Darkness and Light by grey_gazania

---

Darkness and Light

---

It had been two months since the ships carrying the survivors of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad had returned to Eglarest. They had sailed into a city that already knew that the battle was lost; word had come from Brithombar before the ships had even sighted the mouth of the River Nenning. But everyone in Eglarest was still on tenterhooks, waiting to see who among their loved ones had returned and who had not. Fear permeated the air, and the news flashed from person to person like crackling lightning.

 

The king of the Golodhrim is dead, people had said. Half the warriors were slain. Hithlum has fallen. The north of Beleriand is lost.

When the frightened whispers had first reached Ianneth’s ears, she’d felt as though an icy hand had closed its fingers around her heart. She hadn’t wanted to believe them, hadn’t wanted to believe that her strong, valiant husband had been killed, or that her homeland was overrun by the enemy. Her father, her mother, her sister… Were they trapped in Mithrim, surrounded by Morgoth’s creatures? Or -- worse, much worse -- were they dead, too, never to be seen again in Middle-earth?

 

For three days Ianneth had waited, sick with apprehension and uncertainty, doing all that she could to keep the rumors from reaching her daughter. When the ships had finally arrived in Eglarest’s harbor, she’d left Ereiniel with her tutor and gone to the quay, desperately seeking any familiar faces among the worn, battered men who spilled out onto the docks.

 

She’d seen two: Henthael, who had been her father-in-law’s chief scribe, and Gurvadhor, one of Fingon’s most trusted captains. Pushing her way through the crowd, she’d rushed to Gurvadhor’s side.

 

Gurvadhor, she’d said, reaching out to grasp his forearms. Gurvadhor, they’re saying-- They’re saying--

He fell, Gurvadhor had said, his voice cracking. I saw him fall.

She had wept, then, and he had wept with her, and for one brief moment she had been enveloped by pure, uncomplicated grief. But soon she had remembered her daughter, and she’d dried her eyes, steeled herself, and gone to tell Ereiniel that her father was dead.

 

Two months ago, she’d been forced to shatter her daughter’s world.

 

Things had been tense between them ever since. Ereiniel seemed to have wrapped herself in a cloak of anger to keep the grief at bay, and all of her mother’s efforts to comfort her had ended in heated arguments. And as for Ianneth herself…

 

She felt brittle -- brittle and anxious and helpless. She’d had no word of her own parents or her younger sister, and there were days when her fear for them threatened to engulf her. Memories of her husband crowded her mind at night, memories of all the bitterness that had lain between them these past few years, often leaving her weeping silently into her pillow. And when it came to her daughter, she couldn’t seem reach past the walls that Ereiniel had pulled up around herself.

 

It’s your fault, Ereiniel had shouted during an argument that very morning. It was a stupid plan, but if it weren't for you Ada wouldn't have gone. If you didn't always pick fights when he came, he would have stayed with us. It’s your fault and I hate you!

She’d run out of the house, then, and hadn’t returned until it had grown dark. She hadn’t apologized, either, and Ianneth was reluctant to press the issue. Her husband was dead. She couldn’t bring herself to risk pushing her daughter away, too. So they had eaten in silence and then gone their separate ways to ready themselves for sleep.

 

When Ianneth woke in the small hours after midnight, she was unsurprised to find her daughter’s bed empty. Ereiniel had begun sneaking out at night not long after they’d learned of Fingon’s death. Ianneth had worried, at first, but Círdan’s guards had seen the girl, and the Círdan himself had told Ianneth where she went.

 

Not to any of her friends’ houses. Not to the water. Not to any place where she might get herself into trouble. Simply to the roof, where she would lie still and watch the sky in silence.

 

Looking at the empty bed, Ianneth sighed and rested her head in her hands, feeling small and tired and very, very alone. For a moment she simply sat, unmoving, fighting back the frustrated tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Then she stood, fetched a shawl from the hook on the back of the door, and went to the window. With the shawl tied securely around her shoulders, she heaved herself out and climbed up to the roof.

