Smith of Nargathrond by Lipstick

Smith of Nargathrond

Read Smith of Nargathrond

Once, in a time so long ago it was as unreal as light through stained glass, Tyelpe's grandfather had slammed his door in the face of the mightiest being in Arda.

In the dungeons of Barad-dûr, the bleeding remains of the House of Fëanor slammed his mind shut before that creature's chief lieutenant.

He was not forgiven.

Gasping for breath, choked by the fumes from the boiling of his own skin, he spat bloodied sputum in the face of a Maia and whispered:

"Not you."

Even as his mind reeled before the next onslaught of pain, the needles, hot in the fire against his flesh, he thought: not you. Not you made them, not you have taught me, not you that I loved.

His skin was shattering, he was flying apart like a brand struck with too great a force. In the midst of his torment Tyelpe smiled:

To heavy-handed Annatar; too much power and not enough art.

The Maia realised his mistake too late even as he withdrew his might from Tyelpe's broken body. The elf felt his heartbeat stumbling his chest; felt the last silver thread of breath escape and was no pain anymore only darkness.

*

The touch on his cheek was too gentle to be flesh, it was more warmth and care and knowing.

"Hush Tyelpe, hush."

Tyelpe felt molten in the relief of no longer fighting for breath.

"You have been tortured to death but it is alright. It is all over now."

Tyelpe was not sure he had opened his eyes, but he could see the elf beside him was his eldest uncle, addressing him with an amused look on his face.

"Welcome to the ward of the Ñ-specials, Tyelperinquar Curufinwion. I hope you find us pleasant company, when you get used to us."

Tyelpe sat up, or did whatever it was spirits do when they wish to show a greater sense of alertness. He took in Gwindor, Gelmir, Ai Eru! Finduilas. What happened to her?

"Sauron has the Nine, he has Six  - he has a weapon that-," a ghostly echo of a braid whipped against his cheek as he spun his head around.

"It is not your battle anymore, nephew," said his uncle, pushing him - somehow, back into his seat.

"Do we get any news?" Said Tyelpe, finding his fëa had arranged itself in the familiar ball of arms and knees.

"Only when an elf dies especially horribly," said Gwindor.

"Did you not die at the Nírnaeth?" said Tyelpe.

"No such luck," said Gwindor, "taken alive."

There was a brief rustle of acknowledgement at what those words meant.

"You do not know what I have done."

"Yes we do," said Maedhros, reaching out again with that eerie non-touch.

"But how, if you get no news?"

His uncle smiled, Tyelpe knew what was behind that smile now.

"Because we have all done those things too."

*

So there was no escape, there was only time and the ghastly grey walls cold as memory. When a memory ripped out there was nothing to be done but survive it. He had no flesh to tear, no stomach to vomit and no eyes to cry; though he wished for all these things with a hopeless, gnawing longing. He did not have the respite of sleep.

Forever in his head, that voice:

"It does not always have to hurt Tyelpe."

The one who had put his hands on him. The one who has stilled the pain, given him his craft back, given him the will to make and forge back; at such a cost.

"You monster, you burned me alive," shouted Tyelpe, and was answered by that gente, amber laughter, louder than his uncle commanding him to hush.

*

"You were not in Nargathrond when I returned," said Gwindor.

Tyelpe nodded, too busy being flayed by memory.

"But you were not taken then?"

"I was taken to Gondolin," said Tyelpe.

"Gondolin?" Said his uncle, "but Turgon never forgave -,"

"He did not know."

"That is all very marvellous. Perhaps you could tell us? We really do get so little news."

Those ghostly elves had a terrible way of inflicting their presence. Tyelpe could feel them beginning to huddle round, their bright spirits burning with that vicious, unquenchable, Ñoldorin curiosity.

"Not at the moment, uncle. I do not think I have the strength."

"You have the strength," said Maedhros, "spirit of fire."

Something cold and whimpering came out of Tyelpe's soul.

"Hush," said Maedhros, "spit out some of the poison. It will make things easier I promise."

"I came to Gondolin-," said Tyelpe, and something soft broke against the bubble of hurt,"blindfold, upside-down, like a sack of oats on the back of a blacksmith."

"A most dignified entrance," said Gwindor.

"Go on," said Finduilas, "I can tell this will be an interesting story."

Tyelpe willed himself to stop seeing. In the dark, he dragged up words and pinned them to the spikes driving against his soul. He should have liked to bite his lip, rend his Khazâdrim braids, take a deep breath and swallow. But he could do none of these things, so he willed himself to unsee and in the darkness mined for words from the depth of his soul.

~*~

"I did not know any of Gwindor's company got out alive."

His first thoughts were hazy; I have been drinking, my bed is on fire. The smell of charred cloth, the muffled nature of sounds above him suggested some weird calamity. He could smell metal heated and rapidly cooled, his mouth tasted of iron as it did after days shaping - no, his head reeled, he could not have been drinking like that at the forge.

"I am not sure this one is going to get out alive. As foolhardy a dolt as the rest of them. I had to put hands on him to stop him hewing his way after - he who fell."

He could smell burning flesh. He opened his eyes.

"Yet he would retreat to Gondolin?"

"He did not get the choice. I imparted some wisdom with my hammer and carried him here."

Tyelpe raised his head off the - grass, certainly grass, and tried to look at his hands. He caught a short glimpse before being roughly forced backward. They were not harmed.

"Ai! A craftsman!" The elf laughed. Tyelpe coughed and spat out a mouthful of frothing blood. He blinked. The elf was as red as Maedhros and near enough stocky as a mortal man.

"A blacksmith," said Tyelpe, letting his mind wander through the rest of his body. It hurt, although it seemed to be all there.

