Sirion by Grundy

Nothing More

Glinwen hadn’t tried to flee, not once.

Maybe that was shameful, but once the sons of Fëanor had taken charge of her – or had they taken her prisoner? She wasn’t really certain what exactly had happened, other than that she was against all expectation still alive.

At any rate, it hadn’t occurred to her that running would do any good. If they hadn’t killed her at once, she was probably safer with them than without them, with their soldiers sacking the city. She has never been told of Menegroth in any detail, but she knew enough.

She had helped the Kinslayers find the young princes, because once she’d seen Lady Lalwen dead, she’d feared they had been left alone. And she’d been right – Nellas had been among the dead as well. If she had not told them, Elros and Elrond might have been dead too by the time anyone arrived from Balar. If help had come at all…

And once the Kinslayers had them, she couldn’t well leave the little princes. Who knew what would become of the Queen’s sons left to the care of the golodhrim, even if they claimed to be kinsmen? She was supposed to stay with them, so they would have someone they knew with them. The Queen herself had asked her to do that. Glinwen could not fail her, not when it was her last command.

She still can’t quite reconcile the terrifying elves who had murdered so many of her people with the good-natured elves who treat her like something precious. Nyellië can’t have been part of the slaughter at Menegroth, can she? How does she know that Maedhros One Hand – the kindest of the names her people have for him – who has made certain that she is safe, warm, and fed every night since she first saw him, isn’t the same elf who killed her father?

But any time she started to judge them, to remind herself that no matter how kind they may be to her, it was likely only so as not to upset the young princes, to try to keep in mind that they are not friends, one thought brings her up short: she is no different or better than them.

She has killed, too.

She really, truly hadn’t meant to. Glinwen had never in her life so much as slapped another of her own kind, never tried to inflict injury on anyone. Grabbing the knife had been a moment of pure panic, all she had been able to think in that moment had been that she needed to get away from the grasp of the Kinslayer, needed to run. But what she meant didn’t change what she’d done.

She had only struck him the once, but as it turned out, once was all that was needed. She’d never seen so much blood before. She hadn’t known there was so much of it inside a person, or that it could all run out so very quickly.

Some might try to comfort her that it had been only a Kinslayer she killed, and that might be true, but he had drawn no weapon, offered her no violence. Worse still, the eyes that had looked at her in such surprise before the light in them dimmed and went out hadn’t been so different than the ones she saw when she looked in the mirror.

The only difference she’d found between him and her was that he’d been born somewhere on the far side of the Sea and she’d been born here. In the end, as far as she can tell, it hadn’t taken much to make either of them killers.

It was only later, on the road to Amon Ereb, that she had learned that he hadn’t been just some retainer of the sons of Fëanor, but their youngest brother. No one had told her. She’d overheard. The word the golodhrim used for brother wasn’t much different from the one she knew.

She was not sure how either of them can stand to look at her, much less ask after her comfort and welfare. From all she had heard of Kinslayers before they’d descended on Sirion, she would have expected them to kill her for her crime.

Instead they’d brought her with them. She hadn’t even known she was leaving Sirion – she had gone to sleep in her own bed and woke up in a wagon in the wild with a strange ellon handing her breakfast. Not long after, she’d recognized another ellon speaking to Prince Elrond – the one who had been wearing the blood-splattered armor the night before, who had loomed over her like a stormcloud, thunder in his voice and lightning in his eyes.

She’s still embarrassed to have shown her fear so clearly. Her prince had explained later that the man had only been trying to tell him to stop chewing on his lip just as Lady Lalwen always had. It was a bad habit. He’d meant it kindly.

It’s still strange to think of herself as being a ward of the Noldor. She’s not a hostage. Maglor had taken the time to explain to her that she was no prisoner, and if she wished, she was free to go, but they hoped she would stay with them. Oddly enough, she believed him – if only because he must know as well as she did that she had nowhere else to go.