***

Ereiniel had been lying on her back, staring up at the stars, when she heard the sound of someone approaching. She sat up, her wary gaze fixed on the edge of the roof, and tried not to sigh when she saw her mother’s face rise into view.

 

Unlike Ereiniel, who had pulled on a pair of breeches before venturing out, Ianneth was dressed only in her long nightgown and a crocheted shawl, and her skirt hampered her progress somewhat as she clambered up onto the sanded wooden shingles.

 

“May I join you, love?” she asked, untangling the fabric from where it had twisted around her knees.

 

Ereiniel shrugged. She’d come up here to be alone, and part of her would have preferred that her solitude remained uninterrupted. But guilt was gnawing at her, too, from the harsh words she’d hurled at her mother that morning. She knew she should apologize, but every time she’d tried, the words had lodged in her throat like a lump of ice.

 

“I guess,” she said instead, easing herself back down and folding her arms beneath her head.

 

Ianneth scooted closer, adjusted her shawl, and laid down beside her. For a long time neither of them spoke, and silence had spooled out between them, as thin and fragile as gossamer.

 

Ereiniel kept her gaze fixed on the sky, tracing the Valacirca with her eyes. It’s a sign of hope, Ada had told her when he’d taught her the names of the stars. A challenge to Morgoth from the Valar, and a promise to us all that one day he will be defeated.

So much for that promise. First Morgoth had taken Aunt Lalwen. Then he had taken Haru. Now he had taken Ada, too, and he seemed farther from defeat than ever. What hope did they have left?

 

She was shaken out of her thoughts by her mother’s voice.

 

“What are you looking for up there?” Ianneth asked quietly.

 

“I don’t know,” Ereiniel said. “Something. Anything.” But the cosmos stretched out empty and silent overhead, dark and hungry despite the pinprick shine of the stars.

 

She’s always thought of the stars as her friends. After all, Nana had named her Gilwen, for the bright stars that had shone down on the night that she was born. Haru had called her starshine, gil-galad, saying that her smiles lit up his life like the stars lit up the night sky. And when she and Nana had left Dor-lómin, Ada had told her that whenever she missed him, she should look up at the night sky and remember that, though they were far away from each other, the same stars shone down on them both.

 

But now she felt abandoned. She’d come out here every night for weeks, and so far the sight of the stars had done nothing to comfort her.

 

Sighing, she shifted a little on the roof and asked, “How’d you know I was up here?”

 

“Lord Círdan,” Ianneth said simply. “One of his men saw you a few weeks ago.” Rolling onto her side, she added, “I was worried, at first, when I woke up and found you gone. But once I knew where you were going, I thought it would be best to leave you be for a while.”

 

“You’re not leaving me be now.”

 

“No, I’m not,” Ianneth said. “We need to talk, love. I thought you might be a little calmer up here.”

 

At the reminder of her earlier behavior, Ereiniel felt her cheeks grow hot with shame. “You mean about this morning?” she asked, her voice small. “I am--” Once again, the words stuck in her throat, but she swallowed and forced them out anyway. “I am sorry,” she said. “I know it wasn’t really your fault.”

 

“I’m sorry, too,” Ianneth said.

 

Ereiniel’s eyes widened in surprise, for she’d expected a scolding, not an apology. “What?” she said, unable to keep disbelief from coloring her voice.

 

“I’m sorry,” Ianneth repeated. “I’m sorry that you saw your father and me argue so often. I thought Fingon and I had managed to keep our difficulties to ourselves, but I can see now that we didn’t, and I regret that.”

 

Ereiniel turned away, feeling the sudden sting of tears in her eyes. “You fought all the time,” she mumbled, remembering how her mother used to cry at night whenever her father came to Eglarest. “Was it my fault?”