"Well met then! My name is Rôg, keeper of the King's Forge."

Tyelpe smiled with as much of his mouth that could move.

"And who do I have the honour of rescuing?"

"Do not ask," said Tyelpe and blacked out again.

*

The next time he woke, it felt like the morning after the emptying of the cellar. The air was jangling with voices and spurred feet shook his bones as they trampled.

"My Lord, he is not of our company, should we chance taking him to Gondolin?"

If they go away and leave me alone, at least I might have air, Tyelpe thought. The tent was stifling.

"Would you have me slit his throat here or abandon him to die in the wilds, Lord Maeglin?"

He thought at first it was Fingon, even though he had not reached him and a fire of Balrogs descended.

"If it were not for Gwindor's charge we might still have carried the day."

"Gwindor did not defeat us, Morgoth did."

"Yes Rôg," his bones shook as the speaker walked closer to the bed. "Morgoth and an Oath that has cursed us all. A union made with bloodstained hands will all to easily break." Tyelpe could smell the turf beneath the bruised grass. "An elf of Nargathrond will be welcome in my city."

Tyelpe thought someone was sponging at the muck on his face. Fëanorian luck shone as bright as ever.

"But unable to leave."

"He may judge that a fair price for his life, Maeglin. Rôg, you are a blacksmith not a healer. Leave his face be or he will be as marred as that crazed dog who got us into it. You know what to do."

"Yes, my Lord."

The tent flap sighed in relief as the others departed. Tyelpe's respite was short lived. He had barely taken a breath of air when he was being shaken. The King had a point about Rôg's gentleness.

"I am awake," said Tyelpe, to prevent further injury.

"Then sit up," said Rôg,  "before I drag you. We ride for Gondolin at dawn."

"I do not think I am riding anywhere," said Tyelpe, gingerly peeling his shoulders off the grass. Something was sticking in his chest when he moved. He hoped it was only his breastplate.

"Of course you are, now drink this."

Rôg forced a flask to his lips. Tyelpe braced and prepared to retch, but the burn of wine never came. Something softer and yet much warmer flowed through his throat instead, something that made him ache less, though it did not stop the pain altogether. Rôg was smiling.

"When I caught you, you were swordless, helmless and attempting to scythe a Balrog with the cloven edge of your shield. I do not think the fire within you is exhausted yet. See, you smile."

Tyelpe looked awkwardly at the flattened grass.

"I shall have to blindfold you, of course."

"I am in no position to stop you."

The drink, whatever it was, had cleared the splinters out of his head at any rate. Which was good as Rôg was now wrapping cloth around his head with all the tenderness of pounding steel.

"That is very peculiar braid-work."

"It is in the manner of the Khazâdrim. I worked with them for a while - in Nargathrond."

"Then you must be a very interesting smith indeed. I shall be honoured to have your better acquaintance. Now we are all done."

"Thank you," said Tyelpe, "no really, thank you. But I still do not think that I can walk."

"Who said anything about walking?"

Tyelpe stared wide-eyed into the dark until he was lifted up and, in the next moment, slung ungraciously over the blacksmith's wide shoulders.

Oh father, if only you could see me now, he thought as he bounced upside down in the blackness.

*

"The blindfold was quite unnecessary in the end," said Tyelpe. "I passed out again the minute Rôg sat me before him on his horse. That is how I came to Gondolin."

"I thought my scars made me look quite distinguished," said Maedhros.

"At least you did not hide away in a hole at the first sign of trouble like some of our lords," said Gwindor.

"Hush," said Finduilas, "we shall never hear this tale told if all it does is make you bicker."

Tyelpe's soul shivered, it was a most disconcerting feeling. There was a draught from somewhere, thin and shrill, but not corrupted like the foul airs in the dark tower. Tyelpe became aware that he could see nothing more than the corridor he sat in, to the left of the little group was darkness and to the right was stingingly bright light.

He would not like that. He had always been hurt by bright lights.

"Yes, well he is new here, the words come hard at first. " said Gelmir.

"But still I would hear more of the exploits of the noble House of Fëanor," said Gwindor.

"I will go on," said Tyelpe, "but not today."

"There are no days here," said Gelmir.

Nor where I came from, Tyelpe thought, nor where I came from. In the dark I had to tear everything from my thoughts to stop Him seeing. The Two Trees, The White City, the lamplit halls of Nogrod brazen with gemstones. If he held on, if he clung to a single shard of brightness, that would be a hook, a claw for Him to wrench secrets from his mind. That was how he found his way to the Six-,

Now, accidentally, he had fallen upon days again. Flying out with the word, what it was to feel sunshine, to watch it ripen and fade as Arien's chariot sailed across the sky. He wrapped himself up in his sun-memory, cherishing it, resting in it for as long as it stayed with him.

*

"Woken up at last, Smith of Nargathrond?"

When Tyelpe woke, it was to the scent of charcoal and cooled iron. He lay still, breathing in the calming scent of oil and metal, slightly acrid but so comforting, so marvellously familiar.

He rolled on his side and took in the room around him, cluttered, overflowing with scrolled parchment and misplaced parts of iron machines.

"What in Arda are you are doing here?"

"Oh these," Rôg picked up a curiously interlocking tangle of wheels, "mostly work for the Moles. That is Lord Maeglin's house. They are in charge of mining in this city, although Maeglin will be charmed to find another smith in Gondolin."

"Does he not like smiths?" Tyelpe surveyed the iron work on the desk, the structures looked similar to Nogrod winches, but these were more delicate, more intriguing.

"Possibly not, although he is one for all that. Get back in bed, I'll let you play with one of you do not get oil over the sheets."

