Confessions of a Sharp Glance by Mercurie

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Chapter 3: Turgon's Thane

 

Turgon’s Thane

          Do you know what it’s like to hold someone’s life in your hands? Existence is such a fragile thing... it hangs there on our fingertips, a trembling, opalescent teardrop which requires only a breath of wind to send it sailing down to splinter into nothing on the unyielding fabric of the world. Or perhaps not wind; perhaps a shudder of the hand – accidental, purposeful? If I let my hand quiver, would he fall like that, an irrevocable flash frozen in my memory, though he burst into fragments but a second later – like a tear?

          More than one life hung in balance that night. We had arrived in Gondolin, and the gates clanging shut behind me were like clattering chains fallen from my body to rest at my feet. Somehow that hidden city seemed greater to me than the whole world; it was the world that was locked out, not me who was locked in. Freedom! The world was the cage, and we had escaped into this tiny universe, where all doors stood open. The spires of Gondolin towered like graceful mountains above us, the sun shining on their surface – the trees were bright, flowered! – spangled fountains rang everywhere. Silence claimed no place here; hearing the music of the water, I knew I need never face that fatal vacuum of sound again.

           And Mother was gayer than I had ever seen her. She spoke, her voice rising and fluttering like the wings of a dove, greeting those she knew – nearly everyone, it seemed to me. I had nothing to say, so I only watched, and listened. I felt myself lifted on the wind of her happiness, as the shadow of Nan Elmoth’s groaning boughs receded from me. I felt the clear air on my skin, cleansing away the dust and cobwebs that had been cast before my eyes for so long, my whole life. I felt like a being of light. It was something... something so breathtakingly new to me, to be so free and joyous. Everywhere I looked smiling faces turned toward me, welcoming me, and I could not but smile back. All that light and air and freshness – locked in a few crystal hours. The first time, the only time, that I was content in my life.

           But even into that haven of sunlight the shadow-dogged footsteps of my father tiptoed. He flew as a poisoned spear into our midst, ripping through the golden fabric, shattering the crystal. I can see his face quite clearly in my mind even now: his jagged wound of a mouth, snarling below eyes like black lightning flickering over grey winter clouds. Tensed like a tiger, his muscles bunched, and with that one cursed heave he hurled his death-tipped spear at me. Oh, and if it had found its target, how much better things would have been! – how very right, how suitable an end... how merciful an end, if Fate could ever be merciful. But as I stood dream-like, Mother caught the dart with her body. So with one stroke, Father killed us all three.

          I did not know until later that night, of course, exactly what significance the spear carried. By the time we discovered the poison it was too late; too late to save her, too late to wrench the helm of this dizzy ship back onto a safe course.

           When they told me that she would die before the dawn, I went outside, to the balcony adjoining her room. It was carven all of white, for the White Lady of Gondolin, in motifs of the sea: waves, shells, clouds, ships. The moon and stars shone with ghostly silver-white fire, giving life to the stone ocean beneath my feet. My hands gripped the cool banister; they looked bone-white as well.

           “So, Father,” I whispered to the rustling night, “You have finally killed her, and now it is between you and me.”

            “Not only you,” a voice said beside me, “The fangs of that viper have brought us all great sorrow.”

           I glanced to my left; Turgon stood there, my mother’s brother, king of Gondolin. My king now, for I had sworn to serve him as his thane.

           As a child I had spent many long hours in the woods, sitting in my mothorn tree and trying to imagine the Hidden City and its king. I had always pictured Turgon as tall and noble, a mighty warrior-king arrayed in gold and silver and surrounded by shining heroes in armour. When I first saw him, I was tempted to smile, for my wistful fantasies strayed far from the truth. No one could deny that Turgon was noble, but he could not rightly be called tall and there were no traces of finery about him. The first word that came to mind when I laid eyes upon him was “precise.” He was of average height and slim, wiry, straight as a blade. His every movement was exact and calculated, without a flicker of superfluity. His eyes were like chips of an iced-over sea, grey on the surface, murky blue somewhere deep below. Sometimes a strange quirk would come to his lips, as if he were thinking of something wry or amusing, or merely ironic. His raiment was plain, but it only emphasized his provoking nobility and ever-present Noldorin pride. I loved him the moment I saw him.

           I bowed to him now, my shadow abasing itself at his feet.

           “Yes, I know,” I said, shame heating my cheeks, “I cannot apologize properly for the actions of my father. It was – it was – ” I broke off, afraid that he would hear the strangling hatred in my voice.

