When the companions were not forced to rest in hostile territory, they spent evenings around their campfire. Sometimes they were so exhausted from fighting or traveling that they fell asleep on the ground where they’d dropped, too tired to even put up their tents. Sometimes, if they were doing tasks for a village or town, they stayed at the inn, occasionally (and depending on what they were doing) they might be expected to join a feast supposedly in their honour, often more of an excuse to raise the people’s morale. They usually slipped away as soon as they politely could, not enjoying such attention and noise.
Ilthirian’s favourite times were the nights when it was just them, eating and resting around a fire. The Hobbit Rolegard cooking, chattering all the time, about this herb or that ingredient. Lusseriel forever writing in her book, scowling fiercely if anyone got close enough to see what she wrote. The others sat around sharpening weapons, fletching arrows or repairing armour, sometimes going over the events of the day as they did so, finding comfort in the presence of their friends.
After dinner, while the night deepened around them and the fire died down, they would settle round the fire in their usual places. Ilthirian and Andrahir sat next to each other, as close as they could get without actually touching, a blanket arranged over their shoulders, the others so used to this now that there was only the occasional eyeroll or teasing comment. Some companions smoked their pipes, if they’d been able to get pipe weed, or grumbled about it if not. Ilthirian usually collected a few pieces of wood as they traveled and when they settled down for the evening, she would sort through them and select a couple to keep, feeding the others to the fire. Those she selected she carved into the shapes of animals or birds and gave to the children in villages they visited. Occasionally a companion found a delicate carving left on their pack – a daffodil for Rolegard, a tiny, yawning bear cub for Ardirien.
Sometimes there would be music. Lusseriel would play her lute and those who wished would sing or hum along. Raucous marching songs turning to melancholy ballads as the night wore on. Other evenings there would be stories and tales told, with members of the party taking it in turns to entertain the others. They heard all about the Hobbits living in The Shire and legends of the Dunedain, as well as Rohirrim ghost stories, tales of foolish adventures, treasure and tragedy.
One night, after cooking a delicious stew out of very unpromising ingredients and modestly accepting compliments from everyone, Rolegard sat back against his saddlebag, lit his pipe and announced that a story really would be just the thing. Looking around the group, he caught Lusseriel’s eye. She shook her head – she wasn’t really in the mood – then she smiled mischievously and nodded across to where Ilthirian was showing Andrahir a squirrel she was carving, clearly not paying any attention to the others. The sudden silence made her look up to find them all staring at her.
‘Yes!’ said Rolegard. ‘An excellent idea, we haven’t heard a story from Ilthirian for… well, ever, I don’t think, have we?’
Ilthirian said matter-of-factly ‘Well, no, I don’t usually tell tales. They always told me I should stick to singing, as I wasn’t very good at telling them.’
The others raised their eyebrows, wondering who ‘they’ were, but didn’t interrupt as Ilthirian went on, looking at Ardirien with a sad smile ‘If you don’t mind, Ardi - a story keeps coming into my head. I have no idea why, but ever since Arcanger told me something of his history…’
Ilthirian was looking at Brunnadan as she said the old scholar’s name, but he ignored her, staring through the flames to where Ardirien sat, fixing a loose strap on her armour, determinedly avoiding eye contact with any of them.
‘…pieces of tales I learned as a child keep coming back to me and I have put them back together. I will tell it to you.’ She passed her unfinished carving to Andrahir, cleared her throat, sat up straighter and started the story:
“When the world was much, much younger than it is now and all but a few places were wild, not tamed as they are now, there lived a maiden named Glawarel.
Glawarel was an accomplished warrior and known for her wisdom and her beauty. Many sought her hand in marriage, from both the kingdoms of Men and of Elves.
Glawarel was not at all interested in marriage, she loved being free to roam where she pleased, to hunt when she wished and to speak her mind. She knew that the things that those who sought to win her prized in her the most, would be the things that they would most jealously guard should she become their bride.
On hearing her refusals, most of her suitors were content to leave her be and indeed, with her wisdom, she helped many of her sisters to find suitable matches in her stead.
On day, an Elf named Trystaen, a lord to his people, was travelling near Glawarel’s lands when his party was attacked by a rival. Glawarel was hunting nearby and came to their end, saving the Prince’s life and caring for him until he was recovered enough to travel.
But Trystaen was struck down with desire for Glawarel. He returned to his lands, but he found he could not find rest for thoughts of her and it became like a sickness. Used to having his way, the more Glawarel refused him, the more determined he became to possess her.
Wherever she travelled, he found her and dogged her steps, feeling sure he could eventually change her mind. He sent her gifts that she returned, wrote her poetry that she scorned and sought favour with her companions.
Eventually, in desperation, Glawarel sought the help of the Vala Lord, Orome, also known as Araw to the Elves, who was Lord of the Hunt and a friend to elves since the beginning.”
Ilthirian looked again at Brunnadan as she said the Vala’s name, but he continued to ignore her, although Ardirien was now listening intently.
“Orome agreed to hear her plea and summoned Trystaen.
Trystaen, mighty in arms, spoke to Orome of his love and determination to wed Glawarel. He agreed to heed Orome’s judgement in the matter, where he would not listen to Glawarel herself, because, he said ‘what does the doe know of the battles of stags?’
Ilthirian grimaced as she said this and Lusseriel snorted in disgust.
“Orome was as impressed by the young man’s confidence as he had been with Glawarel’s wisdom and beauty. He agreed that there should be a contest and, wishing to test his prowess against the Elf, declared he should be Glawarel’s champion and fight for her.
They fought for many days, but eventually Orome prevailed. As a reward for his bravery and skill, Orome took Trystaen into his service as one of his immortal huntsmen. To Glawarel, he declared that in return for being her champion, she too would join his court until she had repaid this debt, which would take many mortal lifetimes.
Glawarel cried that he was no better than the prince. Orome was offended, as becoming one of his court was the greatest honour and he was offering the gift of immortality, but he saw her very great sorrow and agreed that she should stay in his court for only half of every year. Glawarel saw that she had no choice, but during the time she stayed in Orome’s court, the very lands mourned for her and became cold and barren. And she grew old and died many times in his service, but even then she knew no rest, for she was brought back to life each time.”
There was silence for a moment, then Lusseriel said loudly ‘I’ve never understood that tale. Why didn’t Glawarel just kill Trystaen? And why did she need Orome to be her champion?’
There was laughter at this from some of the others, as well as a cry of ‘Luss would’ve killed him!’ Ilthirian laughed too before shrugging. ‘I don’t know. She wasn’t given any choice. When I used to run away from home, that was one of the stories I’d be made to copy when they brought me back. I assumed they wanted me to learn about the inevitability of fate or something. Or maybe about the foolishness of seeking the aid of higher beings to escape destiny.’ She said the last word with a mocking sneer, before busying herself banking the fire for the night, missing the glances some of the others exchanged before starting to pack up their gear, in ready for an early start the next morning.