Rôg threw the knot of wheels towards him, Tyelpe ran his fingers over the intricate discs, feeling the slender metal warm beneath his fingers.

"And you, you forged this?" He stared at the heavy-handed elf in wonder. "You are certainly gentler with your iron than you were with my bones."

"Yes well, these are important. Or so Maeglin says. He will hate you, by the way."

Tyelpe turned his head and stared at the gearing, it was some kind of gearing, although he could not yet see its purpose.

"That is a pity. I should really like to ask him about these devices."

"So would I," said Rôg.

"You mean he has you make parts but does not tell you it's purpose. How do you know the machinery will even fit?"

"He provides me with very specific designs."

Tyelpe stared at the overflowing desktops.

"That seems - to me, - that seems likely to be disastrous."

Rôg quirked an eyebrow at him.

"And what do you know of disasters?"

"Other than we just lived through one, nothing." Tyelpe put his hand to his braid and worked the dwarven gold between his fingers. "But a dwarf may forge a small piece of a furnace, but he still knows what the whole will be. What if there is a flaw in the design? The whole design that cannot be seen until all the pieces are assembled?"

Tyelpe rubbed his eyes.

"Forgive me, I think I may be still dazed. "You are free to work as you wish, of course."

"Very kind of you," Rôg smiled. "Now before you burst yourself open again, yes I had thought it a rather haphazard way of working. That is why I took on an under-smith who was familiar with Naugrim devices."

Tyelpe lay back on the pillows before Rôg's enormous hand forced him back.

"What did they make of it?"

"I do not know, Smith of Nargathrond - what do you make of it?"

Tyelpe felt the warmth of the bed gradually overpowering his sense of wonder. He was still sore and singed, but most of all he was sleepily safe.

*

Tyelpe found his strength returning quickly. He had not realised how much he had missed the light of the sun, and Gondolin - the White City on the hill seemed bathed with it; a golden light that made him feel very small and very new.

Rôg would often find him walking in the gardens behind the halls of the blacksmiths, among the holly trees and blackthorn that would grow so close to the furnaces, one hand reaching towards the red berries, jewel-like as the autumn light struck their prison of dew.

"Careful Smith of Nargathrond - they are poisonous."

"But they shine," said Tyelpe, then smiled, "I know they are poison because when I was very young I tasted a few. I think father nearly cut of my uncle's ears."

"He sounds like a perilous elf."

"He planted them for me, because he saw how I loved the sun on their bright leaves and red berries, even in the depth of winter." Tyelpe withdrew his hand from the spiked leaves. "Auta i lómë. Aurë entuluva.

"That is the first time I have heard you speak of your father."

"There are many here who do not speak of those that are lost."

Tyelpe felt the forge master's wide hand rest against his shoulder."

"Then we shall speak of better things, like what it is you shall  answer to if you do not permit me to know your name."

"I was growing rather fond of Smith of Nargathrond," Tyelpe smiled as Laurelin's fiery memory bathed the city in its sinking light, turning the marble to dusky gold and the gemstones to fire. "So fair, and yet so aflame."

"One could say the same of you," said Rôg chuckling. "You should probably ask Ecthelion for a name, he is much better with words than I."

"Still, you have thought of one."

"How does Enerdhil fit you?"

*

"I thought I hurt then," said Tyelpe to the shadows around him. But in truth, the word that floats back is happy.

That was another word detached from meaning, cleaved like hot metal. He wondered if happiness had a colour, red like forging heat or blue as the wide ocean. He wondered if it was delicate like the deliberate strokes of a hammer tempering a blade or powerful like the heat of the sun.

There was something here that was sucking the meaning from him, gold tipped claws snatching it away, even as it teetered on the edge of his mind. Curiosity. That was a word, like picking scabs from slipped arms agains hot metal. They all had them, the workers at Rôg's forge, although he had fewer than most. Curiosity killed the quendë, but he had ached to know back then.

Now he just ached to sleep.

"You are doing very well you know," said his uncle, "all Gwindor was capable of was curses and grunts, for a wearyingly long time."

"You were not much better," said Finduilas, "and we have still not heard the tale of who you have betrayed."

"Maglor," said Tyelpe. "It would have been Maglor."

"You always were a know-it-all brat Tyelpe," said Maedhros, "Do you know it all now?"

"Please," said Gelmir, "some of us wish to get out of here. We shall never do that if you keep on fighting like this."

"I see you have not picked up Ñ-special etiquette yet."

"Is it worse than the barbed dance of Gondolin?"

Finduilas smiled:

"It is very poor manners to reveal another's tale before they are ready to share it.

Tyelpe would have liked to have rubbed his eyes. Manners he thought, manners even in Mandos. The eldritch breeze caught his face again.

"What is that which waits in the dark?" said Tyelpe suddenly.

"So you have percieved it," said Gelmir.

"That is out gaoler," said Gwindor.

"It is our sorrows," said Finduilas, "it is what keeps us here."

"It stops me from thinking," said Tyelpe.

"Given how you arrived here, that is probably for the best," said Gwindor.

"So do not think, just talk," said Gelmir, "give us distraction before you are all at each other's throats again."

Gelmir paused.

"In a manner of speaking."

*

The days passed pleasantly enough, sat amid Rôg's ever growing collection of scrolls or, once Tyelpe was fully healed, instructing apprentices at the forge.

"Do not batter it so, Dúriel," smiled Tyelpe. "I know that you are strong, and I can see you hold your hammer well but - may I?"

The young elf stood aside so Tyelpe could take her place at the anvil.

"You must love it," Tyelpe struck the brand lightly, teasing the beginnings of an edge to the iron bar, "you must trust it to the path it would follow, for it knows it's strength better than you."

