted Mother off the ground and, rather than returning her to her horse, settled her on the dog’s back.
“Take her home, as quick as you can. I’ll be right behind you.” he whispered in the dog’s ear. The dog took off at lightning speed, somehow able to keep Mother balanced perfectly on his back despite her weakness. “Eäronde, Nencolindo, with me.”
Tyelcormo mounted his horse and charged after the dog, and two riders peeled off the group to follow him. Lomion stared after them until he could no longer make out Mother’s form, unsure what to do next.
The elf called Curvo walked his horse forward a step and addressed Lomion. “Do you speak Quenya, then?”
Lomion nodded. Mother had taught him a fair amount; hopefully it would be enough.
“I am Prince Curufinwe Atarince Curufinwion, lord of these lands. What are you called?”
Lomion wanted to answer him. He did. He did not want to make a bad first impression on the people who might be their only shelter while Mother was injured. But how should he introduce himself? His whole name, with equal formality? He could guess that they did not like his father any more than he did--should he give his father-name, or just his mother-name? Should he leave off his patronymic, or would that make him look untrustworthy? His mind became so snared in wondering which of his names he should give that he failed to say anything.
Prince Curufinwe sighed. “Do you have a name-sign, at least?”
That, he could do. He made an abbreviated, one-handed version of the sign for twilight , up near his eyes. And somehow, it dislodged the word, “Lomion,” from his throat at the same time.
“Hm.” After a few seconds. “You’re her son?”
“Yes.” That one he had no trouble answering.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. My brother will do everything in his power to make sure your mother pulls through, and he can be as unyielding as a terrier with a rat in its jaws when the lives of those he loves are threatened. Come, I suppose I ought to escort you up to the house as well, though at not so hasty a pace.”
Relieved that he was not to be separated from Mother for too long, Lomion climbed back on his horse and followed the party where they led him. His muscles were sorer than ever after their temporary reprieve, but as it was nothing compared to what Mother was going through, he bore the discomfort without complaint.
He dared not ask any of the questions roiling in his mind as they rode. Prince Curufinwe may have been one of Mother’s longed-for kinsmen, but his haughty demeanor and steely gaze seemed to Lomion uncomfortably familiar, and Lomion feared upsetting him.
After hours more, deep in the twilight, they came within view of an enormous building of wood and stone. Several of them, actually, the main house and its surrounding outbuildings sprawling across the plain. Entirely unlike his own father’s halls, winding and twisted, constrained by the inviolable trees.
Lomion was led to a huge stable that must have been able to house fifty horses, though many of them were just now returning home. Another elf offered to care for his horse along with the rest. Lomion was reluctant not to see to Nordheg’s care himself, but he was eager to see Mother as well. He settled the saddlebags over his shoulder and handed Nordheg off to the stable hands, only adding “He likes a thorough brushing after a long ride,” without meeting anyone’s gaze.
As they exited the stable, they were met by the most dwarf-like elf Lomion had ever met. He wasn’t actually that much shorter than Prince Curufinwe (who was, bewilderingly, quite a bit shorter than Lomion himself). Nor was he bearded, his only hair the iron-grey plait hanging down his back. But he was broad and well-muscled, and none too lean about the belly and chest and hips, and he moved with an unhesitating confidence that invited no interference. Lomion found him fascinating, and had a hard time looking at anyone or anything else.
“Father, what is going on?” he asked as soon as he arrived. “Uncle Tyelco won’t tell me anything.”
“Lomion, may I introduce my son, Lord Maicafinwe Tyelperinquar Curufinwion,” said Prince Curufinwe somewhat longsufferingly.
“Or just Celebrimbor in Sindarin,” he added with a small smile.
“Tyelperinquar, this is Lomion...Irission, I suppose,” Prince Curufinwe finished the introduction, causing Celebrimbor’s eyes to rise in surprise.
“Our names are the same,” Lomion observed reflexively.
Celebrimbor cocked his head and parted his lips, trying to work out the connection.
“My father named me Maeglin,” Lomion explained.
“Oh, excellent, we can be compatriots in father-name. The two sharpest knives in the armory.” His grin was breathtaking against his dusky skin.
“As for the day’s events,” said Prince Curufinwe, “I can guess much, but until Irisse recovers, only Lomion will be able to tell us the full tale.”
“Oh, yes, you probably want to see her, don’t you?” said Celebrimbor before Lomion had to find the courage to ask. “Come on, this way.”
