the glassmaker by TheChasm  

The sky was already blushing a delicate golden-pink when Heledhel rose for the morning. Only one lone star still blazed across the bay: the Lady Elwing was pacing the cliffs north of the Havens of Sirion, keeping ceaseless watch through the night for her husband’s return.

The sight of the Silmaril heartened all those who dwelt on the Isle of Balar, for the holy light blessed their own sailors as well as Sirion’s, but as she readied herself for the day Heledhel could not help but feel a frisson of concern. It had been some weeks, now, since they had reached an uneasy milestone: Eärendil’s latest voyage was now his longest yet. If Vingilot the white ship had been lost at sea, and the Lord of the Havens with her—

But Elwing clearly still had hope, Heledhel reminded herself, else she would not be pacing the clifftops to light her husband’s way home; and all was not yet lost, as Heledhel had tried to remember since that first dread winter after the fall of Nargothrond, when their ragged band of survivors had first made their way to the Sea. They had made fisherfolk and sailors of themselves, who had been used to metalwork and gem-craft in Felagund’s shining caves; they had accepted Círdan’s open, gracious hospitality, and welcomed in their turn the refugees of Doriath and of Gondolin who had made their way to the Bay of Balar. If the Great Foe had spread his hand of darkness over almost all Beleriand he could not yet touch their two little dwellings by the Sea, and Elwing wore hope around her throat still.

And today, Heledhel was going to the market.

Her friend Istriel gave her a knowing smile when she sat down in her accustomed place in the ferry. “Have you so many more wares to sell already?”

“The last market was a month ago,” Heledhel protested. She patted her cloth bag, whose contents tinkled helpfully. “I work quickly.”

Then of course Istriel must see her work, and Heledhel drew out her sculptures of tinted glass for her friend to exclaim over, and the interest of other passengers in the ferry was caught; and as they slipped steadily through the waves towards Sirion she started to believe she might get away with it. But once she had finally put the last small sculpture away, and accepted several new commissions, Istriel fixed her with a sharp look and said, “Of course, the real reason you are going is to see that mortal maid again.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Heledhel said. “I don’t even like her.”

“Heledhel,” Istriel said patiently, “last month when her stall was opposite yours, you stared at her so intently I wondered that the poor woman did not ignite on the spot. The month before that you needed a drink of water every time she walked past you—”

“I think her craft is fine enough, for a mortal,” Heledhel said loftily, “but that doesn’t mean I have any fondness for Rhaweth herself.”

“You know her name!” Istriel crowed. “I knew you knew her name.”

“Oh, hush,” Heledhel said, rolling her eyes fondly. “Just because you are going to Sirion to court does not mean the rest of us have nothing better to do.”

Istriel’s cheeks flushed, but there was a small secret smile on her lips. “The beaches are very romantic, in the sunshine,” was all she said in response.

Heledhel scoffed.

It was mid-morning when the ferry docked at Sirion, and the little town was bustling with activity. A market-day was always an excuse for festivities, for reunions of long-divided friends, for an influx of travellers coming from Nimbrethil and Nan-tathren and even beyond the Amdram Wall – though as Morgoth’s endless encroachment continued, those had grown rarer – and even for illicit romantic assignations. Istriel’s Gondolindrim lover was caught up in some business of council, however, and so she persisted in hovering around Heledhel as she set up her stall in the market.

“These are pretty,” she said, tapping a delicate pair of glass earrings, shaped like round red cherries. “Can I buy them?”

“They aren’t for sale,” Heledhel told her, “just display. Can’t you go and wait for your sweetheart somewhere else?”

Istriel looked momentarily unhappy. “His friends don’t like me,” she said. “Because of—”

“Not because of the High King, surely,” Heledhel said. “Still?”

Istriel shrugged miserably. Those of the Gondolindrim who had cleaved most strongly to Idril had not been impressed, arriving in Sirion, to find Gil-galad naming himself the High King of all the Noldor. There had often been tension between his people, of whom Istriel was one, and the Noldor of Gondolin; but it was now many years since then, and Idril had left the Havens with her mortal husband, and her son had never pressed his claim to the crown against Gil-galad’s.

Heledhel kept her own opinions on the so-called High King to herself. She had come to Nargothrond after the Dagor Bragollach with an eight-pointed star on her collar; but Celebrimbor did not tolerate any talk of his own claim to the crown, and Heledhel was loyal to her lord.

“Well, go and get us both some lunch, then,” she suggested, “and let me go about my work in peace.”

“You just want to stare at your Rhaweth,” said Istriel, but she slid obligingly off the table.

“She isn’t mine!” Heledhel called after her, to no response but a distant laugh.

“Am I not?” came a low voice from behind her.

Heledhel spun around – most gracefully! – to see a young woman standing beside the low sandstone wall that marked the edge of the marketplace, just beside Heledhel’s stall. Rhaweth’s black hair was braided in a style that came from Gondolin and studded through with seashells, a fashion as uniquely Sirionite as was possible; a little droplet of sweat was trickling down her slender brown neck.