Tyelpe's clasps caught the glow of the heated metal before him as he swung his hammer.

"If it shows weakness, give it time to rest. If it bends beneath your hammer, lighten your blows. A sword cooled a hundred times will still be of more use than one shattered beneath the hands of his maker."

He inspected the half-forged blade and then laid it aside.

"Blacksmiths forge with the power of their hand; a craftsman tends with care and patience. If you love what you work with, it shall serve you well."

"You speak beautifully, blacksmith. But we are a city at war."

Tyelpe looked up from the darkening metal. At the other side of the forge an elf was standing, black against red, and his eyes glittered amber in the ruddy flame.

"You were washed up on the white walls of this city by a tide of unnumbered sorrows, that much I can understand. I too know what it is to gaze on the city of Turgon the Wise and think no power could ever defeat it."

The elf crossed the room. He stood as tall as Tyelpe himself, but his skin was pale as the city flagstones and his eyes were black.

"There is no asylum here, Smith of Nargathrond. We need our armories full. In these dark days, we must work swiftly. The iron in your hands is no mere plaything."

He bowed low towards Rôg and handed him the scroll of parchment that he carried.

"My Lord," I trust these to your skill as ever."

Rôg took a step back from the black-clad elf before nodding in return.

"Lord Maeglin, it is an honour. But could you have not sent a messenger? Why did you come yourself?"

The other elf looked at Rôg cooly.

"This work is between the Lords of Gondolin. Keep it so. For your apprentices have a greater matter with which to busy their anvils."

He nodded again toward Rôg and left the forge with silent steps.

"Dúriel, ignore him," said Rôg, "Lord Maeglin speaks much wisdom but there is still no use to be had out of pounding it to ruin. Enerdhil, take this to my study."

*

"You looked as though you had seen a ghost."

Tyelpe was seated on the bed staring at Maeglin's latest design when Rôg came to find him.

"I told you he would hate you. He hates everything new that comes here."

"It is not his words that troubled me."

"Then perhaps you knew the Lady Ar-Feiniel?"

Tyelpe raised his brows.

"Lord Maeglin is her son. The likeness to the White Lady is remarkable. Do not be too hard on him Enerdhil, for he came here under a grief greater than you, and I think you-,"

"Think what," said Tyelpe sharply.

"I think you have a grace to bear sorrow that he is lacking."

"I did know Aredhel," said Tyelpe, "but it was not her I saw in the flames."

Tyelpe felt the tender thud of  Rôg's hand on his arm.

"Get some air, sun-friend. Go walk among the green things that you love, for I do not think there is much smithing in your hands today."

"I do not think there is much peace either."

Rôg laughed.

"Then will you at least let me name your ghost?"

Tyelpe worked his finger around his dwarven braid before catching himself and stilling his hand.

"I do not think it wise to start giving names to my fantasies."

He was twisting the braid again. Rôg took his hand and held it, laying it gently in Tyelpe's lap.

"You saw the ghost every worker of iron sees, if his skill is great enough. You saw the spirit in the fire that haunts every one of us; for it is both our greatest fear and our greatest desire."

Rôg smiled and pushed Tyelpe's disturbed braid behind his ear.

"You saw Fëanor. Am I right?"

It was now Tyelpe's turn to laugh although it sounded feeble and thin.

"Yes, you guessed well. That is the ghost I saw." He smiled. "It feels good not to be alone."

"You saw a great craftsman with a shadow in his heart. It is not in the least strange what you imagined," Rôg paused, "and he is interested in you."

"Me?" Said Tyelpe.

"Oh yes. This work is between the Lords of Gondolin, my hammer! He wanted to get a look at you."

Tyelpe stared down at the fine lines interlocking on the parchment.

"Word is getting out about your talent, Enerdhil. I should get used to interest."

*

Maedhros was laughing softly.

"You never really knew your grandfather, did you?

Tyelpe's memories of Fëanor were black braids with fire and shouting. He remembered darkness, and something lost, losing something so close to him that it felt a hank had been gouged from his childish soul. Tyelperin, the silver light that he had been named for, reaching his hands towards the falling, falling rays. He had loved best the silver light, the quiet light, as it made mountains and valleys in the lines of his tiny hands. Although he could barely babble, it was noticed.

"Tyelperinquar," he had said, a tall shadow against silver.

"Tyelperinquar," his mother had whispered against his fuzzy first hair. "Tyelperinquar."

Then the light, his first love, was gone. He remembered his father's arms, like tree-trunks of wrought iron, bundling him up in his bedsheets and carrying him out to a night of steel glittering bloody in the torchlight.

He never saw his mother again.

So Tyelpe's memories of his grandfather were somewhat muddled, even though a glance in the mirror would have reminded him the smith in the flames looked nothing like the child of Míriel Þerindë; the memory of the greatest spirit of the elves was etched into his face. It was often commented that there was a remarkable likeness, although Tyelpe had inherited the darker skin that some in his grandmother's family had.

The trouble was it was more than his bones that carried a likeness. The trouble was he inherited the whirlwind, the lightning-struck tower, the insatiable need to make, to do, to know. The trouble was he was to trouble born, it ran through his blood like silver through the rock.

To carry that, to walk the earth with such a ball of kindling within him; that had been the test. Tyelpe felt sure he had failed.

"No," said Tyelpe, "I saw almost nothing of him before he died. Is he here?"

"Somewhere," shrugged Maedhros. "Mandos probably has him entombed in rock and iron to stop him bursting out."

"That is sometimes how I felt," said Tyelpe.

"You are getting better," said Maedhros.

Tyelpe held what felt very much like knees to his chest. It was more the memory of touch which registered, the knowledge that this would be how his legs felt held hard against his chest.

