"Doriath has fallen."
Melian the Maia, lately the lady of Menegroth, did not stir in response to this statement.
"Of course it has."
The words sounded thin and pale, much as she herself looked. She'd allowed her appearance as one of the Firstborn to slip slightly. Her spirit shone like the sun through her sheer veil of flesh, but it was the cold, white sun of a grey midwinter morning.
"Nimloth weeps for her children."
Melian, again, did not look up at the speaker. "Who does not?" she murmured.
Olórin shook his head in defeat. The little elf-maid who waited on Melian clasped her hands in front of her tightly, her expression grave. Olórin drew the elf-girl aside.
"Nothing I say can get even that much response from her," Amarië of the Vanyar told him quietly. "I wonder if it would not be best just to leave her?"
"No," Olórin replied thoughtfully. "She has spoken, at least. It does not do for anyone to dwell too long on things past," he said, a meaningful look directed at Amarië.
Amarië ignored it. "What other news of Doriath?"
"Of whom do you seek tidings?" Olórin asked her probingly.
She sighed. "Galadriel and I were never friends. But I do not wish for her death."
"Well, she did not come with the others. She dwells still in Middle-Earth."
Amarië nodded. "Good."
Olórin smiled sadly. "Too many," he began quietly, but stopped.
"Who," Amarië asked curiously, "Is Nimloth?"
"A kinswoman of Melian's Elwë, and the bride of her grandson Dior."
As though afraid to ask, Amarië hesitantly continued. "And why does she weep?"
Olórin sighed darkly. "She died with her children in her arms. And she knows not their fate."
Eluréd, ever the decisive of the twins, seated himself on the frost encrusted moss of the forest floor, and cried.
Elurín watched his brother cry, but managed somehow not to join him. He was thirsty, and he felt he'd spent every drop of water in his little body already on tears. He looked down at the red brown stains on his chubby hands. He wanted to wash them.
"Let's find the river," he suggested, tugging and his brother's sleeve.
Eluréd buried his face in his arms and didn't respond.
Elurín's tugs became more insistent. He was thirsty.
Eluréd looked up suddenly, pale face tear-streaked, and grey eyes wet. "No! We're LOST. And we're supposed to stay in one place till someone FINDS us," he said forcefully, voice a little hoarse from crying.
Elurín considered this. They'd been lost once before. Well… maybe more than once. He felt a glimmer of confidence. Uncle Celeborn would find them. He always could. He knew the forest like other people knew their way around their houses. He could find them in the dark, without even stirring a leaf.
Elurín rubbed at a bruise coming out on his arm. He wasn't sure why. Rubbing didn't help very much. But he felt he ought to do something about it. The purple blotches were shaped like fingers. Fingers that had been attached to a hand, attached to an arm covered in little pieces of metal like the scales of a fish, attached to a broad shoulder, attached to a graceful neck, attached to a beautiful golden head. The people who'd brought he and his brother here had been Golden. Tall and slender and golden, and terrifying. They had not dared follow them back.
"Eluréd," Elurín began, voice very small. "What if they find us?"
Eluréd bit his lip, and met his brother's eyes.
"Uncle Celeborn will still find us if we move," Eluréd stated, standing up and rubbing at his face. His hands left red brown streaks on his wet cheeks. These bothered Elurín as much as the stains on his hands. Elurín was glad he could not see his own face. If they could just find the stream, they could wash the red brown off.
Olórin stood impatiently on the white shore, his shimmering grey robes trailing in the fine sand, with the waves lapping at their hem.
Manwë had always had trouble denying Nienna anything. Centuries ago, he had yielded to her compassionate plea for Melkor's pardon. Sympathetic to a fault, once the Lady of Mourning took a mission, she would not leave it undone. And Olórin's teacher had readily agreed to his plan, as Nimloth and Dior's pleas from Mandos tore at her heart. It would soothe their restless spirits, and that would please Nienna. And perhaps it would draw Melian's interest back to the living. Olórin would do just about anything to call his friend of old from her darkness.
He stared for a moment, at the stars over Valinor. If the Valar would just allow him to attend this himself… He would feel less useless. But Manwë had deemed that it was not his time to go East. Ah well. The task went to good hands.
"Did you summon me here only to ignore me?" a woman's voice asked softly, amused.
Olórin brought his eyes back down abruptly as Uinen, bright hair hanging in dripping locks, crossed her arms and waited. The waves caught the hem of her blue gown, swirling it around her ankles until it was unclear what was fabric and what was water – if indeed there ever had been a division.
"Indeed, I could not, since you do not hesitate to interrupt someone's thoughts with your impatience," Olórin retorted, smiling.
Uinen returned his smile, then it faded. "How is Melian?" she inquired.
Olórin grimaced. "Unwell. Which is why I ask your help."
"Then I am at your service," she said quickly. "And curious," she added.