           “It was in no way your fault,” he said offhandedly, “We are all responsible for our own actions.”

           “I know, Lord,” I said again, finally controlling my wayward emotions. I felt vaguely confused, all my thoughts scattering haphazardly around my dulled mind. The starlight reminded me of Mother. I had always thought of her as a star that had fallen and become tangled unwillingly in the webs of Father’s forest – sometimes cold and distant, yes, but a thing I loved and worshipped, a thing of purity. Half the joy of reaching Gondolin had been seeing her return to where she belonged, to the high towers so close to her sister stars. The thought made me ache inside. She lay inside that room, wan as a spirit, with two bright spots of fever burning on her cheeks. The poison was draining the light and life out of her... I could almost feel it draining me as well. That was why I had come out here: so I would not have to watch it, and feel myself drawn into the black, sticky wells of death along with her.

           “And do you know what I am thinking now?” Turgon asked, leaning cat-like against the balcony’s railing.

           “No,” I shook my head. 

           “I am wondering what to do. Aredhel... I love my sister dearly. I grieved when she left us, and her homecoming brought me joy such as I have not felt for a long time. I do not know why she took a Dark Elf to husband,” he paused, as if expecting me to speak; but I did not know the answer to that question either, so I kept silent. “I do not know,” he continued, sounding troubled, “She begged me earlier not to punish him for his deed... but she was not dying then.” I could feel tension hissing from his every nerve, a snake-whip ready to bite. “She does not speak now, and she will not again... I would kill him for this! I would! And yet nearly the last thing she said to me was to beg pardon for her husband. Should I pardon him for her own murder? That is not justice! And yet... shall I then disrespect her last wish?” He looked at me, tormented blue-grey fire flashing momentarily from his eyes.

            With that flash, his soul lit up as if in flames, and I saw deep into his mind. It startled me; I was so used to being to able guess at my parents’ intentions, and seeing into our servants’ thoughts had become so easy, that I had not realized previously that my sight could pierce the hearts of others as well. And Turgon... I had not dared consider it. Yet there it lay, plain to my eyes.

            Let me explain about my sight. I do not simply “know” what someone is thinking, nor do I feel their emotions. I see pictures, representations of thought. The pictures themselves mean nothing; one must learn to decipher them. Sometimes I could make no sense of them; in the past I had gazed into the minds of the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, and such strange tableaux presented themselves to my subtler sight that I wondered if I were merely hallucinating. But Dwarves are a strange kind; Turgon was an Elda, one of my own people, and I knew instantly what the vision that wavered before my eyes meant.

            I saw a great open space, reaching out into blackness in all directions. The sky was beneath my feet; or at least, it was a floor patterned like the sky, strewn with faint stars in a burning path. A small girl sat on the floor, in a simple white dress, barefoot. She was humming a song, nodding her head back and forth to the beat and smiling to herself. A miniature golden balance stood before her; her flink little hands tinkered with it innocently, as she watched it swing back and forth. On one side of the balance lay a chess-piece, a knight; on the other, a red rose. The golden scales tipped first one way, then the other, but could not seem to decide which object was heavier. Finally the little girl looked up and started as if noticing me for the first time. Relief painted her smile suddenly, like scenery seen through a rainbow. She picked up the balance and stretched it toward me; before I could take it, the vision faded.   

            “I am in doubt.”

            I blinked. Turgon had spoken. He was watching me curiously. I wondered if he guessed that I saw more than his clever, pointed face when I looked at him. There was no reason to think so, and yet... the eyes of the Noldor are sharp, if not as sharp as my own.

            “The choice is yours, Lord,” I said with another slight bow, “I am your thane, and I obey your will. No one could judge more wisely in this matter.”

            “Truly?” Turgon mused, turning lithely to look down at the courtyards below, “But I do not know what passes in Eol’s mind. I do not know him, or his people.” He looked at me piercingly. “Will you abide by my decision, whatever it may be?”

“Of course!” I said, somewhat surprised. I could honestly think of no better person to pass judgment.

            “Then,” he said, “Hear me well: the persons in question are more closely connected to you than to me. You understand why this has come to pass, if anyone does. I give you the task of deciding whether Eol shall live or die, and if he lives, what his punishment will be.”

“What?” I cried, startled. The idea frightened me; I could feel something dark stirring in me at the words.

