Fëanor's Lanterns, by Zopyrus
Mar. 27th, 2015 12:51 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
zopyrus.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
b2memB2MeM Challenge: “Dunedain OFCs, daily life…What about the women that are left behind to defend their homes?” by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
suzll
Format: Short Story
Genre: Family, Humor
Rating: General
Warnings: Brief description of nausea and illness.
Characters: Halbarad, Ivorwen, Isilmë (OFC), Nethril (OFC), Aragorn
Pairings: OFC/OFC
Summary: Isilmë leads a fairly boring life as an apprentice blacksmith in the Angle—that is, until she falls in love with the Lady Ivorwen’s granddaughter. Suddenly, members of the Dúnedain’s most powerful family are interested in her doings; and when she and Halbarad stray into the woods one evening, Isilmë finds a little more trouble than she bargained for…
~~~
Isilmë had been trapped at her grandfather's forge since sunup, making nails.
"I'm sorry there weren't any ready for you," she told Halbarad, who was cooling his heels in the corner. "But since your patrol got back early, every mother in the Angle has decided to do house repairs, and our stock has all but run out."
"I don't mind." Halbarad had to raise his voice to be heard over the steady blows of Isilmë's hammer. It was a common hazard of trying to hold conversations at the forge; Isilmë was a little surprised he had chosen to put up with it.
"Wouldn't you rather go home and visit with your family?"
"And send my sister over later, to pick them up?” Halbarad laughed. “You'd both like that, wouldn't you?"
Something about his tone, and the laugh, made Isilmë sneak a glance at him as she turned the hot metal with her tongs; but he was smiling amiably enough.
It was fine: he couldn't possibly know about her and Nethril.
"Well, she is much prettier than you," said Isilmë, grasping for lightheartedness. "And we are very good friends, so she was planning on coming over today anyway, and—"
"Well, yes,” said Halbarad. He seemed a little taken aback. "Of course."
Isilmë returned her attention to the nails, trying to make each one just like the others. It was essential work, but there was a reason Isilmë's grandfather had delegated the task to her: for a man who had spent nearly a century honing his craft, hammering out nails did not exactly present a challenge. Very little did, these days: it was rare that Huor was asked to do anything more complicated than to mend and sharpen weapons, shoe horses, and make the boring little essentials, like nails, that helped keep the Angle running smoothly.
As a child, Isilmë had devoured tales of the Elvish smiths of old, and dreamed of making wonders; but for now, at least, that was not to be. One day Isilmë would be a smith in her own right, and not just the smith's apprentice. When that day came, she would foist the nail-making off on her teenage apprentices, and make what she wanted.
Absorbed in her thoughts—and too flustered to play proper host—she did not look up again until the door opened, sending in a blast of sunlight and blessedly cooler air.
"Oh, Halbarad, are you still here?" said a familiar, well-loved voice. "Perfect, this way I can tell both of you my news at the same time!"
Isilmë had worked long enough, she decided. She had barely set down her tools when Nethril pulled her away from the forge and into a warm embrace.
“Stop,” protested Isilmë, sneaking a nervous look at Halbarad. “Nethril, your dress—”
Nethril released her and looked down at herself. The front of her dress was smeared with soot from Isilmë’s apron.
“I needed to wash it anyway,” said Nethril, cheerfully. “It doesn’t matter. Listen, you two—do you remember how Adanel agreed, in the last council meeting, that she would do a tour of our outlying encampments—you know, Glamren and the other outposts along the Greenway?”
The Lady Adanel was the widow of one deceased Chieftain and the mother of another. After the death of Lord Arathorn, and the mysterious disappearance of his young son, the line of Isildur had ended. Aided, sometimes grudgingly, by the Captains’ Council, Adanel had taken it upon herself to rule the Dúnedain as best she could.
“The idea was that a visit from the acting Chieftain will boost morale,” said Halbarad. “Back in the day, the Heir of Isildur would have travelled freely, winning our people’s trust by fighting alongside them. Adanel is worth a dozen heirs any day, but she is no warrior—so she must win hearts in a different way.”
Isilmë snorted.
“I bet she loved hearing that.”
“She agreed in the end,” said Nethril. “More importantly, she has just asked me to go with her! She said she would rather suffer an orc attack be the only woman on the road—and she thinks it would be useful to me, to learn how these things are done.”
Nethril's words were sober enough, but there was a little thrill in her voice that told Isilmë everything she needed to know.
"You'll be missed, my darling, but that's wonderful."
Isilmë longed to fling her arms around her friend, soot be damned, and show her just how much she would be missed—but propriety held her back. If only Halbarad had been less polite, and left her to her work like an ordinary person would have done! Then she and Nethril might have had this moment alone.
"I wish I could go with you, little sister," said Halbarad, with a tenderness that almost softened Isilmë's annoyance.
"We would never hear the end of it from Mama if we both left home at the same time," Nethril reminded him. "And after three months in the Wild, no one can say you haven't done your duty."
Nethril’s eyes narrowed wickedly.
"Besides, we want brains, not brawn, on this trip—Adanel’s words, not mine, so don't—"
Her hasty disclaimer came too late: Halbarad had already lunged for his sister's long braid.
"Sometimes brawn has its uses," he said smugly, as she shrieked.
“You needn’t—OW—behave like a child,” said Nethril. “This temper of yours is probably the real reason Adanel didn’t ask you to come, too!”
Isilmë hid a smile. Her friend’s diplomatic skills could definitely use some work—but that couldn’t stop her from rallying to Nethril’s defense.
"I think the best part of all this is that while you are gone, Halbarad will have to do all your chores,” she said, sweetly. “Will he help your mother with her weaving, as you do?"
She held up a hand in warning, as Halbarad released his sister and turned towards her.
