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“Don’t you worry, my little gem,” Írissë whispers, quietly enough that Celegorm has to strain his ears to hear. “He’s not here. He can’t hurt us. Never again.”
Celegorm catches his brother’s eyes, and silent agreement passes between them. Eöl will pay for what he has done to their cousin and little Lómion – tomorrow. Tonight they will hold her, and comfort her, and pretend they do not see her tears. She never liked anyone seeing her cry.
Tyelpë has dressed Lómion in an old nightshirt of his; it is too large on the child, making him seem even more small and frail than he is, and Celegorm doubts that the boy has ever had enough to eat.
Another thing he must rectify tomorrow. Tonight they all pile into his bed, the five of them on a mattress meant for one, or two at most, wrapped in all the blankets he could find against the autumn chill, Huan asleep on his rug beside them, little Lómion safe in his mother’s arms and Tyelpë somehow taking up half the bed, and tonight Írissë sleeps soundly for the first time in decades.