Not only had Queen Elwing told her to go with Elros and Elrond, her people do not look kindly on kinslayers, and she has heard others say that the laegrim shunned them entirely. But from the moment she’d put an arm around her shoulders and walked her to her own room, Nyellië has taken care of her.

Glinwen did not call Nyellië ‘aunt’ or ‘mother’, for hers died in Menegroth and just after, and she cannot imagine they would be pleased at her calling one of the Noldor by those names. She has never known living family, so she does not know if this is what a sister might be like. She did know that Nyellië was very sweet, and so clearly happy to have someone to treat as a younger kinswoman in this place where she is otherwise alone.

The language had been a problem. Glinwen knew only a few words of the Noldorin tongue, mostly from overhearing Lady Lalwen and Lady Idril before she’d left them seeking the West. Nyellië knew more of what the Noldor called Sindarin than most of the golodhrim, but still not enough to explain everything.

Fortunately, the young princes needed to learn, too. So Glinwen joined them daily in their sitting room or the library as they learned Quenya. At first she had expected to be an afterthought in those lessons, but either Maedhros, Maglor, or the princes’ tutor Varilon included her as a matter of course.

She was slowly beginning to understand more of what the adults around her were saying, enough to realize that while she is no princess, the elves of Amon Ereb are just as delighted with her as they are with the twins. Many of the words she has learnt are pet names for children, for they are what she hears most often. To the folk of Amon Ereb, she is herincë, winë, vinyamë, wencë, satarcë, and a whole host of other names. (Indeed, unless the princes are about, she has learned that anything that ends –cë almost certainly means her.)

Even without her understanding their words, there were many little gestures that showed she was welcome. The ladies who make the bread for the entire fortress were happy to show her the secrets of their art, though they were quick enough to chase any ellon who poked his nose into their domain away. The kennel master had given her a puppy for her own just as he had for the young princes, and the stable master has explained, via Maglor’s translation, that whenever she feels ready, he has a horse with the right temper for a beginner to ride.

And Nyellië, of course, was happy to have Glinwen sit in the forge with her for hours on end.

Glinwen can’t understand even half of what the elleth says to her at those times, but she knew Nyellië liked having her there, so she went when she had nothing else to fill her time. She listened, she watched, and she was learning.
Nyellië may sharpen swords and repair armor and make arrowheads, but Glinwen could see her heart wished for more peaceful crafts – like the pans she was crafting for some special occasion that Glinwen has not quite understood, which will make cakes shaped like stars, or the jewelry that she mends when an older ellon comes to her looking distraught, holding a treasured piece in shaking hands.

And she has begun to understand that it is not only her people who have lost many to death. It was not just the tears over jewelry. It was the faraway look so many would get, as the adults in Sirion did when they remembered those they had known in Doriath or Nargothrond or Gondolin. It was the way one adult would suddenly put a hand on the shoulder of another after they spoke – she might not understand the words, but Glinwen could still hear the pain or bitterness in them.

And she can see with her eyes. The fortress and its surrounding support buildings are too large for the number who call it home. What must have once been a thriving village at the foot of the hill is more than half empty. Even the gatehouse guarding the approach has more rooms than occupants. There are more swords in the armory than elves to wield them. (She understands all too well why she and the princes are all being taught how to use them.)

It has occurred to her to wonder what it means for the future, if the numbers of the Fëanorians are dwindling so. How long would it be before the day came when they were too few, and could no longer hold against the Enemy?

And in that question, she found an answer, grim though it was – the reason the twins are so welcome here, the reason they would take in a girl who had killed one of their lords. For the kinslayers, this stolen time with someone else’s children was the best they could hope for anymore. And it will be fleeting – possibly even shorter than the princes’ childhoods – for they are cursed in both the eyes of their kind and the powers in the West. So they have seized on this brief, happy moment amid the darkness and death, and will hold it dear for as long as they can.