"If you attack me at my own forge, you will wish you were still wandering about in the Wild, son of Dírlaeg."
"Peace, daughter of Brandir,” said Halbarad. "I am not fool enough to go after you and Nethril at once!"
Nethril was still clutching at her head, but she smiled at them both, as though she had never started a quarrel.
"Look out for each other while I'm gone, all right?"
Isilme glanced at Halbarad, who grinned at her. With sudden lightness, she reflected that putting up with him might be easier—and more entertaining—than she had previously thought.
"Don't worry, little sister," said Halbarad sincerely. "We will.”
~~~
A few days after Nethril’s departure, Isilmë found herself following their old familiar path, weaving her way through the trees until she reached the banks of the Hoarwell. She and Nethril had spent so many hours here. First, as innocent children playing at Arien and Tilion, chasing each other through the woods in bright sunlight, their mothers laughing at them from a safe distance; and later, sitting quite still, pouring out their hearts beside the dark water at twilight.
It was here that Nethril had kissed her for the first time.
Tonight, the Moon was only a sliver. Isilmë gazed at it, still thinking about those childhood games. Nethril had always wanted her to play Tilion.
“Your name means ‘Moonlight,’” she had said, delighted to show off the fruits of their first Quenya lessons. “So you ought to be the Moon.”
Even as a child, Isilmë had not been overly impressed by the Man in the Moon—especially not the Elvish tales about him, which spoke all too kindly of his courtship of a woman who plainly did not want him. The tales old Dírhael liked to tell had disturbed her in a different way: Isilmë certainly did not want to lend her name to an old Breelandish drunkard with a broken lantern, so soused he could not remember the way home.
Yet she had played the game, even so. There had been something about the chase that had pulled at her, long before she knew who she was, or what she wanted.
Wrapped up in the memory, Isilmë almost did not hear the telltale crackle of leaves on the path behind her. This close to home, even at night, she was not afraid; but she still smoothed her skirts and stood up, ready to leave.
But the intruder was Halbarad. He was carrying an empty sack over one shoulder.
“You call yourself a Ranger,” said Isilmë. “And yet, I heard you coming.”
“I didn’t want to startle you, Daughter of Brandir.”
Halbarad’s tone matched hers: quiet, but playful.
“You were right about those chores,” he added, with a small grin. “So many that I am reduced to running some of them at night! But what are you doing out so late?”
“I was just leaving, actually, I—”
“Will you walk with me?”
Isilmë squinted at him in the dark, but he seemed to be in earnest. And if Nethril wanted them to get along, getting to know him better was the least Isilmë could do.
“If you like,” she said, shrugging. “What is the sack for?”
“Ah,” he said, mysteriously. “You’ll see. Come this way.”
He led her away from the river, his tread truly silent now. Isilmë tried her best to disguise her own footsteps, but in the dark, it was beyond her skill. She winced at the sound of every dry leaf and snapped twig; but if Halbarad noticed—he must, surely—he was gracious enough not to mention it.
Instead, he said:
“So, you and Nethril…”
Isilmë stumbled, and Halbarad reached out to steady her without breaking his stride, or making a sound.
“Me and Nethril?”
Halbarad sighed.
“Look, whatever is going on with you two—she hasn’t told me, but I think I know. I’ve seen how she looks at you.”
What could she possibly say to that? What did he expect from her?
“And I saw how you looked at her, the other day. Listen, I just—if the two of you decide that you, um, that you want to be together…”
“We’re not—”
“If that’s what you both want, that makes you family,” said Halbarad, in a rush. “And I swear to you, I will thrash anyone who says otherwise.”
“Oh,” said Isilmë, around the sudden lump in her throat.
They were deeper into the woods than Isilmë had ever been at night. If they were really on an errand from Nethril’s mother, what could the woman have possibly been thinking? Common sense told her she ought to be at least a little afraid, in the dark—but somehow, Isilmë had never felt safer.
“Stop here,” said Halbarad, too suddenly, and Isilmë nearly walked straight into him.
He steadied her, again, and steered her slightly to the left.
“Look at the tree roots up ahead,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”
At first, nothing but darkness, and the shadows of the trees. But then—
“Light!” said Isilmë, wonderingly. “Green light, all over the ground!”
From where they stood, darkness still blanketed the earth. But a mere stones’ throw away, nestled up against the twisted roots of the trees, there were spiky little plants, glimmering blue-green.
“Is there something buried here?” asked Isilmë—and she thought, with sudden dread, of her grandfather’s tales of ancient Elvish blades, glowing blue in warning when the goblin armies crept too close.
“Not exactly,” said Halbarad. “Come on, let’s go closer.”
He was the one who had led them here; but his voice trembled slightly, as if he too were over-awed and a little afraid. Isilmë followed him uneasily, torn between nerves and curiosity.
Habarad crouched down next to a glowing tree root and scooped up one of the lights in his hand. Then he straightened, and offered it to Isilmë.
It was a mushroom.
“How on earth—”
“Nethril told me about these,” said Halbarad. “We collected them by daylight for years, for Mama to use in her cloth dyes—they’re bright yellow, usually. But Nethril told me before she left that she found an essay about them in one of Grandmother Ivorwen’s books.”
“Did this essay explain why they glow?” asked Isilmë.
“Only the fairy tale version,” said Halbarad. “Mama calls them pfifferlings—I guess that’s the Common name—but the Númenoreans called them Fëanor’s Lanterns, because they sprang up after fires, and glowed like the Elvish lamps of old.”
He glanced sidewise at Isilmë.
“Honestly, I half-suspected Nethril was pulling my leg. Even if she told me true, I didn’t expect them to be this spectacular! It seems a shame to pick them.”
Isilmë laughed. Nethril and Halbarad’s prank wars had scandalized the Angle for the duration of their childhood—and although she would never admit it to Halbarad, Isilmë had had a hand in some of Nethril’s best tricks.