 

It was something she’d wondered about for years. She remembered overhearing lots of arguments that seemed to center around her -- arguments over her schooling, arguments over her hobbies, arguments over who should have been watching her when she’d fallen and broke her arm… It had seemed like there was always something.

 

Ianneth had sat up, and now she reached over and pulled her daughter into her arms. “No,” she said firmly. “It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault, Ereiniel.”

 

Ereiniel sagged against her mother, her tears now flowing unchecked. “But you fought about me,” she said. “And-- and Ada sent us away.” It was almost a wail. “He sent us away, and he’s never coming back. He said he would come back. He said. But he can’t, because he’s dead.”

 

Dead like Aunt Lalwen. Dead like Haru.

 

“Oh, love,” Ianneth said, her voice breaking. She pulled Ereiniel closer, rocking her gently as she sobbed into her mother’s nightgown. For a long time there was no sound but Ereiniel’s tears, but the torrent of weeping gradually abated, until Ereiniel was left hiccuping and rubbing her eyes.

 

“How much do you remember of the Dagor Bragollach?” Ianneth asked quietly.

 

Wiping at her runny nose with the back of her wrist, Ereiniel sat up. The Dagor Bragollach… They had been at Barad Eithel when it had begun, visiting Haru and Aunt Lalwen. Haru had given Ereiniel a book, an early begetting day present, and they had all spent their evenings together in the parlor, talking and laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

 

Then the world had been engulfed in flames.

 

“I remember the smoke,” Ereiniel said, frowning as she searched her memories. “The way it stung my eyes. The way it hung in the air, even inside the keep. And...wet cloths. I remember Aunt Lalwen tying a wet cloth over my face so I could breathe without choking. And it was never dark, even with the smoke, even at night, because of the fires in Ard-Galen. You took me to the center of the keep at first, but then you had to help see to all the people who’d been hurt, so you left me with one of Haru’s maids. I can’t remember her name.”

 

“Gaeldis,” Ianneth said.

 

“Yes,” Ereiniel said. “And we could hear the fighting outside, and I was frightened, so she held me and kept her hands over my ears so I wouldn’t have to listen. I remember that when you came back you were crying, and you told me that Aunt Lalwen was dead.”

 

At the time, she hadn’t really understood what dead meant, and her mother had had to explain it to her, weeping the entire time. It was only when she was older that Ereiniel had learned what had happened; Lalwen had been on the walls of Barad Eithel with the other archers when she’d been struck by a bolt from an orcish bow. In an instant, her golden laughter had been silenced.

 

“We were there for ages,” she said, “because it wasn’t safe enough for us to travel. I remember that when we finally went back to Dor-lómin, Ada didn’t come with us. He didn’t come home for months. Then when he did come, he told us that Haru was dead, too. And then a few days later he told me that you and I were going away.”

 

“You remember more than I thought you might,” Ianneth said, reaching out and stroking Ereiniel’s hair. “But the Dagor Bragollach -- that’s why you and I came to Eglarest. Not because Fingon wanted us gone. Not because he didn’t love us. He sent us away to keep us safe.”

 

“But we stayed here,” Ereiniel said. “We could have gone back once the battle was over, but we didn’t. Why?”

 

Ianneth sighed. “The battle never really ended,” she said, sounding tired. “The fires stopped, but there were near-constant skirmishes along the Ered Wethrin for years. Your father would write about them in his letters to me. I lost two of my captains yesterday, or Nearly eighty of my men were killed this week. He always needed to be on guard for the next attack.

 

“Hithlum wasn’t safe, and Fingon needed to know that you and I were safe. He’d lost so much. His father was dead. His aunt was dead. His other kinsmen were dead or scattered. He couldn’t have born it if he’d lost us, too. Especially you. He loved you, Ereiniel. More than all the jewels in the earth. More than all the stars in the sky. You were everything to him.”

 

Ereiniel’s tears had returned as Ianneth spoke, and she shifted closer to her mother and leaned her head against her shoulder.