Celebrimbor reached up to put a hand on his shoulder and led him toward the main house. It took Lomion most of the walk there to determine how he felt about the casual touch, but he ultimately concluded that, as it was offered in honest friendship, the warm pressure of Celebrimbor’s hand actually felt rather nice.
Prince Curufinwe and his retinue headed for the great wooden double doors at the front of the house, but Celebrimbor guided Lomion around to a smaller side entrance that led into long, well decorated but unassuming hallway. They entered a room even warmer than the summer night outside, that smelled strongly of wood smoke and medicinal herbs. In the bed in the center of the room lay Mother, seeming peacefully asleep. But when Lomion rushed to take her hand in his, it felt cold.
“Sarawende, how’s she doing?” Celebrimbor asked softly.
The nis sitting on a stool next to the bed looked up at them and sighed. “I’ve managed to stabilize her condition for now, but keeping her safely asleep is the best I can do. I hate to say it, but I’m glad we’ve sent for Alcaranna; she knows more about this sort of spiritual wound than I do.”
As Lomion stood by Mother’s side he suddenly wavered with weariness. He’d been riding all day, fought his way past a fearsome monster, and now everyone was speaking to him in a language he had only ever heard Mother speak on rare occasions before. He was following their meaning well enough, but the effort was depleting his already exhausted mental faculties. He wanted nothing more at this moment but to curl up next to Mother on the bed and go to sleep, but he feared that would not be well received by his hosts.
He blinked, and Sarawende had his wrist in her hand, checking his pulse. “Were you attacked by the thing that did this as well?” she asked, leaning far to close to him and peering into his eyes.
“No,” he replied. That was, he hadn’t taken any physical injuries from it and, as far as he knew, the only lasting effect of his encounter with it was a persistent headache that wasn’t being eased by everything else that had happened today.
Sarawende released his hand, and backed away. “Very well, then. You certainly don’t seem to be affected nearly as strongly. Still, do come to me if you begin to feel any ill effects.”
Lomion nodded, not knowing how he would even know if that were the case. He certainly didn’t want to bother the person taking care of Mother over nothing.
Celebrimbor put a hand lightly on his back. “Have you been riding all day? Have you had enough to drink? When was the last time you ate something?”
“Yes,” said Lomion, though he frowned. That was really only an answer to the first question. They’d packed nuts and fruit and dried meat enough to last them a few days, and refilled their canteens as they crossed the Celon, but Lomion had mostly been focused on Mother’s needs and not his own. He couldn’t tell at the moment if he was hungry or thirsty, but he suspected he might be both. “No,” he amended.
“Sorry,” Celebrimbor chuckled. “I should slow down. Actually, you’re part Sinda, aren’t you? Are you more comfortable speaking Sindarin?”
Lomion had to admit that he was.
“Come on, then,” Celebrmibor said in Sindarin, and took him by the hand. “Let’s go down to the kitchen and see what we can find for you.”
He allowed Celebrimbor to lead him though the dark corridors of the house, not bothering to remove his hand from Celebrimbor’s reassuring grasp. Although Lomion could see just fine by the occasional moonbeam or stray candlelight, Celebrimbor at one point acquired from a passing alcove what looked like a net full of shining jewels, actually shining with their own light, to guide their way.
When they reached the kitchen, Celebrimbor deposited the gems in a clear glass vase which he set on a nearby table, then offered Lomion a chair. Lomion sat, overwhelmed by the strong scent of foreign foods and spices, as unlike the cuisine of the dwarves as they were of his own home.
“What do you generally eat where you’re from?” Celebrimbor asked as he began poking around shelves and cupboards.
Fortunately, this wasn’t too hard a question to answer; the cuisine of Nan Elmoth was not high in variety. “Uh, acorn bread, various kinds of wild greens and mushrooms, berries when they’re in season. Mother will often bring home a pheasant or rabbit or something. Sometimes the dwarves send us potatoes.”
“Right. Sounds pretty simple. Let’s see what we’ve got. Maybe not the stew, it’s pretty spicy.” Celebrimbor lifted the lid of a pot nestled in the dying coals of a large hearth. The smell that emanated was intriguing but--not exactly appetizing. He crossed the room and rummaged through a couple of wooden boxes set to the side on a large work table. “Here, this should do. Bread, roast chicken, oh and there’s some green beans with garlic, maybe you’ll like that.” He began piling things on a plate and set it down in front of Lomion, following a moment later with a bottle of wine and a large carafe of water.