“I would have thought she was lying, too. I’ve, uh, heard plenty of stories about the pranks you two pulled on each other over the years. But this—it’s incredible.”
Even Nethril couldn’t have come up with all this on her own.
“And you’re right, we shouldn’t pick them all—let’s take some, for your mother, and leave the rest.”
Halbarad held out his sack, and Isilmë carefully dropped the glowing mushroom inside. They gathered up the other mushrooms with care, making sure to not take too much from any single cluster. Soon, the sweet scent from the broken stalks filled the air, and Isilmë inhaled deeply.
“I would have thought they’d smell foul—they look so eerie. But they don’t, at all.”
Halbarad hesitated.
“The other part of Nethril’s story is the part I still don’t believe,” he said. “She said you could eat them—that they would give you Elvish powers.”
Isilmë laughed.
“Please! You mean, like seeing in the dark, and walking on snow?”
“I know,” he said, quickly. “Ridiculous, right? I’ve eaten pfifferlings before, and they didn’t give me any special powers. But—I’m no longer sure these are really pfifferlings. They’re shaped a little differently, and they smell a little different, too.”
“That hardly makes them safe to eat,” Isilmë pointed out. She had heard plenty of tales about bad mushrooms—ones that made you hallucinate, or vomit, or even killed you.
“True,” said Halbarad. “But even if Nethril wanted to make me look like a fool, she wouldn’t try to kill me. So they might be safe?”
Isilmë wondered vaguely if they covered this sort of thing in Ranger training.
“They do smell awfully good,” she said. She thought of herself as a sensible person, but a sudden longing stole over her. If she could only get away from this smell, she would keep her head, for sure.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” said Halbarad. And then, the words that sealed their fate:
“I will, if you will.”
Isilmë had never been one to turn down a dare—and with the heady perfume of the mushrooms filling her nostrils, she was hardly going to start now.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she plucked one of the glowing mushrooms and split it down the middle with her fingers. She handed half of the mushroom to Halbarad, with a challenging smile.
“What is family for, if not to enable one another?”
“Here’s to that,” said Halbarad. He popped the mushroom in his mouth and chewed.
Isilmë bit into her mushroom, too: carefully, ready to spit it out if she had to.
It was delicious.
~~~
Isilmë groaned, and curled harder against herself, squeezing her eyes shut as tight as she could.
Her back ached, her head throbbed, and her lips were so dry they were starting to crack. She tried to breathe as steadily as she could, willing her body to calm itself, but it was no use. With another groan, she kicked away the sweaty sheet and hung her face over the side of the infirmary bed.
Some kind soul had had the foresight to leave a tin basin out for her. She retched into it, miserably.
That made her feel a little better; but if the last few hours were any indication, Isilmë knew that her respite would be brief. She and Halbarad had both felt perfectly fine all evening, and she had snuck back home with a light heart, feeling secure in their strengthened friendship, and full of hope about her future with Nethril.
The twinges in her stomach had begun just before daybreak; and by the time she and Huor had finished lighting the fires in the forge, she had been shaky on her feet. Shamefaced, she had turned herself in at the Houses of Healing, where she tossed and turned in the infirmary bed, wracked with guilt, nausea, and anxious fear.
It had definitely been a prank gone wrong: a prank in absentia, and with one unintended victim. There was now no doubt in Isilmë’s mind that Nethril had known at least a little more about those mushrooms than she had told her brother; and although she was equally sure Nethril had never meant to hurt her, too, the thought was somehow less than comforting.
Isilmë and Nethril were definitely going to have words when she got back.
“Try and sleep,” the apprentice healer on duty instructed her. Isilmë had never felt further from sleep in her life.
Unable to rest, she rearranged herself as best she could on the bed, straightening out the sheet over her body and shoving the pillow against the headboard of her little bed. With nothing left to do, she looked about her.
Isilmë had not often been inside the Houses of Healing, at least not as a patient; and she had never been given a room to herself. If she had thought to wonder, she would have expected the little room to contain the bare necessities, and no more: but the Houses of Healing had been built in another time, when the blood of Isildur ran strong, and the Heirs still thought of themselves as Kings.
In those bygone days, some forgotten artist had somehow found the leisure—or perhaps, had even been commissioned—to adorn the plaster walls. Painted clouds scudded near the window, and Arien sailed her yellow sun-ship steadfastly across the ceiling, her brow furrowed in noble determination. The sky was the color of robins’ eggs; and the sun itself had been done in what looked like real gold. The image was starting to flake around the edges, especially near the window; even if it were not tucked away in a little-used room, there was surely no one left among the Dúnedain with the skill to mend it.
The thought tugged at Isilmë’s heart, that something so beautiful should have fallen into ruin. She gazed and gazed, trying to memorize the image, so that when she was old she would still be able to recall the expression on Arien’s beautiful, golden face.
But—just there, tucked away in the wake of the sun-ship, could that be the artist’s signature? Isilme craned her neck to look more closely, but the lines were still too far away to make out. She kicked the coverlet away, again, and stood up on the bed, trying to see.
The door opened. Surprise jolted through her weak limbs, and Isilmë almost fell. Instead, she clutched the wall and sat back down, shaky and embarrassed.
The Chief Healer, Lady Ivorwen, stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised and arms folded. An amused smile played about her lips.
Nethril’s grandmother was never going to take Isilmë seriously ever again.
“I am glad to see you feeling more yourself, child.”
Isilmë flushed. The painting on the ceiling had indeed driven her illness from her mind, but that brief respite was over. Her stomach churned with embarrassment—and returning nausea.
“I thought you might like this room,” said Ivorwen, settling herself on the stool beside Isilmë’s bed. “Nethril is always telling me how much you wish to be an artist, not just a craftswoman.”
