Lost Tales of Gondolin by darthfingon

He had dressed in his finest: a tunic and matching long robe of crimson silk trimmed with silver, and tight leggings that skirted on indecent but did show off his shapely thighs to good effect.  His hair flowed loose over his shoulders and had been perfumed with sensuous lemon and mint.  So, thus prepared, Maeglin leaned against the doorframe in a casual yet striking pose and knocked three times.

Idril flung the door open almost at once, an expression of eager anticipation on her face.  That expression fell immediately.

"Oh.  It's you again.  What do you want this time?"

"Just an invitation," said Maeglin.  He shook his head so that his hair rippled around his face.  "Would you like to go for a walk with me?"

"No."  Scowling, Idril tried to slam the door shut, and would have succeeded had Maeglin not stuck his knee in the way.

"It's a beautiful evening for a walk.  I thought we could stroll down to the fountains."

"No."

"Along the city walls, then?"

"No.  Maeglin, go away.

He leaned forward, pressing against the door until his face was inches from hers.  She pulled back with a look of annoyance.  "Is this because I'm your cousin?" he whispered.

"Er, yes," she said.  "That's what Atya says, anyhow.  Our love is forbidden because we are cousins.  We cannot fight that, but must move on.  Now go away."

"I know what your father says.  I know what everyone says.  But, Idril!  It is no strange thing among the dark folk of the woods.  Did you know my father's parents were first cousins once removed?"

"How very interesting.  Go away."

"We cannot let society deny our love, my darling."

"It's not society that bothers me.  Go away!"

"What bothers you then, sweet lady?" he asked.  He would have taken her hand to stroke in a reassuring manner, but all of her except her face was well hidden behind the door.  "Is it my intense demeanour?  I've been told I can be overwhelming at times.  I have a very masculine personality."

For a very long moment, Idril stared at him.  Her eyes were so blue.  He did his best to stare back at her with the gentlest and most tender face he could make.

"Yes," she finally said.  "That's exactly it, Maeglin.  You see, you are very strong and rough, as you demonstrated when you accosted me in the garden last week and did that thing that made me slap you, whereas I am but a delicate lady.  I am terribly frightened of your strength and manliness.  Now for the love of Ulmo, go away!"

She gave the door a mighty shove, pinning his knee against the frame, but he cast all thoughts of pain aside.  "Idril, I can change!"

"No you can't.  It's hopeless.  I'm too afraid of you.  You should give up now and never speak to me again."

"But Idril-"

A sudden bolt of agony coursed through his leg as her foot connected with his shin.  He lost both his balance and his tenuous mastery of the door, stumbling backward just as Idril slammed it shut and turned the lock with an audible click.

"I can change!" he shouted at the door.

"Go away!" came Idril's muffled reply.

Shrugging, he stalked off back down the corridor toward his own quarters.  If he were honest with himself, which he always was, that conversation had gone better than expected.  She had spoken more than a handful of words to him.  True, she had argued and told him to go away, but at least she had done so in complete sentences.  That was progress.

He would try again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day following that, and every day thereafter.  Eventually, she would have no choice but to give in and grow to love him.  And then Idril would be his.

"Are you coming or not?"

Tuor opened his mouth to speak, but found only that he could not manage any adequate words.  "I..." he began, and then faltered.

Idril crossed her arms and glared.  A moment ago, she had looked sweet as a lamb, strolling across the courtyard and twirling her fingers through her shining hair of gold.  Now, speaking to him, she looked more like a small tiger.  "Am I not your Princess?" she asked.

"Yes, my Lady, but-"

"And did I not tell you the other day that you are my new exclusive favourite?"

"Yes, my Lady, but-"

"And did I not then show you that secluded little place down by the gates where I let you-"

"My Lady!" Tuor cried.  He could feel the heat rising to his face, and knew he was swiftly turning as pink as a rose.  "You mustn't speak of that!  When your father found out, it was luck alone that saved me from being thrown out of the city.  And he is my sworn Lord.  I cannot - cannot - give him further cause to turn against me."

Looking no less like a tiger, Idril pouted.  It was uncanny how she managed both facial expressions at the same time.  "You didn't enjoy it?" she asked.

He tried to quench with common sense the spark of desire that ignited in his chest at the memory of that afternoon by the gates.  "But... your father..."

"Hmm," said Idril, holding out her hand.  "I suppose we'll just have to not tell him this time."

