Confessions of a Sharp Glance by Mercurie

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Chapter 5: Tuor's Rival

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Tuor’s rival

I am a smith, and inevitably I think in terms of the smithy. More than once in life I thought that my existence was like to an untempered blade beneath the hammer of the craftsman. A thing of darkness and metal, yet I burned with solid fire, and with every hammer-stroke that the blacksmith Life dealt me I grew harder. The heat of my anger and the blows of Fate beat me into the shape of a ruthless blade, its edge poisoned with destructive desire. And when Tuor came to Gondolin, I knew with wrathful determination that the sword of my self had been forged to destroy him.

            If you had never met Tuor, you could not understand what he was like. I wish I could say that he was merely a mortal Man, weak, foolish, childish... but no—though that is how he should have been! Had Tuor been nothing but a coarse dullard, I would never have felt more than mild indifference toward him. But no, I will not deny him his dues. He was the perfect gentleman, the perfect warrior, the perfect leader; perfectly charming, perfectly courteous, perfectly loyal, and perfectly repulsive. There is, in fact, only one word that can fully describe Tuor: perfect.

            He was tall, blond, and finely muscled, with flawless, bright eyes and a dazzling smile. From the moment he wandered—unrightfully!—into Gondolin, not a citizen of the city could resist him. He was a hero, a brave, long-suffering, maltreated one, the kind that immediately wins the hearts of every melodramatic fool close enough to lay eyes on him. Everyone loved him—except me.

            What did you expect? He was my antithesis. I despised him with an honest ardour I did little to hide.  

            I might have left it at contempt, if nothing else had happened. I am not by nature spiteful, and the Man and I could have co-existed peacefully, staying out of each other’s paths and interacting with stiff courtesy at need. All might still have been well, had it not been for Idril.

            For Idril, you see, loved Tuor. In a way, they were right for each other. They both had the same sunny bravery and careless manner. To see them together, you would think you were witnessing the instinctive mating ritual of two golden doves, cooing and fluttering their feathers at each other in endless bliss. They had no concept of dignity or solemnity or depth. And they loved each other quite sincerely.

            Of course, there was only the one problem: she was mine!

            For all that she had rejected me, I had claimed Idril in my heart and I would have her, someday, somehow. If you have never loved someone the way I loved her, you cannot understand; but I was mad with desire for her, and I would do anything. Anything! I determined secretly, indeed, to kill Tuor if I could. I knew I would pay the price for that misdeed, but I reasoned that at least I would have the satisfaction of ridding Tuor of his happiness with Idril.

 She, after all, would never care for me anyway.

            I spent long hours dreaming of ways I might kill Tuor. At that time I often worked in the forges and mines of the mountains, far from Gondolin. Those days reminded me of the Dwarf cities, where I had learned so much of the craft. And yet it was different; for even in the fires I saw the golden locks of Idril and Tuor, entwined in an utter perfection of spirit that I would never attain. For all those hours and days plotting, however, in the end it was Tuor who came to me, and almost I brought about his undoing.

            I was north of Gondolin, in a small encampment near a mine where we had found a great wealth of metals and such. Here I found my only joy in those days—working in the stone, seeking the veins that wound through it. Ripping them out for my own use. There were several temporary dwellings constructed near the mouth of the mine, in a little vale on the knees of the mountain. It was a lovely place; gentle, timber-covered hills rolled up to meet the snow further up the slope. We built shelters in the trees, partly because they were quick and easy to make, partly out of the childish joy and amusement at living in a “tree-house.” There were, however, sturdier forges on the forest floor beneath the boughs. The entrance to the mine was a gaping hole in the side of the mountain, surrounded thickly by pines.

            All that day I had been working alone in my forge. It had grown late. When I was younger I might have gone outside to catch a glimpse of the stars between the branches of the trees, but then I was too engaged in my work to think of ought else. The forge was dim, only the coals glowing, flaring up occasionally when I thrust the metal into them, then dying down as I threw the raw substance of the earth to the anvil and hammered it. The corners cowered in deep shadow, and the red light showed only the anvil, the fire, and my own straining arms.