“There is no shame in making what we need,” said Isilmë, a little surprised that Nethril had thought to repeat her words to her grandmother. “But the smiths of old were renowned for their jewels and rings, not their—not their nails, and horseshoes.”
“Jewels and rings?” said Ivorwen, with a little laugh. “Some say the world would be fairer, if some of those things had never been wrought. But I do not know if that is true. What possessed you to stand on the bed?”
Isilmë pointed. “I thought I might be able to make out the signature—the name of the artist.”
Ivorwen smiled at her gently. “Most of our treasures are lost to us, but Lady Adanel still preserves many of our records in the Chieftain’s house. The same woman who painted the ceiling in this room decorated many of the walls in the Chieftain’s house as well. Her name was Urwen. She was the only child of the Chief Healer; but when she had exhausted her talents here, the sons of Elrond spirited her away to Rivendell, to learn more of the craft.”
“Did she ever come back?” asked Isilmë.
“No,” said Ivorwen. “She lived out her days among the Elves, and never came home again. This was all hundreds of years ago, long before my time. Very few now remember her name—except perhaps in Rivendell, where Urwen led the life she could never have had, with us.”
Sadness stole over Ivorwen’s face—more sadness than the tale of a woman long dead seemed to warrant. Perhaps there was more to the story. But just as Isilmë was gathering her courage to ask, her stomach rebelled.
Thank the Valar for that ugly tin basin!
“Fëanor’s Lanterns share their name with the Elvish smith for three main reasons,” began Ivorwen, as Isilmë leaned over the bed to retch, again.
Her voice finally rang with the disapproval Isilmë had expected from the start of their strange conversation.
“One, they thrive after fires; two, they glow like Elvish lamps; and three, the sight of them apparently induces extremely poor decision making.”
Isilmë groaned.
“Am I going to die?”
“Not today,” said Ivorwen, tartly. “Unlike their namesake, the mushrooms do not cause mass death. What were you thinking, child?”
“I don’t know what came over me,” said Isilmë. “The smell—”
The mere thought of the smell nearly made her lean towards the tin basin again.
“Is Halbarad all right?” she asked, instead.
Ivorwen rubbed a comforting hand her shoulder.
“My grandson, the Ranger! He is well enough to ask the same about you. With that boy’s history, my first thought was that it must be one of his pranks gone wrong—but from the way he is groaning in the other room…”
A hint of steel crept back into her voice, and she narrowed her eyebrows sternly.
“I don’t suppose you would know anything about that thought of mine?”
Isilmë was still extremely displeased with Nethril; but there was no way she was going to rat her out to her grandmother—even if Ivorwen was somewhat less terrifying than she had previously believed.
“I think it might help if I lay down again,” she said, clutching her head.
Ivorwen snorted.
“Have it your way. I confess part of me is glad to see you and Halbarad so tight-lipped about whatever it was—if you are going to be part of this family, I’m afraid the occasional prank is inevitable. I blame my husband—he has always been entirely too lenient about this kind of thing.”
“Part of the family?” said Isilmë, in confusion. “Did Halbarad—”
“Halbarad has said nothing to me,” said Ivorwen, gently. “You forget that I have foresight. It doesn’t typically allow me to spy on my grandchildren, but Nethril has a part to play in the greatest affair of our Age; and I have seen you beside her.”
“Oh,” said Isilmë.
“Since even my true dreams can be averted, I am very glad you and my grandson did not succeed in poisoning each other,” added Ivorwen. “You ought to sleep, if you can.”
Isilmë knew she ought to say something more; but she was very tired, suddenly. Her eyes were closed before Nethril’s grandmother had left the room.
She slept.
~~~
In a small copse just south of the Angle, a tall young man paused in his journey to study the signs left by a previous traveller. The marks were subtle, and had been left quite some time ago, so that only faint indications remained: the scar left from a broken branch, the redirected growth of the ferns, and the precise arrangement of half-buried pebbles.
There were few indeed who could interpret the message correctly: only the Elves of Rivendell...and, so the young man had been told, the remnants of the Dúnedain, whose hidden fortress he was seeking.
But could his eyes have deceived him? The young man blinked in surprise, and looked again. Perhaps the ground had been disturbed after all, and the message garbled. The words he thought he read seemed unworthy of the mighty heirs of Isildur, even diminished as they might have become in the Wild:
HALBARAD SON OF DIRLAEG, A GULLIBLE IDIOT, POISONED MY GIRLFRIEND. HE'LL GET WHAT'S COMING TO HIM.
"Strange tidings!" thought Estel, and trudged onwards.
~~~
NOTES.
0. Thank you toelleth for the beta!
1. The Fëanor’s Lantern mushroom is the magical Middle-earth equivalent of the poisonous-but-not-deadly Jack O’Lantern, which really does glow green at night, and can be used to make yellow dye. The look-alike pfifferlings Halbarad has previously eaten are more commonly known as chanterelles. (Please do not use this fic as a guide to picking or eating mushrooms!)
2. Isilmë and Nethril were first created bysuzll; and I have closely followed her lead in my characterizations of Ivorwen, Halbarad, and even Dírhael.
suzll Format: Short Story
Genre: Family, Humor
Rating: General
Warnings: Brief description of nausea and illness.
Characters: Halbarad, Ivorwen, Isilmë (OFC), Nethril (OFC), Aragorn
Pairings: OFC/OFC
Summary: Isilmë leads a fairly boring life as an apprentice blacksmith in the Angle—that is, until she falls in love with the Lady Ivorwen’s granddaughter. Suddenly, members of the Dúnedain’s most powerful family are interested in her doings; and when she and Halbarad stray into the woods one evening, Isilmë finds a little more trouble than she bargained for…
~~~
Isilmë had been trapped at her grandfather's forge since sunup, making nails.