"I do not wish to get better," said Tyelpe. "I wish to be forever of the sliver light." So I may never have flesh again, to burn, to destroy, to love so that it may be rended and broken.

Love was not a word he wanted to remember. It was filled with those cold, lifeless hands; not a body but a veil. Hands dead upon him but touching him, filling him with a warmth not of this world, blocking forever the meaning of love. It was not love but a sickness, a stupor, the crazed unreality of being the plaything of a god.

"I begged for death once," said Maedhros. "If I had known how bad Mandos would be, I think I should have taken my chances chained to the rock."

"I thought you said I would find it pleasant here?"

"In time," said Maedhros, "but first you must walk through the fire."

"What fire," said Tyelpe, "all my life has been fire. I am truly sick of fire."

"Getting better hurts."

"What are you two muttering about?" said Gwindor.

"Hush!" said Maedhros, "this is between Fëanorians."

Tyelpe remembered what it felt like to smile.

"Rest now," said Maedhros, "in the silver light. You only need walk as far as you can bear, and I think you have come far enough tonight." Maedhros bent forward and left the shadowy imprint of his lips on Tyelpe's forehead, as he had done many times when Tyelpe was a child. Uncle Maedhros, telling stories of how stars were made and kissing him into sleep.

Tyelpe fell back into unseeing, walking in the memory of Tyelperin's gentle light.

Breaking and Entering

Read Breaking and Entering

“Still,” said Maedhros, “I should be interested to know of one who conjured Fëanor in the flames.”

It was morning, or it felt like morning. There was a ghost of a feeling of brightness, of gold in the air and new things to be done. Tyelpe even felt the curious memory of a yawn. He felt suddenly aggrieved to find himself back in the grey corridor, to the senseless stone walls and the pointless talking.

“I thought it was ill manners to tell another’s tale.”

“Is he here?” Maedhros looked around.

“No,” said Tyelpe quietly, “he will not come back. He was cursed by blood and nightshade and the ancient magic of a forest in twilight.”

“We are all cursed,” said Gwindor, looking into the shadows. To Tyelpe’s mind they seemed to leak around the feet of the speakers, coiling like ink in water. Instinctively, he drew his feet up onto the seat.

“He was personally cursed,” said Tyelpe, “His father cursed him at his death that he should follow him, and refuse the judgement of Námo. He died as his father and the curse was fulfilled.”

“He was of the Avari then?” Gelion asked.

Maedhros’ disconcertingly inquisitive soul pressed at the corner of Tyelpe’s mind.

“An Avarin smith who could rival Fëanor?”

“Half- Ñoldor,” said Tyelpe, “I do not know what the other half was. I do not think he rightly knew himself.”

“The darkness is heavy today,” said Finduilas, “but your story is getting interesting. I think it falls on you once again to keep the warder at bay.”

“What happened next nearly sunk everything. Rôg had an unexpected visitor, and the news she brought was not good.”

*

The visitor had a gentle, soft-as-silver voice, and Tyelpe would have recognized it anywhere. He ducked down beneath his anvil, thankful that the apprentices had been sent home.

“No Rôg, I can do nothing about the lack of iron, nor would I,” she paused, “are we alone?"

“We are. Let me take your cloak, my Lady, and let me get you a glass of wine. You look pale as snow.”

There was a rustling as the occupants of the study re-adjusted themselves. Tyelpe slunk to a position of greater concealment beneath a work bench.

“I would not have what I must tell you become talked of, at least if it can be helped.”

Rôg’s warm laughter rang out.

“Everyone talks of everything in this city,” said Rôg, “Truly, My Lord your father, has created the very image of Tirion within his shining walls.”

“My dear Lord of Blacksmiths, please do not say so, because it was out of the gossips of Tirion that we were condemned.”

Tyelpe surveyed the knees of his breeches. One had found its way into a puddle of oil. He cursed softly in Khuzdul. It would be just his luck if Rôg led the Princess of Gondolin in here to show off some of his latest hireling’s skill.

“What must you tell me, Lady Itarillë? Because people are already talking of the laziness of black-smiths?”

“That I believe our worst fears have come to pass. Lord Maeglin has succeeded in drawing the enemy upon us.”

“Is this why King Turgon has ordered Anghabar closed but will not let me speak of it to my dissatisfied customers? People are already saying there was a rock-fall.”

This was true. Tyelpe and Rôg had been sitting on their hammers for the last four days, with nothing to do but melt down some of the apprentices’ early work for urgent jobs.

“It was not the rock-fall that is the trouble. It is what preceded it. Maethavein and Cirion are still with the healers, although they will probably live; Celegwaith has already given a report to my Father,” she paused. “He was working the face with Eradan, who is still lost. What happened was not a rock fall, but a rush of air beating against the shaft sides and stones being pulled down by great whips of flame. He tried to temper his words, saying that he must have been sickened by smoke, but when pressed he said beneath him, he had seen a creature of fire.”

“Celegwaith was with Maeglin at the Nírnaeth, he knows of what he speaks.”

“Then you think it true? That a Balrog has been drawn into the Echoriath?”

“Maeglin has not been building a Balrog.”

“Maeglin has been delving too deep.”

Tyelpe was beginning to get cramp from his confinement. He felt he would gladly have faced a Balrog if only to get his cousin to leave.

“It is getting more difficult to study his plans now he knows we have no iron with which to build them.”

“The King will not re-open the mines, even to an exploratory party. He has over-ruled my cousin on this, although he put all his art into persuading him otherwise.”

“Then Gondolin must do without iron.”

“I do not know what to think, Lord Rôg, but my heart fears Maeglin. Have you read nothing into his plans?”

“My under-smith has had some thoughts on them.”

