Breaking Into Light by StarSpray

One

Written for the Middle-earth is Multitudes challenge for the prompts: Women, Textual Ghosts, Nomadic/Itinerant Characters, Non-literate Characters, Nelyar, Tatyar

Read One

The present tragedy will eventually
turn into myth, and in the mist
of that later telling the bell tolling
now will be a symbol, or, at least,
a sign of something long since lost.

This will be another one of those
loose changes, the rearrangement of
Hearts, just parts of old lives
patched together gathered into
a dim constellation, small consolation.

Look, we will say, you can almost see
the outline there: her fingertips
touching his, the faint fusion
of two bodies breaking into light.

- "Naming the Stars" by Joyce Sutphen

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FA 19

Dark clouds had covered the sky for several days, now, still and threatening. At last Glingaereth could smell it; any moment now, the clouds would break and they would receive the much needed rain. She urged her horse into a quick trot, and behind her the rest of the scouting party fell into step. They had seen a few signs of orc activity west of the River Nenning, but leading away from the Falas, and fairly old.

Most were looking forward to being back behind sturdy walls, especially when the weather turned foul, but Glingaereth was looking forward to leaving again, and rejoining her sister and their folk near the Pools of Ivrin. She was fond enough of the sea, but ever since the Falas had been besieged she had hated the thought of being trapped again behind walls.

As they came to the road that led south to Eglarest, however, the sounds of fighting reached them from a little ways north. Glingaereth immediately turned toward the sound, and called over her shoulder for a rider to take a warning south. As her horse thundered up the road, Glingaereth readied her bow. A horn was calling; it sounded like one of the Noldor, rather than one of the Falathrim. And when they rounded a bend she saw the banners of High King Fingolfin fluttering over the circle of riders clustered together to fend off the troop of orcs that had them surrounded. Unusual for orcs to be so bold so far south, especially since the Noldor had established their leaguer—perhaps it was the dark weather.

Glingaereth raised her bow and fired as soon as she was within range, and her companions followed suit, felling orcs with every shot. Once they realized what was happening, the orcs scattered, sending parting shots over their shoulders and cursing as they scrambled back toward the cover of the brush and trees. Glingaereth and her people pursued them, and very few escaped their arrows or blades to return with tidings to the north.

When she returned to the road, Glingaereth found the party of Noldor still there, busy clearing the way of bodies. Glingaereth’s companions went to join them, and to strip the dead orcs of whatever useful iron they could find—metal was metal, and the crude and ugly devices of the enemy could be melted down into far more useful things. She remained on horseback, scanning their surroundings in case the orcs tried to sneak back around.

None did, and by the time the road was cleared and both parties remounted, thunder was rumbling in the distance, ominously and continuously. “Thank you,” said the Noldo who Glingaereth took to be the leader. She had had little to do with any of the Noldor before, and found the bright light in their eyes almost disconcerting. But this Noldo’s smile made up for it, bright and lovely as the sun emerging from behind a cloud. “We did not expect to find any orcs so far south, and were caught unawares.”

“I am glad we were passing by,” said Glingaereth. “Is anyone injured?”

“Only our pride,” the Noldo replied lightly.

“Well, pride can always use humbling,” Glingaereth said. He laughed. “Are you headed south?”

“Yes, to Eglarest.”

“Then we can go together.”

“There is a place we can shelter a few miles down the road,” said Emlineth, riding up beside Glingaereth. “But we must hurry if we want to escape the rains.”

“Then let us go!” said the Noldo. “We will follow your lead.”

The shelter was a small stand of trees whose branches grew and wove close enough together, encouraged by many long years travelers stopping there, to create a roof against the rain, which began to fall only a few minutes after their party arrived. There was a great deal of cheerful bickering over who was to have which camp-making chore; Glingaereth let the others settle it while she cared for her mare. The leader of the Noldor had the same idea, and brought his horse over to hers. His was a large gelding, presumably of the stock brought from the West.

“We have not yet introduced ourselves,” Glingaereth said as she took up her mare’s mane to redo some of the braids. “I am Glingaereth.”

“I am Fingon, son of Fingolfin,” said the Noldo, and laughed when Glingaereth started.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “But I’m afraid I don’t know what is appropriate. Should I bow?”

He laughed again. “No need,” he said. “You and your people saved our lives today—that does away with formalities, I think.”

“Oh, good.” Glingaereth returned his smile, and returned her attention to her mare. “What brings you so far south, then? Your holdings are in Hithlum, are they not?”

“We went first to Brithombar, but were told that Lord Círdan had just set sail for Eglarest,” said Fingon, “and my father wishes me to carry his message to Lord Círdan personally. It is an invitation—to a great feast and gathering to be held at the Pools of Ivrin. Do you know them?”

“Know them?” Glingaereth laughed. “My sister was born there, and our people often stop there in our wanderings.”

“Are you not Falathrim, then?”

“Most of us here are,” said Glingaereth, “and I come to the Falas often, but my people are wanderers.”

“It is dangerous to wander, in these days,” Fingon remarked. He had busied himself with his own horse, his braids falling down over his shoulders as he leaned over to check the hooves.

“Less so than before you Noldor came,” said Glingaereth. “A few orcs slip through your leaguer, but we were sorely beset before you established it.” That earned her another bright smile. “What is the occasion for the gathering?”

“To bring us all together,” said Fingon, “to establish real peace and friendship between all of us here in Beleriand.” There was something behind that he was not saying, but it was no business of Glingaereth’s what happened between the various factions of the Noldor. “Will you be there, do you think?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But I will make no promises now, before you have even spoken with my Lord Círdan, or King Thingol.”

“Fair enough.” Fingon reached into one of his saddle bags. “Here is a copy of what I am to give to Círdan, meant to spread among wandering peoples such as your folk, who we cannot come to in person. Will you take it?”

Glingaereth accepted the paper, which was ornately decorated; the script was elegant and seemed to flow along the page, though to her eyes it was nothing more than pretty loops and whirls. “It’s very pretty,” she said, making him smile, “but few of us wandering Elves can read your letters. We use Daeron’s runes sometimes, but only for quick signs to others who might pass by in the wild. But I will spread the word.”

“Ah, I had not thought of that. Thank you.”

Their camp was merry that night. They shared provisions and shared songs long into the night as the rain fell and the wind moaned through the trees around them and overhead. When morning came the storm had calmed, though the rain continued as they packed up their camp and set out again. Eglarest was several days away yet, but the rider Glingaereth had sent ahead had made good time, and after only two days they met a company from the city, led by one of Círdan’s kinsmen, Celepher, and one of his daughters. Glingaereth knew him by sight but not to speak to. But it was a relief to be able to give her report of their scouting in addition to details of the skirmish with the orcs—and with that she and those of her party who intended to leave the Falas with her were free to go.

“I hope I shall see you again,” said Fingon as she wheeled her horse around. “At Ivrin, perhaps?”

“Perhaps!” Glingaereth replied, and then her horse leaped into a canter back up the road, leaving the prince to his errand and Lord Celepher to play escort. Her hood flew back off her head and the rain flowed into her hair, but she did not mind, for far ahead, where she was going, she saw the clouds breaking up into blue sky on the horizon.

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!

Read Two

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.”

Three

Read Three

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.