"I'm sorry there weren't any ready for you," she told Halbarad, who was cooling his heels in the corner. "But since your patrol got back early, every mother in the Angle has decided to do house repairs, and our stock has all but run out."
"I don't mind." Halbarad had to raise his voice to be heard over the steady blows of Isilmë's hammer. It was a common hazard of trying to hold conversations at the forge; Isilmë was a little surprised he had chosen to put up with it.
"Wouldn't you rather go home and visit with your family?"
"And send my sister over later, to pick them up?” Halbarad laughed. “You'd both like that, wouldn't you?"
Something about his tone, and the laugh, made Isilmë sneak a glance at him as she turned the hot metal with her tongs; but he was smiling amiably enough.
It was fine: he couldn't possibly know about her and Nethril.
"Well, she is much prettier than you," said Isilmë, grasping for lightheartedness. "And we are very good friends, so she was planning on coming over today anyway, and—"
"Well, yes,” said Halbarad. He seemed a little taken aback. "Of course."
Isilmë returned her attention to the nails, trying to make each one just like the others. It was essential work, but there was a reason Isilmë's grandfather had delegated the task to her: for a man who had spent nearly a century honing his craft, hammering out nails did not exactly present a challenge. Very little did, these days: it was rare that Huor was asked to do anything more complicated than to mend and sharpen weapons, shoe horses, and make the boring little essentials, like nails, that helped keep the Angle running smoothly.
As a child, Isilmë had devoured tales of the Elvish smiths of old, and dreamed of making wonders; but for now, at least, that was not to be. One day Isilmë would be a smith in her own right, and not just the smith's apprentice. When that day came, she would foist the nail-making off on her teenage apprentices, and make what she wanted.
Absorbed in her thoughts—and too flustered to play proper host—she did not look up again until the door opened, sending in a blast of sunlight and blessedly cooler air.
"Oh, Halbarad, are you still here?" said a familiar, well-loved voice. "Perfect, this way I can tell both of you my news at the same time!"
Isilmë had worked long enough, she decided. She had barely set down her tools when Nethril pulled her away from the forge and into a warm embrace.
“Stop,” protested Isilmë, sneaking a nervous look at Halbarad. “Nethril, your dress—”
Nethril released her and looked down at herself. The front of her dress was smeared with soot from Isilmë’s apron.
“I needed to wash it anyway,” said Nethril, cheerfully. “It doesn’t matter. Listen, you two—do you remember how Adanel agreed, in the last council meeting, that she would do a tour of our outlying encampments—you know, Glamren and the other outposts along the Greenway?”
The Lady Adanel was the widow of one deceased Chieftain and the mother of another. After the death of Lord Arathorn, and the mysterious disappearance of his young son, the line of Isildur had ended. Aided, sometimes grudgingly, by the Captains’ Council, Adanel had taken it upon herself to rule the Dúnedain as best she could.
“The idea was that a visit from the acting Chieftain will boost morale,” said Halbarad. “Back in the day, the Heir of Isildur would have travelled freely, winning our people’s trust by fighting alongside them. Adanel is worth a dozen heirs any day, but she is no warrior—so she must win hearts in a different way.”
Isilmë snorted.
“I bet she loved hearing that.”
“She agreed in the end,” said Nethril. “More importantly, she has just asked me to go with her! She said she would rather suffer an orc attack be the only woman on the road—and she thinks it would be useful to me, to learn how these things are done.”
Nethril's words were sober enough, but there was a little thrill in her voice that told Isilmë everything she needed to know.
"You'll be missed, my darling, but that's wonderful."
Isilmë longed to fling her arms around her friend, soot be damned, and show her just how much she would be missed—but propriety held her back. If only Halbarad had been less polite, and left her to her work like an ordinary person would have done! Then she and Nethril might have had this moment alone.
"I wish I could go with you, little sister," said Halbarad, with a tenderness that almost softened Isilmë's annoyance.
"We would never hear the end of it from Mama if we both left home at the same time," Nethril reminded him. "And after three months in the Wild, no one can say you haven't done your duty."
Nethril’s eyes narrowed wickedly.
"Besides, we want brains, not brawn, on this trip—Adanel’s words, not mine, so don't—"
Her hasty disclaimer came too late: Halbarad had already lunged for his sister's long braid.
"Sometimes brawn has its uses," he said smugly, as she shrieked.
“You needn’t—OW—behave like a child,” said Nethril. “This temper of yours is probably the real reason Adanel didn’t ask you to come, too!”
Isilmë hid a smile. Her friend’s diplomatic skills could definitely use some work—but that couldn’t stop her from rallying to Nethril’s defense.
"I think the best part of all this is that while you are gone, Halbarad will have to do all your chores,” she said, sweetly. “Will he help your mother with her weaving, as you do?"
She held up a hand in warning, as Halbarad released his sister and turned towards her.
"If you attack me at my own forge, you will wish you were still wandering about in the Wild, son of Dírlaeg."
"Peace, daughter of Brandir,” said Halbarad. "I am not fool enough to go after you and Nethril at once!"
Nethril was still clutching at her head, but she smiled at them both, as though she had never started a quarrel.
"Look out for each other while I'm gone, all right?"
Isilme glanced at Halbarad, who grinned at her. With sudden lightness, she reflected that putting up with him might be easier—and more entertaining—than she had previously thought.
"Don't worry, little sister," said Halbarad sincerely. "We will.”
~~~
A few days after Nethril’s departure, Isilmë found herself following their old familiar path, weaving her way through the trees until she reached the banks of the Hoarwell. She and Nethril had spent so many hours here. First, as innocent children playing at Arien and Tilion, chasing each other through the woods in bright sunlight, their mothers laughing at them from a safe distance; and later, sitting quite still, pouring out their hearts beside the dark water at twilight.