            “Do you refuse?” Turgon asked quietly.

            “No... no,” I said, confused. My mind burned with fresh fever. I feared... something. But stronger than the fear, something else drew me. Yes, it was just that I govern my father’s fate. Wasn’t it? Or perhaps not... what son had the right to judge his father? But then, he had killed Mother. He had speared her like an animal. Anger tore at my insides. And something else... bitterness, desire, hatred. Finally, finally I would be lord. I would speak and it would be done. All I had to do was say the word, and I could be rid of him, rid of that mocking, whispering, stinging, painful voice forever. For once, he was the powerless one. And how was it fair that Mother, whom I loved more than the world, more even than myself, should die – and that wasp of a man live? Now I could squash him forever, in perfect justice. I would be free, lord over myself.

            I hesitated, torn.

            At that moment, a slender form stepped out to join us where we lounged in the moonlight. I recognized her instantly: Idril, Turgon’s daughter. Even through my haze of unsure, shifting emotions, I could feel my heart beat faster. But she came with no soothing words to match her calm beauty.

            “The Lady Aredhel...” she said uncertainly, “The White Lady has left Gondolin. Her spirit has fled.”

            Turgon looked at me, and Idril followed his gaze. I could sense them both watching me silently, waiting to hear what I would say, though I did not meet either pair of eyes.

            The tangled threads writhing in my mind seemed to melt and smooth out in a sudden white heat. I did not know what it was – anger? Shock? Release? Everything ran together, stabilizing, crystallizing. It was as if, from the moment I had arrived in Gondolin, events had hurried down an inevitable path, weaving around me and leading me to the final point. For it was a point; the paths, the threads, the thoughts, all ended in a razor edge, poised above my heart.

            I watched the glittering point dispassionately. It twinkled at me, seeming to grin, seeming to say, Speak now, son of Eol! Direct me! I am Power, and I am at your command.

            Vengeance... pity... freedom... hatred...

            Speak now, son of Eol!

            You, too, belong to me... you will always be your father’s son...

            Speak now, son of Eol!

            “No!”

            The hoarse whisper burst from my lips.

            “He is not my father!”

            My head snapped up, and I glared unwillingly at Turgon and Idril. Turgon looked contemplative, Idril sympathetic. I swallowed, suddenly abashed. But it had been given to me to choose; my will hardened, gripping the gleaming point that had formed in my mind. This sharp resolution I meant for my father. It pained me nevertheless; hatred, a double-edged blade. I ignored its bite, gritting my teeth, and spoke.

            “I renounce him,” I said coldly, “I am the son of Aredhel only. And now I am orphaned.”

            “Then,” said Turgon, “I assume your choice is made?”

            “Yes,” I said. I would not be like him, ever. I would be rid of him, forever. This was the end. “Let justice be done!”

 

The following day smiled down on us from a bright sun. I had insisted on accompanying the executioners to the peak. Eol, whom I could no longer call my father, spoke not a word to me. I was glad. He looked out of place there, a ghoulish figure silhouetted by sunlight before the white and green city below us. Even as we stood on the brink, he was too proud to look frightened, and I am sure no hints of remorse or regret ever touched his stagnant mind.

            Only in the split second before they cast him over the precipice did he look at me. I nearly staggered; his gaze was like a flaming arrow shooting into my eyes.

            “Curse you!” he spat, “Traitor! I curse you!”

            Then his feet found only air, and he hurtled downwards, my burden finally dropping from my shoulders. He fell, twisting and writhing like a furious spider, but with no clinging webs to save him now. I could still hear his voice, floating up on the wind.

            “Curse you!”

            Eol was dead, and never again would I feel his choking gaze, or hear his crushing voice, or cower in his shadow. I was not sorry. I only wished it had been my hands that pushed him over the edge.

 

 

 

 

Chapter End Notes

 

 *A/N: In response to Nerdanel’s review: I am aware that Turgon is described as tall in the Silmarillion. But since the Sil is a collection of myths and legends passed down through the ages and this story is meant to be a first-hand account, I thought it might be interesting to implant some minor differences, just to show how truth can be mutated. Therefore my Turgon is average in height, as described. A stylistic liberty, if you will. :)

 

A/N: Poor Maeglin. He doesn’t even realize that he just did exactly what Eol would have done... so much for escaping his father’s shadow... Next chapter coming soon! Maeglin hankers after Idril and some very naughty things are said in as poetic a manner as possible!

 

 

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