            It was a long knife I was forging, small but deadly in the hands of the strong-spirited. With every blow of my hammer I lent my strength to the metal, weaving into it the determination and power of my people. I could feel it taking shape under my hands, melding and hardening under the abuse it received. So engrossed was I that I—I of the sharp glance—did not notice Tuor when he came in.

            “Greetings, Maeglin!” he hailed me.

            The sound of his voice was familiar; it set off white fireworks of hatred in my mind. I spun to face him with an unconscious snarl, and barely stopped short of hurling my hammer at him. Instead, I lowered the tool, taking firm hold of my composure.

            “Tuor,” I said, “I had not expected you. What brings you from Gondolin?”

            He smiled and stepped forward, the dull light setting his tousled golden hair alight with a glorious fire.

            “Oh, I came in secret... please, you mustn’t tell anyone! Not even Turgon, if you don’t mind. I told them all I was going hunting. But in truth, there is an errand I would see done, and I must request your aid.”

            My curiosity stirred, I nodded for him to continue. But I would not have him think that I waited upon him; thus I turned back to my forge and thrust the blade, nearly finished, into the embers, watching it studiously as if it were more worthy of attention than the mortal Man beside me.

            “I would ask you to fashion for me a necklace.”

            “A necklace!” I laughed roughly, “what, have you taken to wearing jewellery, Tuor? You shouldn’t. It wouldn’t become you.”

            He laughed easily, as if truly amused by my joke. In laughter, his face shone with beauty as the stars of Elbereth shine. Suddenly I became aware of myself: streaked with sweat and soot, in a dirtied leather vest, my tangled hair lightly singed. My anger darkened and deepened until it filled me like a black sea, roiling and seething with irrepressible jealousy. I wanted to smash that face in its grimace of happiness; what right had he to laugh at me, alone here with my misery and rage?

            It must have been too dark for him to see my face, for he continued on light-heartedly. “No, it is not for me, friend!”—I ground my teeth at the word!—“Not for me, but for one that we both love dearly. I wish to commission a gift for Idril. You see, I have in my possession this—” He slipped a hand into a pouch hanging from his belt and drew from it a marvellous green stone. As soon as my eyes touched it I knew it was perfect for Idril. The green would suit her, and even in the dull light I could tell that the stone was of high quality. It sparkled slightly, and it seemed to me as if each spark aggravated my anger as drops of oil thrown into a fire.

            “For Idril?” I mused, gazing at the glowing metal in the coals. I felt strangely akin to the metal, as if some burning outer force were heating up my substance.

            “Aye, for Idril Celebrindral. I know, Maeglin, that you do not consider me a friend...” He paused as if expecting me to contradict him. I did not. After a moment, he continued, “but I know also that you care for her, and so I hoped you would lay aside your antipathy for me and join me in giving her this gift.”

            I turned the blade over in the coals, watching the metal heat to a deeper and deeper red. “I have already offered many a gift to Idril. She has refused them all. There is nothing more for me to give.”

            “But... Maeglin!” He took a stunted step closer. I glanced up at him to see a look of pained pity and disbelief on his face. “There is no better craftsman in all of Gondolin than you! Surely you would not begrudge me this... nor begrudge Idril this.”

            I laughed loudly. “Trinkets! Idril hardly needs another jewel. No,” I said, staring steadily into his widened eyes, “you could have another smelt the silver for such a gift. I know why you have come here, son of the Secondborn. You have been disappointed. Now leave me and take with you your vanity!”

            He flushed with anger and embarrassment. “You misunderstand me. I came because I hold you in high regard as a worker of metal. Not because—”

            “Not because you wish to taunt me? Oh, no, Tuor, I know what you wish. Do not flaunt your happiness before one who is miserable! It will cause only ill...”

            His flush grew deeper. “Do you threaten me?” The courtesy in his voice had grown thin, and I could hear the steel beneath. It made me want to laugh again, though my heart twisted and burned within me.