 

Once more, Ianneth wrapped her arms around her. “I wish your grandfather had lived,” she said. “If Fingolfin had survived, I think many things would have been different. But he didn’t. Your father was left with a heavy burden, love. He did the best he could.”

 

“Why did Haru do it?” Ereiniel asked, hiccuping a little. Her grandfather’s death had never made sense to her. Haru had to have known that he had no chance of killing Morgoth. But he’d gone anyway, leaving both his family and his people to struggle along without him.

 

She’d never said it aloud, but sometimes Ereiniel couldn’t help wondering if Haru had wanted to die.

 

“I don’t know,” Ianneth said, her voice very soft. “I wish I did, but I don’t. I never have.”

 

For a while, Ereiniel didn’t speak. She’d always thought that her mother would have answers to all her questions. Nana was a grown-up. She were supposed to know everything. But here she was, telling Ereiniel that there were things she didn’t understand.

 

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair.

 

“The people here say the Noldor are doomed,” Ereiniel eventually said. “They say we don’t have any chance against Morgoth. They say Ada dying proves it. Is that true?”

 

“Look at me,” Ianneth said, grasping Ereiniel by the shoulder and easing her upright so that they could meet each other’s eyes. “There is no ‘we’. You are a Noldo, but you are not doomed to anything. Whatever happened between your father’s people and the Belain, you had nothing to do with it.”

 

“It feels like I'm being doomed anyway,” Ereiniel muttered, looking down and away. “Ada’s dead, and Haru is dead, and Aunt Lalwen is dead, and we don’t know anything about where Mam and Dâd and Aunt Tinneth are. What if--”

 

She broke off, swallowing hard, and whispered, “What if next time it’s you who dies?”

 

It was hard to even speak the words. Because the truth was that, underneath all the anger and the tears, Ereiniel was afraid -- afraid that Nana would be snatched away from her, too, leaving her utterly alone.

 

Her mother took her hands in hers, twining their fingers together. “Who says there’ll be a next time, love?” she said. “No one can know what tomorrow will bring, so we musn’t give up hope. And I promise, if something were to happen to me -- if, Ereiniel -- you wouldn’t be left on your own. Lord Círdan would look after you. He and your father agreed upon that when they arranged for us to come here. You will never, ever be abandoned.”

 

Looking down at their clasped hands, Ereiniel tried to decide how she felt about that. She didn’t know Lord Círdan very well; he was a busy man, and he was often away, traveling back and forth between Brithombar and Eglarest, doing his best to be wherever he was needed most.

 

But he was kind. He had always been kind, to her and Nana both, from their very first day in Eglarest. And Ada had respected him, and Lord Círdan had respected Ada in turn. He had taken in those of the Noldor who had survived the battle and escaped from Hithlum. He had even turned a carefully blind eye when Ereiniel’s tutor had begun teaching her Quenya, despite Elu Thingol’s ban on the language.

 

He wasn’t her father. He wasn't her mother. But she could believe that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her.

 

“Okay,” she said quietly, squeezing her mother’s fingers.

 

Ianneth smiled, though her eyes were sad, and let go of Ereiniel’s hands. “Are you ready to come back to bed?” she said.

 

Ereiniel shook her head. She wanted to be by herself for a little longer, to think about all that Nana had told her. “Can I stay for a bit?” she asked.

 

“Of course.” Leaning over, Ianneth kissed the top of her head. “Have hope, love,” she said. “Your father wouldn’t have wanted us to give in to despair.”

 

She gave Ereiniel another brief hug, and then made her way to the edge of the roof, carefully swinging herself down to the still-open window. Then she was gone from view.

 

Wiping at her eyes, Ereiniel laid back down and turned her face to the stars once more, looking for some hope.

---

Chapter End Notes

Golodhrim (S.) - Noldor
Haru (Q.) - grandfather
Mam (G.) - grandmother *
Dâd (G.) - grandfather *

*Neither of these words is glossed in Sindarin, so I'm using the older Gnomish words.