Breaking Into Light by StarSpray

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Two

After completely rewriting what I thought was a draft of chapter two I came back and realized I'd actually finished and posted it. So that has been deleted and replaced, since I like the second version better.

That'll probably not teach me to step away from a WIP for an extended period of time.

Also, credit to Chestnut's list for Nenvir's name!

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Bright sunshine glittered on the Pools of Ivrin, and the music of the falling water filled the air to mingle with birdsong and the talk and laughter of the Elves camped around it. Word that the Noldor were to hold a great feast and celebration there had intrigued Glingaereth’s people, and when they heard that Lord Círdan, at least, would be attending, her mother had decided they would delay their eastern journeys in order to attend.

Prince Fingon had been much on Glingaereth’s mind since—mostly because her companions would not let her forget. “Of course he smiled at me,” she said when Nenvir mentioned Fingon’s friendliness again, one evening when all was quiet and there was nothing to do but sit around the fires and tell stories—or gossip. “He smiled at everyone. I imagine his friendly manner is why his father sent him to the Falas with the invitation in the first place.” Nenvir only laughed at her.

“What was he like?” her sister asked. “Aside from friendly. Was he handsome?”

Very handsome. “I suppose.” Glingaereth shrugged. “He was shorter than I expected.”

“How short?” Limbeleth asked, amused. “Shorter than you?”

“No, we’re of a height I think.”

“Oh, that’s not terribly short.”

“No, but you always hear about the Noldor being tall and grand and imposing. Like that—Prince Maedhros? Or is he only a lord now?” He had been king once, after his father was slain, but then there had been his capture and imprisonment and then some kind of conflict with the Noldor that came over the Ice, and he’d abdicated in favor of his uncle. It was all very confusing, but until now Glingaereth had not really cared enough to keep track of the details. They had sorted it out and established their leaguer, and that had been enough for her.

“I have no idea,” Limbeleth said, who cared even less for the ever-changing dynamics among the Noldor. “There is one prince said to be quite tall—but not Maedhros or one of his brothers. One with a daughter.”

“Turgon,” said Nenvir, stretching their legs out onto the grass. “He’s the only one with a daughter. I think one of the Fëanorians has a son. But Princess Idril is said to be golden-haired and surpassing lovely.”

“How do you know so much about the Noldor?” Limbeleth asked.

Nenvir shrugged. “Just listening,” they said. “There’s much talk of them at the Falas—they have more dealings than we do.”

“I suppose we’ll all learn what we want to know and more when this feast happens,” Glingaereth remarked. She tossed another stick onto the fire and watched the sparks fly up and fade out.

“Especially about Prince Fingon,” Limbeleth said. Glingaereth rolled her eyes.

“I’m more interested in Maglor son of Fëanor,” said Emlineth. “He’s said to be a mighty singer. To rival Doriath’s Daeron, even. Do you think the king will send anyone?”

“I hope he will send Daeron at the very least,” said Glingaereth. She’d heard him sing only once, long ago when she had been very young. Limbeleth had not yet been born, and their family had gone to Doriath—then Eglador—for a festival of some kind. Daeron had not sung songs for dancing to, but everyone had hushed and listened when he began, and Glingaereth had dreamed of his music for a long time afterward.

As the time of the feast drew nearer, Noldor began to appear around Ivrin, scouting out the best places to set up encampments and dig fire pits. They were all happy to accept help and advice from the Sindar already camped there, which seemed to surprise Glingaereth’s mother. “The Tatyar have ever been the most stubborn and unyielding,” she said, eying a pair of Noldorin hunters who stood nearby laughing Limbeleth and Nenvir.

“Your mother is Tatyar,” Glingaereth said mildly.

“How do you think I know?” replied Eglaneth. “It was her stubbornness that kept her from crossing the sea after a falling out with—oh, it must have been her sister. They fought and she volunteered to join the Nelyar in searching for Elu, and so she met my father, and so we two now stand here.” Elganeth’s parents had since gone back to dwell in the east, closer to Lenwë and his folk. Glingaereth had met them only once.

“Perhaps you might find out what became of your aunt in the West,” Glingaereth said.

“I would not know who to ask.”

As preparations began in earnest, more of the higher ranking Noldor began to appear. Most often they met with Princess Lalwen, the sister of Fingolfin and a bright and sparkling presence. She was witty and clever, and somehow seemed to know who Glingaereth was before they were ever introduced. With her often was Lady Aredhel, a renowned huntress who was proud and unyielding, preferring to learn the lands around Ivrin by exploring them herself, instead of relying on even the Noldorin scouts. But when she entered their company she was polite and often merry, especially under the influence of her aunt.

Turgon came, too, with his golden-haired daughter. They both still mourned the death of Turgon’s wife upon the Ice, Glingaereth soon learned. Idril was quiet and thoughtful, more somber than other young elf maids that Glingaereth knew. Her glance was keen and lit with the remembrance of the Trees, and at times Glingaereth fancied that Idril saw far more than anyone might guess.