“I would rather you did not discuss this with others.”

Please, thought Tyelpe, do not go calling me in for my opinion. I have no blood left in my legs and I do not think my re-introduction to Lady Idril would be improved by falling into her lap.

“He raised concerns about Maeglin’s manner of working the minute he noticed the designs. I said nothing, the curiosity was all his own.”

“I am not sure we have need of more curiosity in Gondolin.”

“He has some Naugrim knowledge, which I think would be of use to us. I have said nothing of you.”

“Lord Rôg, you make us sound like conspirators.”

Here I am again, Tyelpe thought, stuck in another web of politicking and intrigue when all I had wished to do was study some outlandish looking designs.

“My Lady, if Lord Maeglin’s designs are harmless, which they may well be, he is free to do as he wishes. I know neither you nor I would restrain him, and neither you nor I have spoken our concerns to any other.”

“You have spoken to Enerdhil.” Idril sighed. “No, it is probably for the best that you have one you trust to speak with. I am afraid I am of small help except to worry you.” There was a scraping of a chair being pushed back. “Thank you for the audience, my Lord Rôg, I think I should come apart if I did not unburden myself to someone who did not think me foolish.”

“No one could think you foolish, my Lady. It is my pleasure to give you what help I can. I am sure we will solve your riddle.” Tyelpe heard the study door open. “Now, travel safely, Lady Itarillë, and do try not to worry.”

Tyelpe was still beneath the table when Rôg entered and worked the bellows to puff the flame to yellow tongues. Rôg took another of the poorly made knives from the countertop and set them to the fire, turning round to pull a gauntlet from the shelf.

“Oh Enerdhil, whatever are you doing down there?”

*

“Oh dear, that is going to cause you problems,” said Maedhros.

“Itarillë?,” said Finduilas, “But she was such a sweet girl. She is not going to push your Tyelpe off Gondolin’s walls.”

“Idril was a very sweet girl,” said Maedhros, “Our Tyelpe was not such a sweet little boy. By the time we were all on speaking terms again, he had blossomed into a fully fledged Fëanorian brat.”

“I taunted her,” said Tyelpe, “In her ragged white dress. Father was still enraged by Uncle Maedhros surrendering the crown to Fingolfin, and I thought it hilarious to taunt this waif-princess in my Fëanorian finery. I am sorry for that.”

“A Fëanorian saying sorry?” said Gelmir.

“It does happen,” said Maedhros.

“The coils of darkness are almost at my throat,” said Tyelpe.

“I cannot see them,” said Maedhros.

“It must be my own then,” said Tyelpe. “I would rather another voice took over now.”

“Very well,” said Maedhros, “although you do have us quite intrigued, you know.”

*

“Have you finished your sulking?” asked Gwindor.

“I am not sulking, I am thinking,” said Tyelpe, “Is that not what I am supposed to be doing here?”

“By Varda, do not do that!” said Gwindor, “thinking will quickly have you sucked into the blackness.”

Tyelpe surveyed the walls. Even they seemed to be covered with a filmy mist, as if they were covered in heavy frost. Looking at them made Tyelpe remember the sting of cold, hard bites inside his nostrils, standing on top of a snow-tipped mountain peak; the light harsh, his uncles calling.

“Maedhros, did you really throw a snowball at my father?”

“Do not question your elders,” Maedhros said.

“You did, didn’t you?"

Maedhros rolled his eyes.

“Yes well, Mereneth had just thrown a snowball that hit Celegorm. She had been aiming for one of her little friends, and I was not about to have my brother demand I discipline a ten-year-old. So I threw one at your father.”

“He thought you had lost your mind.”

“He thought that at least twice a century. It didn’t stop him retaliating though.”

Tyelpe laughed.

“I notice you stood aside.”

“I really do not think my father would have seen the funny side, had I joined in.”

Gelmir looked in curiously.

“Is that how you resolved your Fëanorian differences?”

“Sometimes,” said Maedhros with a smile. “Now Tyelpe, where were you?”

“Up to the King closing the iron mines, and Gondolin being filled with talk of requisitioning, which made blacksmiths as popular as ever.”

“I thought blacksmiths were very well regarded?” said Finduilas.

“Yes well you might have been quite sensible,” said Tyelpe, “but to the others: ‘Where there is trouble, there is a blacksmith’ was a Gondolin truism.”

“I think you can thank your grandfather for that,” said Gwindor.

“Probably,” said Maedhros, “although he would never have minded had I hit him with a snowball.”

“If you had hit him with a snowball it would have melted before it touched him,” said Gwindor.

Maedhros laughed.

“You were saving us from this madness Tyelpe.”

“Oh yes, and maddening it was, to sit on your hands with unreadable plans and nothing to distract you. So one day I pulled on my cloak and headed off to find Maeglin.”

“And how did you find this Mole-Lord?” said Gelmir.

“Away,” said Tyelpe.

*

Tyelpe had no clue what he was going to say to the Lord of Moles, but as he hurried through the crowded market place, he reckoned that his family always had a skill for thinking on their feet. He was not even sure that Maeglin would open the door to an under-smith, but his will - his damned Fëanorian instinct, was pulling him eastwards as the streets narrowed to the iron gateway in the Echoriath mountains.

When he arrived at the wrought-iron forest whose branches met above the crest of a sable mole, he found the door locked. He sighed.

After knocking and calling had proved useless, Tyelpe steeled himself, and brought to mind a trick of his uncle Maglor’s. He did not have the command of song of his uncle, but he had managed to pull the trick off himself, once or twice.

