west of the moon, east of the sun

Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: Teen (for later chapters)
Characters: Original Characters, Fingon
Warnings: n/a
Summary:Glingaereth meets the prince of the Noldor by chance, if chance you call it.

First Chapter / Next Chapter

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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. Glingaereth ’s horse had hardly come to a halt before her sister appeared. “You’re back early!” she said, embracing Glingaereth. “All is well?”

“Oh, yes,” said Glingaereth. “We saved a party of Noldor from some orcs, and sent them on to Eglarest. The Noldor, not the orcs.”

“The orcs we sent scurrying back north to meet the rest of the Noldor,” said Tríwath as they swung down from their own horse. Others came to take the horses away as Tríwath added, “But Glingaereth has forgotten to mention that the Prince of the Noldor was one of those we saved!”

“Which one?” Limbeleth asked. “Aren’t there a dozen or more Noldorin princes scattered across the lands now?”

“This was Prince Fingon,” said Glingaereth.

“King Fingolfin’s heir,” Tríwath said. “He was quite taken with Glingaereth.” As they spoke they loosened their braids and tugged their fingers through the windblown tangles.

Glingaereth rolled her eyes. Tr íwath had been teasing her about Fingon since they’d parted from the Noldor, and she didn’t understand why. “He wasn’t,” she said to Limbeleth, who had an eyebrow arched. “We spoke a great deal, but he was the leader of their company and I the leader of ours, and he was no more or less courteous to me than to everyone else.”

“That is to his credit,” Tríwath said, but added, eyes twinkling, “Yet his eyes did not follow anyone else the way they followed you.”

“That is enough,” Glingaereth said. “Unless we go to that great feast that his father is planning—and maybe even then—we shall likely never see him again.” Great princes out of Valinor with Treelight in their eyes did not mingle with titleless wanderers, and if Glingaereth felt the tiniest bit of regret for it—well, that was her own business. “Where is Naneth, Limbeleth?”

“Off hunting with Geldir and Lothríniel,” said Limbeleth. “In the meantime the fishing has been excellent. Come on! You’re just in time to help me with tonight’s meal.”

“Of course,” Glingaereth said. “That’s just what I was hoping after a long ride—to arrive and be embraced by my dearest sister, and to immediately sit down and gut half a dozen fish.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Limbeleth said as she pulled Glingaereth through the camp. “There are far more than half a dozen.”

The evening was a merry one, and the next day even more so, as the hunting party returned with plenty of game to feast upon and to dry and store in preparation for their coming travels. There was no hurry, no real need to be anywhere else, and Glingaereth spent the long sunny afternoons wading in the pools or foraging with her cousin Lothr íniel, who always knew just where to find the ripest summer berries.

One such afternoon, Lothr íniel and Glingaereth returned to their encampment to find visitors—another small company of Noldor, come to take a look at the lands surrounding Ivrin to decide where was best to set up what sounded to Glingaereth like a small city of tents and outdoor kitchens and other necessary comforts.

The two leaders of the party were Turgon, who in name at least had lordship over Ivrin, and his aunt, called Lalwen, who Glingaereth liked on sight. When she learned that they already knew of the coming feast, thanks to Fingon needing rescued on the road, Lalwen laughed. Turgon did not laugh, looking troubled instead. “I heard of a company of orcs that was waylaid coming up from the south,” Lalwen said, “and wondered what they had been doing.”

“We wonder how they were able to come almost all the way to Eglarest,” Glingaereth’s mother said; Eglaneth did not find it funny at all. “Your leaguer is meant to prevent such incursions, is it not?”

“It is,” Turgon said, and inclined his head to Eglaneth, “but we have not had time yet to fully complete our fortifications, and clearly there are still gaps.”

“You have our solemn word that we will fill those gaps,” Lalwen added, becoming serious for a moment. “We did not cross the Helcaraxë only to allow Moringotto to overrun us.” Then she smiled. “And to do that we must be united again, we Noldor—we were separated in Araman before making the crossing, and that has caused a rift that my brother hopes to restore with this feast. He hopes also to strengthen the friendships we have already begun to forge with your own people. Will you join us next summer?”

Eglaneth pursed her lips, but could not argue against the enthusiasm from the rest of their company. “We will be here,” she said, “and we will help you prepare for it. It had been our intent to go east over the Ered Luin for a time, but that I suppose can wait.”

“Of course it can,” said Glingaereth. “There’s nothing urgent awaiting us there.” It was only long habit that would take them there at this time. Seeing how the Noldor planned and prepared for their coming feast would be far more interesting.

Glingaereth and her friend Emlineth were tasked with helping Turgon ’s own scouts and hunters to familiarize themselves with the lands surrounding Ivrin; most had not left Nevrast since settling there, as building the city and keeping a watch on the north had taken up all of their time. Glingaereth found the Noldor now to be eager to learn, and equally eager to share what knowledge they had brought with them from Valinor. Those that Glingaereth and Emlineth spent the most time with had ridden in Oromë’s host in the wild woods of Valinor, or followed Vána dancing through flowery glades in springtime, and moved through the trees with silent grace, when they were not singing songs to make the flowers blossom, or bring songbirds flocking down from the canopies.

“We have heard at times the horns of Oromë, when he rode through Beleriand,” Emlineth remarked. “But it has been a long time since he came east of the Sea—and not since the Enemy returned to the north.”

Their Noldorin companions exchanged unhappy glances. “No, the Valar have raised the defenses of the West, but do not seem inclined to move upon Morgoth here,” said one.

“What made you come, then?” Glingaereth asked. “Not that we are complaining—you saved all of us at the Falas, and we are grateful.”

“Finwë our king was slain,” said the Noldo. “And the Silmarils of Fëanor were stolen—perhaps you have heard of them?”

“Very little,” said Emlineth. “But I am grieved to hear of Finwë.” Their companions bowed their heads.

It seemed strange to Glingaereth that they had come separately—the first on ships, and the rest crossing the Helcarax ë, when it would have been a simple matter to send the ships back, or even to ask Olwë’s people for more. But the crossing of the Sea was not something the Noldor wished to speak of, nor even what had taken place just before it, save that Fëanor and Fingolfin had quarreled, and so the matter was left alone.

Still, there was something in their eyes that made Glingaereth uneasy. But the moment passed, and she wondered later if she had imagined it, and so she said nothing.