It was here that Nethril had kissed her for the first time.
Tonight, the Moon was only a sliver. Isilmë gazed at it, still thinking about those childhood games. Nethril had always wanted her to play Tilion.
“Your name means ‘Moonlight,’” she had said, delighted to show off the fruits of their first Quenya lessons. “So you ought to be the Moon.”
Even as a child, Isilmë had not been overly impressed by the Man in the Moon—especially not the Elvish tales about him, which spoke all too kindly of his courtship of a woman who plainly did not want him. The tales old Dírhael liked to tell had disturbed her in a different way: Isilmë certainly did not want to lend her name to an old Breelandish drunkard with a broken lantern, so soused he could not remember the way home.
Yet she had played the game, even so. There had been something about the chase that had pulled at her, long before she knew who she was, or what she wanted.
Wrapped up in the memory, Isilmë almost did not hear the telltale crackle of leaves on the path behind her. This close to home, even at night, she was not afraid; but she still smoothed her skirts and stood up, ready to leave.
But the intruder was Halbarad. He was carrying an empty sack over one shoulder.
“You call yourself a Ranger,” said Isilmë. “And yet, I heard you coming.”
“I didn’t want to startle you, Daughter of Brandir.”
Halbarad’s tone matched hers: quiet, but playful.
“You were right about those chores,” he added, with a small grin. “So many that I am reduced to running some of them at night! But what are you doing out so late?”
“I was just leaving, actually, I—”
“Will you walk with me?”
Isilmë squinted at him in the dark, but he seemed to be in earnest. And if Nethril wanted them to get along, getting to know him better was the least Isilmë could do.
“If you like,” she said, shrugging. “What is the sack for?”
“Ah,” he said, mysteriously. “You’ll see. Come this way.”
He led her away from the river, his tread truly silent now. Isilmë tried her best to disguise her own footsteps, but in the dark, it was beyond her skill. She winced at the sound of every dry leaf and snapped twig; but if Halbarad noticed—he must, surely—he was gracious enough not to mention it.
Instead, he said:
“So, you and Nethril…”
Isilmë stumbled, and Halbarad reached out to steady her without breaking his stride, or making a sound.
“Me and Nethril?”
Halbarad sighed.
“Look, whatever is going on with you two—she hasn’t told me, but I think I know. I’ve seen how she looks at you.”
What could she possibly say to that? What did he expect from her?
“And I saw how you looked at her, the other day. Listen, I just—if the two of you decide that you, um, that you want to be together…”
“We’re not—”
“If that’s what you both want, that makes you family,” said Halbarad, in a rush. “And I swear to you, I will thrash anyone who says otherwise.”
“Oh,” said Isilmë, around the sudden lump in her throat.
They were deeper into the woods than Isilmë had ever been at night. If they were really on an errand from Nethril’s mother, what could the woman have possibly been thinking? Common sense told her she ought to be at least a little afraid, in the dark—but somehow, Isilmë had never felt safer.
“Stop here,” said Halbarad, too suddenly, and Isilmë nearly walked straight into him.
He steadied her, again, and steered her slightly to the left.
“Look at the tree roots up ahead,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”
At first, nothing but darkness, and the shadows of the trees. But then—
“Light!” said Isilmë, wonderingly. “Green light, all over the ground!”
From where they stood, darkness still blanketed the earth. But a mere stones’ throw away, nestled up against the twisted roots of the trees, there were spiky little plants, glimmering blue-green.
“Is there something buried here?” asked Isilmë—and she thought, with sudden dread, of her grandfather’s tales of ancient Elvish blades, glowing blue in warning when the goblin armies crept too close.
“Not exactly,” said Halbarad. “Come on, let’s go closer.”
He was the one who had led them here; but his voice trembled slightly, as if he too were over-awed and a little afraid. Isilmë followed him uneasily, torn between nerves and curiosity.
Habarad crouched down next to a glowing tree root and scooped up one of the lights in his hand. Then he straightened, and offered it to Isilmë.
It was a mushroom.
“How on earth—”
“Nethril told me about these,” said Halbarad. “We collected them by daylight for years, for Mama to use in her cloth dyes—they’re bright yellow, usually. But Nethril told me before she left that she found an essay about them in one of Grandmother Ivorwen’s books.”
“Did this essay explain why they glow?” asked Isilmë.
“Only the fairy tale version,” said Halbarad. “Mama calls them pfifferlings—I guess that’s the Common name—but the Númenoreans called them Fëanor’s Lanterns, because they sprang up after fires, and glowed like the Elvish lamps of old.”
He glanced sidewise at Isilmë.
“Honestly, I half-suspected Nethril was pulling my leg. Even if she told me true, I didn’t expect them to be this spectacular! It seems a shame to pick them.”
Isilmë laughed. Nethril and Halbarad’s prank wars had scandalized the Angle for the duration of their childhood—and although she would never admit it to Halbarad, Isilmë had had a hand in some of Nethril’s best tricks.
“I would have thought she was lying, too. I’ve, uh, heard plenty of stories about the pranks you two pulled on each other over the years. But this—it’s incredible.”
Even Nethril couldn’t have come up with all this on her own.
“And you’re right, we shouldn’t pick them all—let’s take some, for your mother, and leave the rest.”
Halbarad held out his sack, and Isilmë carefully dropped the glowing mushroom inside. They gathered up the other mushrooms with care, making sure to not take too much from any single cluster. Soon, the sweet scent from the broken stalks filled the air, and Isilmë inhaled deeply.
“I would have thought they’d smell foul—they look so eerie. But they don’t, at all.”
Halbarad hesitated.
“The other part of Nethril’s story is the part I still don’t believe,” he said. “She said you could eat them—that they would give you Elvish powers.”