Tyelpe pressed his hands against the iron doorway where he guessed the lock would be. He closed his eyes and let his palms sense the presence of the bolt before beginning a low hum that opened out into a wordless chanting. For a moment, he felt nothing, and then slowly, pushed by the sounds of the song, Tyelpe felt the bolt begin to loosen and slide.

His back was sweating by the time the iron doorway moved beneath his shoulder. Maglor would dart his eyes as if the clumsiness of the attempt embarrassed him, but secretly Tyelpe knew it was his uncle who was embarrassed to hold so great a gift. Tyelpe pushed the iron door open and stepped into the blackness.

The first room he entered was deserted, lit only by the light escaping from a deeper chamber. In the weak light he took in long, empty benches lining the walls, discarded picks and lanterns, harnesses and other mining tools. He did his best not to trip over it as he made his way through the anti-chamber, following the tang of heated metal to the forge of the Moles.

When he got there the forge fires were burning low and there were as many smiths present as there were miners. They must have been sent to their homes too, Tyelpe thought. He turned to walk back to the door and then stopped himself.

Celebrimbor Curufinwion, child of Curufin the Crafty, whatever is it you are doing? he thought. Of course you came here when the Lord of Moles was away, for here is a fine chance to learn something. Tyelpe took a lantern discarded on one of the benches, lit it, and headed back to the smithy.

Here at last were the missing pieces of the design. His eyes took in a forest of tree-trunk wide piston rods, cast iron tanks that could contain a small pond. He twirled his Khazâdrim braid between his fingers and tried to think as a dwarf. What pieces could he see that could be fitted together? Why was Rôg set the tasks of such delicate wheels when Maeglin was forging items on a truly dwarven scale?

So he does not see the whole, Tyelpe thought. Lord Maeglin has set him the task of embroidering the edges of a garment, to distract him from the image of the whole cloth. Tyelpe knelt before the cylindrical chambers, feeling awed at the strength of the iron beneath his fingers, knowing many a dwarf of Nogrod who would give his beard to smelt a metal that fine. He could smell the quality, hard but not brittle, for when he struck it with his fingertips he felt it sing and give.

But that does not make sense at all.

Seamlessly as the doors of Nogrod shut to, the image of Maeglin’s design fell into place in his head. He saw vividly every turn, every tooth clicking within the gear work, every massive drive shaft. It fitted together perfectly, the only way it ever could.

But there was no use to it. Unless the Lord of Moles had a liking for weaving together cogs and clockwork, the whole design was intricate but useless.

Riddles within riddles, thought Tyelpe, turning his Khazâdrim clasp between his fingers, to think I thought I might grow bored in Gondolin. This is the most interesting puzzle I have seen yet.

He was still pondering his discovery when he heard a polite cough behind him. He turned around.

The elf-shaped creature was leaning against the wall. Tyelpe’s eyes had grown too used to the lamplight to pick out features on the shadow in the dimly lit doorway.

“I must say house-breaking is a new one.”

It was Maeglin.

“I was curious,” said Tyelpe. “I am afraid attracting the incurably curious is an ill-effect of a deep love of secrecy.”

“Thank you for your gracious apology.” Maeglin pulled the cover from a lamp, a Fëanorian lamp, and examined Tyelpe’s face in the blue light. “For your Ñoldorin habit of invading all places without welcome or leave.”

Tyelpe looked into the black eyes of Maeglin, fierce in the light of the treacherous crystal. Dagor Bragollach, he thought, the Battle of Sudden Flame.

The battle before the eyes of a dragon.

“I should take you for judgement by the King,” Maeglin said softly.

“So you should,” said Tyelpe, “I am sure Turgon would be most pleased to hear how well your plans are coming to fruition.”

Maeglin narrowed his eyes.

“You could not read the designs.”

“I have worked amongst the children of Aulë,” he said, bowing his head so the gold of his clasps glittered in the lamplight and reflected back in the eyes of Maeglin. Maeglin did not seem to have been made with an iris, unless it were of the same jet black as his pupils. He reached his gloved hand up to examine Tyelpe’s braid-work.

“I have never heard of them permitting an elf to wear their braids.”

“I spent twenty years beneath the earth as an apprentice in smithcraft to a Nogrod master.” Maeglin’s eyes widened, “and when I completed my tutelage I was braided as any other master-craftsman,” Tyelpe said, and added more deferentially, “In my hair, lacking the more traditional beard.”

“I can see that,” said Maeglin, releasing the braid to knock against Tyelpe’s cheek.

“I can read your designs, Lord Maeglin.”

“So is that the secret of Enerdhil’s overconfidence,” said Maeglin, “and you did look so very confident, for a smith I have never heard of heard of, giving up the jewels of your wisdom.”

“The Khazâdrim too value secrecy. It was among them that I learnt it is not always ill to keep knowledge close to the heart.”

“You do not wish to know my secrets, Smith of Nargathrond. My blood is steel not silver.”

Tyelpe took a step backwards. He felt like a bayed animal, with his nerves twitching to break and run.

“But I will keep the secret of your designs, Lord Maeglin, unless it were to harm those I hold dear.”

“By what right do you judge me? Why should you think I hold them any less dear?”

Tyelpe flinched from the foolishness of his own words.

“Because you, as I, have seen the defeat you speak of on the field of the Nírnaeth. And you, as I, know the scar on the hearts of the Eldar that caused such tears.”

“Because I am Moriquendi.”

“I did not say that.”

“You did not need to.”

“Lord Maeglin, I swear – I swear – on the grave of my father, I shall not reveal your secret.”

Maeglin laughed softly and stood aside. Finally released, he stilled his nerves to walk towards the doorway as slowly as he were perfectly calm, resisting the uncoiled spring within his belly instructing him to bolt.

“Your father is not dead,” Maeglin whispered softly to his retreating back.