"Because we have to," said Idril.  The note of finality in her voice told Tuor that there was no sense arguing.  "This is how it's been done for as long as I can remember.  It's a tradition.  The Eldar always celebrate Tarnin Austa this way, which means that this is the right way to do it."

"I'm not arguing the rightness of the tradition," Tuor replied, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.  "All I'm suggesting is that maybe a ceremony that lasts from midnight until dawn, and during which everyone must be silent, isn't the best place for a baby.  I think it would be better for everyone if I stayed home with Eärendil."

"I went when I was a baby."

"How do you know?  You were a baby and wouldn't remember.  Perhaps your parents left you at home and only told you that you went."

Idril gave him a look ferocious enough to quell even Morgoth.  "What?"

"Or," he said quickly, "maybe we should leave right now so we find a good place to stand near the front before everyone else arrives.  Dearest."

~

True to Tuor's word, they arrived at the great city square with plenty of time to choose a prime spot for the ceremony that would welcome summer.  At midnight, all speech ceased and the folk of Gondolin stood in silence as they awaited the dawn.

Eärendil wailed throughout.

It was like no terror he had ever known, standing in that vast hall with the eyes of all the citizenry of Gondolin upon him. His throat felt as dry as sand, and his hands trembled within the heavy sleeves of his robe. Primal instinct told him to flee. These were not his people: strange-looking and foreign, they stared him down with a collective unblinking gaze. It made his heart pound almost loud enough to echo through the great vaulted roof of stone.

At his side, somebody hissed. Ecthelion. "What are you waiting for? Go, man!"

Ecthelion's elbow dug into his ribs, and he felt himself pushed forward. One foot found its unsteady way in front of the other.

"Go!"

He took another step, and another. His knees were soft and weak, likely to collapse at any moment. On all sides, eyes bored into his skin. He forced his way forward. Why did this have to be such a public spectacle? Ahead on the dais, the King sat waiting on his throne, his face impassively blank. At the King's side, Princess Idril looked impatient.

He kept his eyes on Idril. Step by step, he made his torturous way to the end of the hall until he stood before the both of them. All the eyes of the crowd weighed down upon his shoulders like a leaden yoke.

King Turgon's brow creased. "Well, Tuor son of Huor?" he asked. "What have you to say to me?"

"My Lord King," Tuor answered, and his voice shook. "I come before you today to request your gracious favour in... in that... you might... honour me..." His throat seized around the words.

"Honour you how?" Turgon asked. "Speak up."

And Tuor would have fainted then, but for Idril's reassuring smile. The sight of her calmed his nerves. He stood up straighter.

"My Lord," he said, "I beg you grant me the hand of your fair daughter in marriage."

Maeglin preferred to work alone.  The others chattered and laughed, filling the mine with their incessant noise like a pack of excited dogs.  It grated in his ears and set his teeth on edge, fraying every last thread of his patience and disrupting his concentration.  Useless oafs, all of them.  Not a one was good for anything.

But here, in the farthest reaches of Anghabar, down secret winding tunnels unknown to all but him, Maeglin found peace.  The distant drip drip of water leaking through hidden cracks in the stone served as all the company he needed.  A single blue lamp was as good as any friend.  In soothing solitude, he searched for the thrill of precious ores.  His hammer and chisel tapped out his own reckoning of seconds, minutes, and hours.  What time passed in truth, he did not know, and nor did he care.  He worked until he was finished.  Without the others and their pointless interruptions, he made good progress.

Thus satisfied with the day's work, he wiped down his tools and packed them away, ready to begin anew in the morning.  He picked up his lamp and made his way back through the cramped tunnel to the main work site.  Less than halfway there, his foot slipped in a wide crack in the stone.  He lost his balance, falling forward and losing hold of his lamp, which smashed and died.  The dark closed in as thoroughly as if he had been stricken blind.

Swearing to himself, he tried to stand.  And failed.  His boot had become wedged into the crack, and when he tried to shake it free, a sickening pain radiated from his ankle.  He fumbled in the dark and managed to position himself so that he could tug at his boot with his hands, but to no avail.  He was stuck fast, and could not free himself.

"Friends?" he called into the blackness of the tunnel.  "Anyone?"

No answer came.  There was no sound at all, save for the drip drip drip of trickling water.

"Little help here?"

Ecthelion and Duilin burst through the doors to the banquet hall just in time to see that everyone was nearly finished with the main course.

