Breaking Into Light by StarSpray

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One

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

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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.