            “No,” I sighed, “I am not threatening you. Leave me alone, Tuor. I want none of you.”

            I turned from him, drawing my blade out of the coals and holding it up. It glowed a deep, dull red, its heat radiating out to caress my face, like the hands of she whom I would never possess... at the same moment, I felt a hand softly touch my shoulder, a touch of sympathy.

            White anger flared up in me and the untempered steel in my hand blazed as if in harmony. With a cry like that of a wild thing, I whirled to face the shadow that was Tuor, the flaming sword flashing down to light that darkness. For a moment my consciousness jumped, and I thought I saw red blood on white skin, and silver petals... but then steel rang against steel, and I was jerked back to the present, to the heat of the forge and of living anger.

            My short sword strained against the blade of Tuor, and our eyes met. His face was lustrous with righteous fury, and I knew that my teeth were bared and my eyes fey as a ghost’s. We must have looked like a portrait of demon and angel, the meeting of a Balrog and a Maia in fire and fury. Like gods we strove against each other, motionless, neither able to gain against the other.

            “Give way!” he cried, “give way! You are mad, Maeglin!”

            “No!” I said, and I did not know what I was denying. “No!” I wished nothing but to temper my blade in the blood of Idril’s lover. But it was only a knife, with no power and leverage equal to that of a sword. My muscles screamed and I strained with all my will, but he gave a great heave, so that the blazing knife fell from my hands and I stumbled backwards. My shoulders met the wall of the forge with a thud and I slumped against it, panting heavily.

            “Well,” I snarled, glaring at him, “kill me!”

            He only shook his head and sheathed his sword carefully. “I will not. You are Idril’s cousin, and a friend at court. It pains me, Maeglin, that you despise me so...”

            “Curses upon you! Kill me, fool!” I truly wished for nothing else, and with horror I realized that a plea had crept into my voice that I could not dispel. “Kill me, for you have already taken all I lived for. Kill me, or I shall kill you someday!”

            He looked at me with pity, and I despised him all the more. “You cannot kill me now. And I will not harm you.”

            But in that moment of my shame, a vision came upon me; as I looked into Tuor’s clear eyes, mortal eyes, I saw that indeed my doom lay at his hands. He would deal out my death, in some distant, shrouded day. In the shadows of the forge and the dim glow of the coals I saw standing behind him a spectre of Eol, and my heart contracted within me.

            “Go...” I whispered, “go!” I did not know to whom I spoke, but Tuor looked at me once more, sadly, and left, a whisper of air through the doorway. He left the door open, permitting the cold night air to creep in, cooling the coals and my burning soul.

            I sank down to the floor and buried my head in my arms, feeling like the child who had climbed trees in Nan Elmoth to escape his father. Never before had my sight shown me anything regarding myself. Now I had seen what was undeniably a glimpse of my own death—at the hands of Tuor, and, somehow, Eol. My bitterness swelled and bloated until it threatened to sweep away the better part of me... always the weaker part anyway. I bit my lip in despair and cursed myself for the stinging of my eyes.

            Taking a shuddering breath, I forced myself to my feet and lit a torch. The fire spread gracious light throughout the forge. All was undisturbed; no one could have known that but a few minutes before a struggle had taken place. Except for one thing... the blade I had been working on lay on the floor, twisted grotesquely by the pressure of Tuor’s sword. Looking at it, I saw my own soul, warped and degraded, weak and incomplete. I closed my eyes.

            If I had not been lost before, I was then, for despair had joined itself to anger, and I saw no hope in my future. Rejected and pitied, I would only be able to watch as Idril, my life’s desire, gave herself to a mortal... to Tuor, who would someday end my own life. I could not bear the though. Anything seemed preferable to that.

            It was, in truth, only a matter of time until Morgoth found me.

            Wiping a hand across my eyes, I wandered out into the night, seeking solace where none might be found, and swearing in the depths of my soul that I would be revenged on Tuor, on Idril, on Men and Elves and on Fate itself.