"Sorry," Ecthelion whispered as slunk behind the row of chairs to find his seat.

"Sorry," Duilin echoed, following him.  "Sorry.  Sorry."

At the head of the table, Turgon spared them one look of annoyance before returning to his conversation with Egalmoth.

"Sorry," Ecthelion said again, bumping Rôg's elbow as he squeezed into his chair.  "Lost track of time.  Can you pass the egg tarts, please?"

"No," said Rôg.

"...No?"

"None left."

Ecthelion and Duilin exchanged a stunned look, and Duilin leaned forward to speak to Rôg.  "But those are meant to be the centrepiece dish tonight, special for Idril's birthday!"

"And they were, twenty minutes ago.  But Salgant's already finished off the lot of them.  It's nothing less than you deserve for being late.  Here; have some peas."

Dejected, Ecthelion and Duilin filled their plates with peas and mutton and some beet dish that neither of them particularly liked, all the while glaring at Salgant across the table.  He grinned back at them and rubbed his broad belly.

"The gluttonous ass probably did it on purpose," hissed Duilin.

"I wouldn't put it past him," said Ecthelion.  "And I was really looking forward to those egg tarts, too."

~

Later that night, after dessert and cordial had been served and once the musicians and tumblers had come out to entertain the assembly, Duilin noticed that Idril looked pale.  And she was not the only one.  Several ladies of the court and not a few gentlemen seemed uncomfortable in their seats.  Some squirmed, some wiped their hands over their pasty faces, and some even held their hands over their middles.  As the entertainment progressed, more and more people began to fall ill, until the entire hall was filled with moaning, writhing Elves who had collapsed to the floor or draped themselves over their chairs.

"What in the world..." said Ecthelion.

Duilin frowned.  "I'd better fetch a healer."

He ran from the hall and returned several minutes later with a stern-looking woman in tow.  The healer asked a few questions of those who could stop moaning long enough to speak, and interrogated the cooks for information on what foods had been served.  When she returned to Duilin and Ecthelion, she was shaking her head.

"Improperly prepared egg tarts," she said.  "You two are very lucky you didn't eat any.  All of the other dishes seem to be fine, but everyone who ate the egg tarts is in for a rough night.  It'll only get worse before it gets better."

Duilin and Ecthelion looked at each other, then turned together to look at Salgant.  He lay on the floor nearby, clutching his middle and whimpering like a dog.  His face had taken on a distinctly greenish tinge.

"Do you suppose we should thank him for inadvertently saving us?" asked Ecthelion.

"No," said Duilin.  "Let's just go before the vomiting starts."

"They hate me, uncle," said Maeglin.

Turgon did not even bother to look up from his paperwork. "They don't hate you. They merely don't know you yet. I'm sure that if you try to get along, all of you will be very good friends in no time."

"No, they hate me. Everywhere I go they stare and whisper things behind their hands. It's because I'm from Nan Elmoth, isn't it? It's because of who my father was?"

"Now that's absurd. Half the city is of mixed heritage. You are no different."

"I'm different in that I was born elsewhere," Maeglin insisted. "They were born here or at Vinyamar."

Frowning, Turgon looked up and met Maeglin's gaze. "Maeglin. You are my nephew and a valued member of my family. It makes no difference to me where you were born or who your father was. You are kin, and that is all that matters. And what matters to me matters to the city."

With a huffing sigh, Maeglin flopped down into one of Turgon's cushioned chairs. He mumbled something too quiet to discern, though it sounded a little like 'Everyone still hates me'.

"Glorfindel doesn't hate you," Turgon tried.

"Yes he does. Yesterday he put an earwig in my shoe."

"Well then, Ecthelion doesn't hate you."

"He deliberately bumped into me on the stairs this morning and made me drop my biscuit."

"What about Duilin or Penlod or Egalmoth or-"

"Egalmoth thinks he's too important to talk to me," Maeglin countered, "Penlod threw me into a muddy ditch, and you know that horrible song everyone's been singing recently?"

"No," Turgon lied.

"Duilin wrote it. They all hate me because I'm different!"

"Even Galdor?"

Maeglin nodded. "Even Galdor."

"But what about Salgant?" asked Turgon. "I know full well that Salgant has been nothing but kind and polite to you, Maeglin. It seems he at least is trying to make a real effort at being your friend, despite whatever differences you have with the others. Why don't you ignore Duilin and Galdor and focus on your friendship with Salgant for now?"