“You are your own,” Heledhel told her, “and nobody else's.”

“Elves!” said Rhaweth, smiling now. “What if I wanted to be yours? If I wanted you to – keep me?”

Heledhel did not want to end the game, but end it she must. She turned back to her stall. “You know I cannot,” she said, blinking hard.

Rhaweth came to stand beside her. “Cannot, or will not?” she asked.

Heledhel blinked. Rhaweth's proximity was dizzying, close enough to taste. “The market will be starting soon,” she said. “You had better get to your stall.”

Her friend – for that was all they were, friends – it did not matter how clever was Rhaweth's tongue, or how strong her muscled brown thighs, or how sweet the scent of her dark hair when it fell unbound about her bare shoulders – frowned. “All right,” she said. “Come and find me later, if you will.”

“Perhaps,” said Heledhel, and once she was alone again she let out a shuddering breath, and was all composed smiles again by the time Istriel returned with their buns for lunch. Soon after that the market opened, and she was occupied for many hours with the diverting business of selling her wares, and talking about her craft, and befriending some of her customers. In Gondolin the Noldor had not studied glass-making as extensively as had been done in Nargothrond, and Heledhel spent a very pleasurable thirty minutes explaining the varying properties of sand on the beaches of Sirion and of Balar to a small crowd of curious onlookers.

Istriel slipped away soon enough, to occupy herself with other merchants’ wares while she waited for her sweetheart – which was just as well, for Heledhel felt sure she could not bear any too-incisive questions at present. This was where her heart was, in her craft, in works that would last for ever. It was just – it wasn’t anything, with Rhaweth. Istriel was too much of a romantic to understand.

An Elf she did not recognise came to her stall in the hottest part of the afternoon, and spent some time examining the glass jewellery she had set out on the table. “Are these for sale?” he asked, tapping the same glass cherry earrings that Istriel had liked.

“Yes,” Heledhel said; “yes, they are.”

“How much?”

Heledhel paused, and then named a price ten times higher than what the trinkets were worth.

The stranger frowned. “Perhaps not, then,” he said ruefully, and he moved on to a delicate set of glass bangles. “These are very lovely,” he said. “Might you part with them for a more modest fee, mistress?”

“Oh! Certainly,” said Heledhel, and she quoted him the true price.

The stranger hesitated again. “Impertinence, perhaps,” he said, “for I was never accounted among the great craftsmen of Gondolin, but I must ask: why glass jewellery? When it breaks so easily?”

Heledhel stared at him for a moment. “Because it is beautiful, I suppose,” she said, “even if it does not last for ever; and because making it is all I know to do.”

“Indeed,” said the stranger, looking pleased. He paid for the bangles and walked away, in the direction Istriel had wandered some hours earlier.

Heledhel was too busy to dwell on this interaction for long. It was not until the evening shadows had grown long, and the bustle of the market had at last quieted, that she had a moment’s leisure in which to sit down, and sip at a mug of the salted and lightly spiced lemon water that was such a favourite of the Edain at Sirion.

“You did not come,” Rhaweth said quietly, startling her.

Heledhel stared at her. Rhaweth’s brown eyes, so often lit with laughter, were glistening with unshed tears. “You always come,” she said. “Heledhel, have I – have I offended you somehow?”

“I am not sure this should continue any longer,” Heledhel told her.

Rhaweth looked at her. “Because you will not debase yourself with a lowly Edain woman?”

“Because it cannot last for ever,” said Heledhel, and then she sighed and stared at the glass earrings on the table, which she had not yet packed away. “I tried to sell these many times today. I could not do it.”

“They are pretty,” said Rhaweth.

“I made them for you,” said Heledhel, and she slipped them into the holes in each of Rhaweth’s earlobes, relishing the heat of her skin against her fingers; perhaps it was then that her resolve was lost, or else a moment later, when Rhaweth glanced at her and then at the shadowed, secluded corner of the marketplace nearby.

“How do I look?” Rhaweth asked, as if she did not know the effect her brief little look had had. She tossed her head, letting the earrings jingle.

Heledhel kissed her instead of answering. Rhaweth tasted of salt. Her mouth was hot and familiar, her grip on Heledhel’s waist utterly certain. After a moment she broke the kiss and walked them both backwards into the darkened corner.

“Are you sure?” she asked, reaching up to play with Heledhel’s own unbound tresses.

No, Heledhel wanted to say, it cannot last for ever; but here it was, and it was beautiful. “Yes,” she said, and she kissed Rhaweth again, relishing her scent and her heat and the press of her round breasts against Heledhel’s, and did not think about endings.

Chapter End Notes

OC names:

Heledhel (S.): glass-woman
Istriel (S.): daughter of knowledgeable one
Rhaweth (S.): untamed one

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