Breaking Into Light by StarSpray

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Three

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Fingolfin and his heir arrived at Ivrin with a great deal of splendor and fanfare. Trumpets heralded them, and everyone of importance among the Noldor lined up to greet them as they rode into the encampment. Glingaereth and her sister climbed a tree not far off, and Glingaereth saw for the first time the High King of the Noldor. He was almost exactly as she had imagined him, tall and dark-haired, and greatly resembling both of his sons in his face and bearing. He was clad in blue and silver, and wore a silver circlet upon his head, set with pearls and diamonds. Both he and Prince Fingon were polished to a shine, their armor so bright it nearly blinded.

“So that is the prince we’ve heard so much about,” remarked Limbeleth. “He has a friendly face.” As she spoke, Fingon sprang from his horse to embrace Maedhros; they could hear his laughter even at a distance. “Any word from Doriath?” Limbeleth asked.

“Not that I have—hang on, is that Mablung?” Glingaereth leaned out from her limb, craning her neck to see better. Mablung was tall, but in a crowd of Noldor that was hardly unusual—but he had light brown hair, and wore a grey cloak clasped at his shoulder with a white brooch in the shape of a niphredil blossom. “It is!”

“Is that all who has come?” Limbeleth sounded surprised. “Only Mablung?”

“There is someone with him, but their hood is up,” said Glingaereth. “It seems only two from Doriath, though.” She wondered at it.

Mablung and his companion emerged from the crowd to meet Fingolfin and the other princes and princesses of the Noldor, and only then did Mablung’s companion throw back his hood, revealing a head of dark hair; Glingaereth could not see their face. A murmur swept through the crowd, and before long the name of Daeron reached those underneath the tree where Glingaereth and Limbeleth perched. “Daeron!” Limbeleth cried. “Oh, wonderful!”

There was nothing else to see except much clasping of hands and other greetings, so they left the tree and returned to their camp, where a tent was already being erected for Mablung and Daeron not far from their mother’s. Now that all were present the feasting and celebrating could truly begin, and it was not long at all before the whole of the lands around Ivrin were filled with music and laughter; woodsmoke mingled with the scent of flowers and the smells of baking bread and roasting meat.

Glingaereth remained at their camp, tending to a few chores and letting others explore the feasting and bring back tales and gossip. By evening Daeron and Mablung came to join them, and with very little encouragement Daeron brought out his flute to play for them. As he played the stars came out, flaring jewel-bright in the darkening sky. Staying for the Mereth Aderthad was worth it just for that, Glingaereth thought.

The next morning, to her surprise, Prince Fingon came seeking her. “You are here!” he said with a bright smile. “I’m glad; I hoped to see you again.”

“We thought we may as well just stay, if it’s for a party,” Glingaereth said, smiling back. “How are things in the north?”

“Quiet,” Fingon said, “thankfully. Will you have lunch with me?”

“Certainly.” Glingaereth was glad her sister wasn’t there to give her pointed, warning looks. She walked with Fingon back through the feast, passing all sorts of games and entertainments and contests. She expected to end up at his tent or his father’s, sharing a meal with not only Fingon but a sibling or two, or perhaps several cousins, but instead he led her away from the camp and up a hill, where a picnic had been laid out on soft blankets, and they could sit and take in the view of Ivrin and of the camp, and the lands stretching away beyond. It was a view Glingaereth knew well. Fingolfin had chosen a good place for his Mereth Aderthad.

They talked of inconsequential things for a while, of the fair weather and some of the contests, and of their respective families. Most of Fingon’s tales of Valinor, Glingaereth noticed, seemed to take place long ago. Whatever the rift was that this feast was meant to heal, it seemed, had not begun with the death of Finwë and the Darkening. “What of your other uncle?” she asked after a little while, giving into her curiosity. “I do not think I have heard his name—but the father of Finrod, I mean.”

“He turned back rather than risk the Helcaraxë,” said Fingon after a moment’s pause. “And a portion of our people went with him. I do not blame them,” he added hastily. Too hastily, almost. “None of us will forget the horrors of the ice. But hopefully after this,” he gestured down to the camp, “we can put it all behind us, the ice and the ships, and focus on what is really important.”

“Well, however you got here, I am glad of it,” said Glingaereth. This earned her a smile, bright as the golden ribbons in his hair. “We were sorely beset at the Falas.”