Leaning back in his chair, Maeglin made a face as if horribly offended. "Salgant?" he spat. "Why would I want to be friends with Salgant? He's fat!"

"What are you doing, Maeglin?"

"Preparing for the festival tomorrow."

"Preparing... how?"

Maeglin turned around to face Glorfindel with unmasked disdain.  "Everyone is celebrating the foundation of the city and how much they love it and love being part of it and being all perfect and Noldorin.  But I'm not from Gondolin, am I?  As everyone takes pains to remind me every day.  So, I am preparing my own celebration.  A celebration of Nan Elmoth."

"I see," said Glorfindel, though he didn't at all.  "So what you're doing is...?"

"I am making a miniature Nan Elmoth right here, so I can sit in it and celebrate by myself."

Glorfindel nodded.  "Oh.  Right.  And, er, that's Nan Elmoth, is it?"

"Yes."

"It looks like a peach tree with a tarp over it."

"Yes, exactly," said Maeglin.  "See, Nan Elmoth is a very shady forest.  And since Gondolin has few trees and no shade, I am making my own."

"With a tarp."

"Right.  With a tarp.  It'll look better once I get some potted plants and perhaps a carpet of dead leaves.  Now, if you don't mind, I really need to get to work."

Glorfindel took a few steps back, but did not leave.  He stood where he was and watched Maeglin work on the peach tree.  With the way the tarp was knotted, it was beginning to look rather festive.

"Are you still there?" Maeglin asked, throwing a scowl back over his shoulder.

"Sorry," said Glorfindel.  "I was only thinking."

"About?"

"Well, I was just thinking that I don't really belong in Gondolin either.  I'm no more Noldorin than you, and, like you, I was raised in a foreign place that very few others have seen.  So I was thinking of Valmar."

For once, Maeglin had the good grace to look abashed.  "Oh," he said, stumbling awkwardly over the single syllable.  "I... I guess I never thought of that.  D'you want to... I mean, maybe you could... set up a Little Valmar next to Little Nan Elmoth?  My set-up probably won't work for you, otherwise I'd offer..."

Glorfindel cocked his head to the side.  "No, a peach tree with a tarp over it is pretty accurate for Valmar.  We just need to stuff seventeen or so people under it and then get them to sing along with some drums and shrill flutes."

Maeglin paused only long enough to nod once.  "Do they drink while singing?  Because drinking is a vital part of life in Nan Elmoth."

"Oh, all the time.  You can't have a peach-tree tarp sing-along in Valmar without drinking."

"In that case, I formally invite you to join my celebration tomorrow.  I will bring the brandy."

"Wonderful!" said Glorfindel.  "I'll see if Ecthelion has any shrill flautists he can lend me.  Only I have one suggestion."

"Which is?" asked Maeglin.

"Why bother waiting for tomorrow?  You see, in Valmar we also have this very important tradition of never doing anything at the right time..."

~

Neither Glorfindel nor Maeglin was awake for the Gondolin celebration the next day.  However, having spent a night under a tarp-draped peach tree with numerous brandy bottles and a dozen of Ecthelion's worst flautists, neither was much in the mood to notice, let alone care.

Galdor read the words on the parchment and knew what it was to feel both guilt and shame.  His quill hovered at the ready, though he hesitated to touch its ink to the page.  If he signed his name on this document, it would shatter the promise he had made to Egalmoth.

An oath of loyalty made to a friend was a thing not easily cast aside, yet here he stood, contemplating that exact action.  Through the years, Egalmoth had been nothing but kind to him, even when Galdor least deserved it.  Egalmoth was a true and loyal friend.  He was as good as family and the closest thing to a brother Galdor had ever known.  And this was how Galdor repaid him: with treachery, deceit, and hollow promises.

But it could not be avoided.  Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Galdor scrawled his name across the bottom of the page.

There.  It is done.  And it is a cruel deed, but one I must do for my own sake.

He opened his eyes and read, once again, the words on the parchment.  They said:

GONDOLIN NETBALL ASSOCIATION ANNUAL TOURNAMENT

Sign up below to be on Penlod's team!  Go Snowcats!

Forgive me, Egalmoth, he thought to himself as he turned his back and walked away.  But you are a lousy netball captain, and this year I want to be on a team that stands a chance of winning.