As soon as he began to eat, Lomion realized how hungry he’d been. The bread was very good, lighter and sweeter than what he’d been raised on. The chicken tasted of sage and laurel and other herbs he couldn’t name. The beans were the oddest of all--Dwarves often cooked with garlic, but the texture was unlike anything he was used to, chewy and stringy. He did his best, but he couldn’t quite get them all down, even to be polite, even with copious swallows of well-watered wine.
As he ate, Celebrimbor spread butter on a slice of bread and nibbled it in companionable silence. When he appeared finished, he asked, “Anything else I can get you? No promises, but I’m willing to try my best.”
As kind as Celebrimbor had been, Lomion didn’t feel up to making any more decisions than he had to in such an uncertain social situation, and he was more or less satisfied. “No, thank you,” he shook his head.
“Right. Well then, we should probably get you settled in a room of your own. Don’t worry about the dishes, I’ll take care of it later. You more of a ‘praise the morning sunlight’ or an ‘oh Eru not yet’ sort of person?”
“Oh, the--the second one I guess?” Like the rest of the inhabitants of Nan Elmoth, he was used to making the most of the hours of the night, usually falling asleep just before the sun rose and not waking until after she had passed her zenith. Mother had thought it best to alter their habitual schedule to better their chances of escape; he’d been up since dawn and his eyes were already beginning to feel grainy and heavy.
“Marvelous. I’ll put you in one of the guest bedrooms on the southwest side. That’ll be near the healers’ quarters where your mother is, anyway.”
They passed that room on the way; Lomion resisted the urge to look in on Mother again, knowing there was unlikely to be any change, but he noted the location and the path they took from it.
The room Celebrimbor showed him to was what Lomion would consider large for a guest room, filled with beautifully carved furniture of an unfamiliar sort of wood--bedstead, desk, chair, washstand, nightstand, and even a small wardrobe. Lomion looked to Celebrimbor for any further instruction.
“There’s water there on the nightstand, extra blankets are in the wardrobe, though it’s summer so it won’t get that cold at night--but maybe colder than you’re used to if you’re from down south. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to come get me, my room is further down this hall, take a left, then the next right, then another left, it’s the second door on the right with the silver inlays. Or you can just go get Sarawende, she’ll be sitting up with your mother for most of the rest of the night, she may be a bit sharp but I promise you she doesn’t bite. Everything look good?”
“Yes. Thank you,” was all Lomion could think to say.
“Sure, of course. I’m glad to get to meet you, and always happy to treat a guest well.” And then, more softly, he said, “And besides, I can’t imagine what you must be--I mean, I suppose almost do except in reverse--”
Lomion was curious to know what he meant, but wondered whether such personal, probing questions would be well received.
“My mother didn’t come with us, is all,” Celebrimbor explained regardless, more quietly. “From Valinor. But--well, I guess a separation like that is never easy, no matter how it happens. I hope yours has a speedy recovery.”
“Thank you.” It seemed all he could say, over and over again. but he meant it.
Celebrimbor laid a hand on Lomion’s back. “Well I’ll leave you to get some rest. Oh--” he removed his hand and took a step back. “and please let me know if you’d rather I kept my distance. I’ve been told my natural inclination for touch is higher than some people would prefer.”
Lomion smiled a little. “It’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow!”
When he was by himself, Lomion reached into the bottom of his pack and pulled out five beautiful stones, each no bigger than the palm of his hand, and lined them up on the windowsill. He’d had to leave most of his collection behind, so as not to slow their journey, but he’d allowed himself the luxury of bringing alone just a few of the smaller specimens, ones that displayed the most eye-catching colors or had the most fascinating history. It made him feel like there was something good about the first eighty years of his life, something he hadn’t had to completely leave behind.
The bed was so soft it nearly swallowed him. The insects outside his window filled the air with unfamiliar buzzes and chirps. The water by his bedside tasted of strange minerals and the wood of the bed had an odd, pungent fragrance. The night was not, in truth, very cold, but he retrieved every blanked in the room anyway, each a quilt constructed of intricate multicolored shapes, and lay beneath them all. The pressure soothed his frayed nerves a little. Finally, alone in the flickering darkness, he allowed himself to cry.