“You were there at the Falas?”

“Yes. Before the—what is it you call that battle? Battle Under Stars? Before that drew the orcs away we were certain that we would be overrun.”

“That was before our host arrived,” said Fingon. “Maedhros has told me it was his brother Celegorm that ambushed the forces coming up from the south.”

“But Celegorm is not here…?”

“No. Only Maglor and Maedhros have come. But they speak on behalf of all seven.”

Glingaereth grinned. “I only have two brothers and one sister, and none of us would ever dare try to speak for all the rest.”

Fingon laughed. Then he asked, “Are your brothers not here? I only recall meeting your sister.”

“Eregil is with our kin across the Ered Luin, and Berion serves as a marchwarden in Doriath.”

They lingered over the remnants of their picnic far longer than really necessary. Fingon was easy to talk to, quick-witted and keen-eyed, and also very kind.

When they returned to the camp they soon came upon Maedhros and Finrod, who greeted Glingaereth with polite bows, although Maedhros was somber, with the impression behind his eyes of a banked fire just waiting to be kicked into flame, while Finrod was all gleaming smiles, sparkling with gems in his hair and on his fingers. It was fascinating to see all three eldest cousins together. They were all so very different, but Glingaereth could see similar features in them—the shape of their eyes, the set of their jaws—that she thought must be the parts of Finwë that had passed down to them, now the only parts of him that had survived to return across the Sea to Middle-earth.

They spoke to one another with warmth and friendship, but there was a tension beneath the surface—between all three, Glingaereth was surprised to notice. She wondered what had come between Fingon and Finrod. But whatever it was, they were all apparently determined to put it behind them, and thus studiously ignored it. It reminded her of Limbeleth’s words, and she soon made her excuses to leave them. Maedhros and Finrod both bowed, Finrod declaring what a delight it had been to finally make her acquaintance. Fingon offered to walk back with her, but Glingaereth waved him off. “Thank you for lunch. It was lovely; I’m sure you have other duties now, and won’t keep you.”

“How was lunch?” Fileg asked when Glingaereth returned to their tents. “How was the prince?”

“It was very nice,” said Glingaereth. “He makes for good conversation. Where is Limbeleth?”

“She went off with Lothríniel, something about horses,” said Fileg. “There are to be footraces tomorrow, and we have been trying to convince Nenvir to compete.”

“That shouldn’t take much convincing,” said Glingaereth.

Nenvir, standing nearby, made a face. “These Noldor are all taller and faster,” he said. “Apparently it comes from growing up under the Trees.”

“They say they are faster, but I have not seen any yet that could beat you,” said Fileg.

“Nor have I,” said Glingaereth. “It would be a good lesson for them, to see that we Dark Elves are not so diminished as they would think us!”

She left them to their debate, and returned to her tent. There Limbeleth found her when she returned, looking smug. “Lothríniel can ride circles around half these Noldor,” she said. “But you should see Maglor Fëanorion atop a horse! Even Lothríniel was impressed; I hope his cavalry in the east is half as good.”

“I thought he was tucked away with Daeron somewhere,” said Glingaereth.

“He was, but his brother dragged him away.”

“Does Maedhros ride?”

“He must, but he didn’t today. There is something unsettling about him. He makes me nervous.”

“I hope that he makes the orcs nervous,” said Glingaereth. “More than nervous, even.” Limbeleth hummed in agreement. “Come on. Daeron and Maglor are meant to perform together tonight, and I do not think anyone wants to miss it.”

They arrived at the appointed spot in plenty of time to find a good place to watch. Soon others began to gather, until almost everyone present at the Mereth Aderthad was there. If Daeron or Maglor were at all nervous, they did not show it. They stepped up onto the wooden stage, one with a harp, the other with a flute, and began to play. The music swept them all up in itself, a song of great power, of mountains and rivers and wide open planes, and of deep forests of evergreen, and the mighty waves of the sea crashing against the shore, and of starlight on clear water far away and long ago, when there were no Noldor nor Sindar, nor Light nor Dark, only the Quendi. It was a song of beauty and of unity.

When it was over, Glingaereth blinked herself back into the present, and as she caught her breath she looked around—and caught the eye of Fingon, where he stood beside his father Fingolfin. He smiled at her, and her heart skipped. She knew even before she turned away that despite her promises to her sister, she was in trouble.