Isilmë laughed.
“Please! You mean, like seeing in the dark, and walking on snow?”
“I know,” he said, quickly. “Ridiculous, right? I’ve eaten pfifferlings before, and they didn’t give me any special powers. But—I’m no longer sure these are really pfifferlings. They’re shaped a little differently, and they smell a little different, too.”
“That hardly makes them safe to eat,” Isilmë pointed out. She had heard plenty of tales about bad mushrooms—ones that made you hallucinate, or vomit, or even killed you.
“True,” said Halbarad. “But even if Nethril wanted to make me look like a fool, she wouldn’t try to kill me. So they might be safe?”
Isilmë wondered vaguely if they covered this sort of thing in Ranger training.
“They do smell awfully good,” she said. She thought of herself as a sensible person, but a sudden longing stole over her. If she could only get away from this smell, she would keep her head, for sure.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” said Halbarad. And then, the words that sealed their fate:
“I will, if you will.”
Isilmë had never been one to turn down a dare—and with the heady perfume of the mushrooms filling her nostrils, she was hardly going to start now.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she plucked one of the glowing mushrooms and split it down the middle with her fingers. She handed half of the mushroom to Halbarad, with a challenging smile.
“What is family for, if not to enable one another?”
“Here’s to that,” said Halbarad. He popped the mushroom in his mouth and chewed.
Isilmë bit into her mushroom, too: carefully, ready to spit it out if she had to.
It was delicious.
~~~
Isilmë groaned, and curled harder against herself, squeezing her eyes shut as tight as she could.
Her back ached, her head throbbed, and her lips were so dry they were starting to crack. She tried to breathe as steadily as she could, willing her body to calm itself, but it was no use. With another groan, she kicked away the sweaty sheet and hung her face over the side of the infirmary bed.
Some kind soul had had the foresight to leave a tin basin out for her. She retched into it, miserably.
That made her feel a little better; but if the last few hours were any indication, Isilmë knew that her respite would be brief. She and Halbarad had both felt perfectly fine all evening, and she had snuck back home with a light heart, feeling secure in their strengthened friendship, and full of hope about her future with Nethril.
The twinges in her stomach had begun just before daybreak; and by the time she and Huor had finished lighting the fires in the forge, she had been shaky on her feet. Shamefaced, she had turned herself in at the Houses of Healing, where she tossed and turned in the infirmary bed, wracked with guilt, nausea, and anxious fear.
It had definitely been a prank gone wrong: a prank in absentia, and with one unintended victim. There was now no doubt in Isilmë’s mind that Nethril had known at least a little more about those mushrooms than she had told her brother; and although she was equally sure Nethril had never meant to hurt her, too, the thought was somehow less than comforting.
Isilmë and Nethril were definitely going to have words when she got back.
“Try and sleep,” the apprentice healer on duty instructed her. Isilmë had never felt further from sleep in her life.
Unable to rest, she rearranged herself as best she could on the bed, straightening out the sheet over her body and shoving the pillow against the headboard of her little bed. With nothing left to do, she looked about her.
Isilmë had not often been inside the Houses of Healing, at least not as a patient; and she had never been given a room to herself. If she had thought to wonder, she would have expected the little room to contain the bare necessities, and no more: but the Houses of Healing had been built in another time, when the blood of Isildur ran strong, and the Heirs still thought of themselves as Kings.
In those bygone days, some forgotten artist had somehow found the leisure—or perhaps, had even been commissioned—to adorn the plaster walls. Painted clouds scudded near the window, and Arien sailed her yellow sun-ship steadfastly across the ceiling, her brow furrowed in noble determination. The sky was the color of robins’ eggs; and the sun itself had been done in what looked like real gold. The image was starting to flake around the edges, especially near the window; even if it were not tucked away in a little-used room, there was surely no one left among the Dúnedain with the skill to mend it.
The thought tugged at Isilmë’s heart, that something so beautiful should have fallen into ruin. She gazed and gazed, trying to memorize the image, so that when she was old she would still be able to recall the expression on Arien’s beautiful, golden face.
But—just there, tucked away in the wake of the sun-ship, could that be the artist’s signature? Isilme craned her neck to look more closely, but the lines were still too far away to make out. She kicked the coverlet away, again, and stood up on the bed, trying to see.
The door opened. Surprise jolted through her weak limbs, and Isilmë almost fell. Instead, she clutched the wall and sat back down, shaky and embarrassed.
The Chief Healer, Lady Ivorwen, stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised and arms folded. An amused smile played about her lips.
Nethril’s grandmother was never going to take Isilmë seriously ever again.
“I am glad to see you feeling more yourself, child.”
Isilmë flushed. The painting on the ceiling had indeed driven her illness from her mind, but that brief respite was over. Her stomach churned with embarrassment—and returning nausea.
“I thought you might like this room,” said Ivorwen, settling herself on the stool beside Isilmë’s bed. “Nethril is always telling me how much you wish to be an artist, not just a craftswoman.”
“There is no shame in making what we need,” said Isilmë, a little surprised that Nethril had thought to repeat her words to her grandmother. “But the smiths of old were renowned for their jewels and rings, not their—not their nails, and horseshoes.”
“Jewels and rings?” said Ivorwen, with a little laugh. “Some say the world would be fairer, if some of those things had never been wrought. But I do not know if that is true. What possessed you to stand on the bed?”
Isilmë pointed. “I thought I might be able to make out the signature—the name of the artist.”
Ivorwen smiled at her gently. “Most of our treasures are lost to us, but Lady Adanel still preserves many of our records in the Chieftain’s house. The same woman who painted the ceiling in this room decorated many of the walls in the Chieftain’s house as well. Her name was Urwen. She was the only child of the Chief Healer; but when she had exhausted her talents here, the sons of Elrond spirited her away to Rivendell, to learn more of the craft.”