But she loved to dance, and it was in the end easy to coax her into laughter and song. Glingaereth took her along when she went foraging, teaching her the edible and useful plants that grew around Ivrin, and which to avoid. One such afternoon, as they gathered summer berries, Idril asked, “Are you the beautiful lady that saved my uncle from orcs?”

Glingaereth started, and then laughed. “I did help Prince Fingon out of a bit of trouble,” she said. “Did he call me a beautiful lady?”

“Yes,” Idril said, smiling up at her, cheeks dimpling. “I overheard him speaking to Aunt Aredhel when she returned to Hithlum from here. He was asking if she had met you; she said she couldn’t remember.”

“Well, we were certainly introduced,” said Glingaereth. “I wonder if I should take offense.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Idril, carefully stepping over a fallen branch. She went barefoot unless her father insisted, and moved nimbly and quietly through the wood. “She was teasing him, but I was called away and didn’t hear the rest of what they said about you. But I’m sure that he spoke about you before, and Aunt Aredhel must have taken special notice of you.”

If she had, she’d been very subtle about it. Flattered as she was, and as amused as she was by this glimpse into the Noldorin royals through Idril’s eyes, she was not sure that she liked being the subject of so much talk and scrutiny. At least it didn’t seem as though any of them disliked her. That would have been awkward. Glingaereth shifted the conversation away from Idril’s aunt and uncle and back to berries and leaves.

It was not long before the Noldor began to arrive in greater numbers, and preparations began in earnest for the feast. Glingaereth kept out of the way for the most part, taking patrols to the north and east just in case there was mischief afoot. She saw none, though she often ran across parties of Noldor with the same thoughts. And so she was one of the first to glimpse the party coming to the feast from the eastern marches of Beleriand, from Himring, bearing a banner with the Star of Fëanor in glittering silver thread.

“That is Maedhros, and his brother Maglor,” said Lord Duilin, whose party Glingaereth had accompanied that day. He was one of Turgon’s lords, dwelling in Nevrast by the sea. The wind blew his dark hair across his face, and he pushed it aside impatiently. “But I do not see any of their other brothers.” He sounded somewhat relieved by this; Glingaereth made no comment. “Have you met them before, the Fëanorians?”

“No,” said Glingaereth. “But I am curious to see Maglor perform. We have heard he is a great singer.”

“He is,” said Duilin. “And we are all curious to see your Daeron—have you heard if he will be coming?”

“I have heard nothing, but Lord Círdan is expected at any time, and he will surely have heard more from Doriath. We too are hopeful that Daeron will make an appearance.”

Duilin had his banner raised, its arrowhead sigil sewn in white rather than silver but no less bright. As he and his party rode off to meet the brothers, Glingaereth turned back to Ivrin. She found Prince Finrod and his siblings just arriving, alongside word that Círdan was not far behind them. King Fingolfin would be there in a few days—and with him Prince Fingon.

Aredhel and Turgon were there, and Lalwen as well, who seemed to be playing hostess until her brother arrived. A city of tents had been erected, and the air was filled with the smells of cooking food and of woodsmoke, and music and talk and laughter. It was more people than had ever been at Ivrin before at one time, Glingaereth thought—at least since the Great Journey.

Her people had kept their usual encampment directly by the water, and she found her sister there. “This is all very exciting, isn’t it?” Limbeleth asked. “There are to be games and competitions, too. I have been telling Lothríniel that she should enter the archery contest.”

“I’m not going to,” Lothríniel said from across their campfire, where she was busy fletching arrows. “Let the Noldor squabble amongst themselves over who is best, and know that it is our skill that brings them their grand supper. My father has been promised some horses in return.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Glingaereth. She had been impressed with the swiftness and strength of the Noldor’s horses, and even more by the love and care that their riders had for them. She would not have thought they would part so easily.

“Only a few—but enough to breed with our own,” said Lothríniel, looking satisfied. She was one of their swiftest riders, and Glingaereth was sure that the horses had been her idea. “Of course, Princess Lalwen says that her brother must give his approval, but even if he doesn’t care to part with any she is sure we’ll find some satisfactory compromise. I quite like her.”

“There is something about them all that makes me a little uneasy, though,” said Limbeleth, glancing toward the encampment as Duilin and his party rode in alongside the two Sons of Fëanor. “What drove them to be at odds in the first place?”

“Does it matter, if they are now reconciled, and united in their opposition to the Enemy?” Lothríniel replied. “It has naught to do with us.”

“I suppose,” said Limbeleth. But when Lothríniel was called away she turned to Glingaereth. “All the same, sister, be careful.”

“Me?” Glingaereth said. “Careful of what?”

“Of that prince.”

“What, Fingon? If you are worried about the Noldor’s feuds, he is the one who brought them to an end.”

Limbeleth shook her head. “I can’t explain it. It isn’t that you need worry about him, but—I have an uneasy feeling about them all, and I feel also that you will be bound up in their fate somehow.”

Glingaereth knew better than to ignore such feelings in her sister. “Whatever Nenvir seems to think, I have no serious thoughts of Prince Fingon,” she said, “no matter how nice a smile he has. But I promise to stay on my guard.”