“Did she ever come back?” asked Isilmë.
“No,” said Ivorwen. “She lived out her days among the Elves, and never came home again. This was all hundreds of years ago, long before my time. Very few now remember her name—except perhaps in Rivendell, where Urwen led the life she could never have had, with us.”
Sadness stole over Ivorwen’s face—more sadness than the tale of a woman long dead seemed to warrant. Perhaps there was more to the story. But just as Isilmë was gathering her courage to ask, her stomach rebelled.
Thank the Valar for that ugly tin basin!
“Fëanor’s Lanterns share their name with the Elvish smith for three main reasons,” began Ivorwen, as Isilmë leaned over the bed to retch, again.
Her voice finally rang with the disapproval Isilmë had expected from the start of their strange conversation.
“One, they thrive after fires; two, they glow like Elvish lamps; and three, the sight of them apparently induces extremely poor decision making.”
Isilmë groaned.
“Am I going to die?”
“Not today,” said Ivorwen, tartly. “Unlike their namesake, the mushrooms do not cause mass death. What were you thinking, child?”
“I don’t know what came over me,” said Isilmë. “The smell—”
The mere thought of the smell nearly made her lean towards the tin basin again.
“Is Halbarad all right?” she asked, instead.
Ivorwen rubbed a comforting hand her shoulder.
“My grandson, the Ranger! He is well enough to ask the same about you. With that boy’s history, my first thought was that it must be one of his pranks gone wrong—but from the way he is groaning in the other room…”
A hint of steel crept back into her voice, and she narrowed her eyebrows sternly.
“I don’t suppose you would know anything about that thought of mine?”
Isilmë was still extremely displeased with Nethril; but there was no way she was going to rat her out to her grandmother—even if Ivorwen was somewhat less terrifying than she had previously believed.
“I think it might help if I lay down again,” she said, clutching her head.
Ivorwen snorted.
“Have it your way. I confess part of me is glad to see you and Halbarad so tight-lipped about whatever it was—if you are going to be part of this family, I’m afraid the occasional prank is inevitable. I blame my husband—he has always been entirely too lenient about this kind of thing.”
“Part of the family?” said Isilmë, in confusion. “Did Halbarad—”
“Halbarad has said nothing to me,” said Ivorwen, gently. “You forget that I have foresight. It doesn’t typically allow me to spy on my grandchildren, but Nethril has a part to play in the greatest affair of our Age; and I have seen you beside her.”
“Oh,” said Isilmë.
“Since even my true dreams can be averted, I am very glad you and my grandson did not succeed in poisoning each other,” added Ivorwen. “You ought to sleep, if you can.”
Isilmë knew she ought to say something more; but she was very tired, suddenly. Her eyes were closed before Nethril’s grandmother had left the room.
She slept.
~~~
In a small copse just south of the Angle, a tall young man paused in his journey to study the signs left by a previous traveller. The marks were subtle, and had been left quite some time ago, so that only faint indications remained: the scar left from a broken branch, the redirected growth of the ferns, and the precise arrangement of half-buried pebbles.
There were few indeed who could interpret the message correctly: only the Elves of Rivendell...and, so the young man had been told, the remnants of the Dúnedain, whose hidden fortress he was seeking.
But could his eyes have deceived him? The young man blinked in surprise, and looked again. Perhaps the ground had been disturbed after all, and the message garbled. The words he thought he read seemed unworthy of the mighty heirs of Isildur, even diminished as they might have become in the Wild:
HALBARAD SON OF DIRLAEG, A GULLIBLE IDIOT, POISONED MY GIRLFRIEND. HE'LL GET WHAT'S COMING TO HIM.
"Strange tidings!" thought Estel, and trudged onwards.
~~~
NOTES.
0. Thank you to
elleth for the beta!1. The Fëanor’s Lantern mushroom is the magical Middle-earth equivalent of the poisonous-but-not-deadly Jack O’Lantern, which really does glow green at night, and can be used to make yellow dye. The look-alike pfifferlings Halbarad has previously eaten are more commonly known as chanterelles. (Please do not use this fic as a guide to picking or eating mushrooms!)
2. Isilmë and Nethril were first created by
suzll; and I have closely followed her lead in my characterizations of Ivorwen, Halbarad, and even Dírhael.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2015-03-27 06:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-27 06:37 pm (UTC)And you have done so beautifully.
I love the last little bit, too.
no subject
Date: 2015-03-28 02:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-29 01:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-29 12:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-29 08:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-29 08:39 pm (UTC)Is Nethril's Ranger message a linnod, do you think? I love that final scene!
no subject
Date: 2015-03-31 01:33 am (UTC)1. The sibling banter between Halbarad and Nethril is so wonderful, right down to the brains v. brawn quarrel, which fit so well.
2. “If that’s what you both want, that makes you family,” said Halbarad, in a rush. “And I swear to you, I will thrash anyone who says otherwise.”
CRYING FOREVER, THIS WAS PERFECT.
3. They are both so irresponsible oh my god I love it.
4. I love Isilmë and Ivorwen's interaction, as you might have guessed--and I love that you made Isilmë a part of Ivorwen's vision, intertwining her fate with Nethril's in that way, too.
5. I'm pretty sure you heard my cackling laughter w/r/t the last section, so you know how much I adored that.
And as you also know, this was an extremely fitting weekend for me to be reading this fic, which made it all the better (once my stomach finally settled). I could not have asked for a more perfect gift fic. Thank you, thank you!! <3 <3 <3
no subject
Date: 2015-03-31 04:16 am (UTC)Thanks so very much!
no subject
Date: 2015-05-16 08:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-05-31 03:24 pm (UTC)