Eyes of a dragon indeed.

*

“Explain.”

Tyelpe ignored Rôg in favour of the cheese. He had assembled a miniature fortress of food on the table before him, and was slowly hacking his way through it. The bread of Gondolin was light and tasted so subtly like hearths. Tyelpe wondered why he had not noticed this before. He wondered why he had not noticed how good everything tasted before.

“Breakfast,” said Tyelpe.

“Not that,” said Rôg, eyeing the ruination on his dining table warily, “this.”

Rôg threw a scroll down beside the pot of pickle. Tyelpe picked it up with buttery fingers, and noted the broken seal in the shape of a mole.

My Dear Lord Rôg,

I must once again apologise for the dearth of iron and the inconvenience this has caused you with the city’s gossips. I am sure the self-same fonts of all wisdom have furnished you with some idea of the difficulties we have been having at Anghabar. It is my deepest sorrow to report that one elf died and three took serious hurt in our recent misfortune, although mining has always been a dangerous business and my House remains as eager as ever to return to our work.

Unfortunately, it seems we have become the victim of some malicious gossip of our own; I believe credulous fools are imagining all manner of horrors lurking in the mines, even to naming a Balrog of Morgoth (presumably on a holiday tour.) The King, wishing for the well-being of his subjects, has justifiably ordered Anghabar closed. There are others who are already braying that it should be sealed. I do not need to tell you how disastrous this would be to both our interests.

  Fortunately, I have been able to convince My Lord the King of a better solution. I will attend Anghabar and investigate this myself. However, in order to stay the tongues of the aforementioned gossips, who will all too readily imagine that I falsify my claims in order to return to mining (clearly such wits believe I hold my miners as worthless) I have requested that I take an independent witness. Someone of your house, given our shared interest in mine-craft would be the obvious choice. Indeed, your under-smith informs me he has considerable knowledge of the workings at Nogrod, furthermore he has faced Balrogs in close combat, and as such would make an excellent witness to Anghabar’s safety.  He seems an unusually fearless elf, and I doubt a deep mine or an audience with our King would daunt him.

  Let me know your thoughts on this plan by nightfall,

  Yours with deepest Regards,

  Lord Maeglin

Tyelpe looked up.

“What have you been saying to Lord Maeglin?”

“Nothing,” said Tyelpe, debating briefly whether the next slice should be covered in honey or ham. He settled for both. Rôg stared at him.

“It’s good, you should try it.”

“What,” said Rôg, “have you done to give Maeglin cause to believe an audience with the King would be undesirable?”

“Nothing,” said Tyelpe, wondering if a slab of cheese would make or mar his creation. . He wavered, knife in hand, “although I did dissemble a little when he threatened to drag me before King Turgon for house-breaking.”

“Were you house-breaking?”

“No,” said Tyelpe, deciding to risk the cheese. “Well, I entered his house without permission, but he was away.”

Rôg groaned and buried his head in his hands.

“He is not named sharp-glance for nothing, Enerdhil.”

“I needed to look at the designs.”

“What do you know of Maeglin?”

Tyelpe took a bite of the heavy-laden bread and decided the cheese overall made the taste slightly too chalky.

“What you have told me. He is a blacksmith, he is a miner, he is the son of Aredhel Ar-Feiniel and that he is of grim mood. The last I worked out for myself.”

“Then you do not know his father was Eöl,” said Rôg.

Tyelpe put his knife in the pickle pot and tried to remember where he had heard that name before. His father, fuming. A dank forest, all briars and tangle, as inscrutable as chaos of Arda Marred. And a rider, bowed low in the saddle, twisted somehow, with a face covered in ink.

“Varda Elentári!” said Tyelpe, accidentally flicking pickle across the kitchen, “If his father is Eöl then this is bad.”

“That is not the freshest of news my strange accomplice.”

“He was from Nan Elmoth. What lived there shunned the light. They were Avari who escaped, mine-thralls of Morgoth, and they had already began to twist to his design before they delved their way to freedom. They lit fires in the deep forest, staining red into the starlight, and forged black metals and swords that could speak.”

Tyelpe reclaimed his knife and wiped it on a napkin before broaching the pickle again.

“They used skill they had learnt from the hands of Morgoth in their craft, and the whole forest reeked of charcoal and sorcery.”

“They say Morgoth instructed Fëanor in the crafting of the silmarils.”

“They lie!” said Tyelpe.

Rôg lifted his eyebrows. Tyelpe pulled the cheese-knife from out of the table. Rôg still had not lowered his brows.

“That is a very spirited defence.”

“That is a very wicked untruth.”

“And of course, you are a Fëanorian,” said Rôg.

Tyelpe gaped around his mouthful of cheese-and-pickle. He swallowed, attempting to regain his composure.

“You knew! You brought me to Gondolin knowing the King’s hatred of Fëanorians, and you knew?”

“Well, I was going to ask if you were related to Ungoliant,” said Rôg, eyeing the havoc Tyelpe was wrecking on his dining table. “But yes, I knew. I do not have much family left this side of the ocean, and I would not see what remains be left on the battlefield to be scavenged by the beasts of Morgoth.”

“We are related?”

Tyelpe suddenly felt very remote from the breakfast he had previously been devouring. He poured himself a cup of water and sipped at it.

“Did the red hair not make you suspect? It is not common amongst the Ñoldor.”

“It is more frequent among the company I kept.”

“My mother was sister to Nerdanel and I grew up in the copper mines of Mahtan when Fëanor was his under-smith. I would recognise that face anywhere.”

“And the eyebrow, you look quite like Maedhros when you do that.”

Tyelpe turned the cup in his hands.

“So which one are you?” Rôg. “You are not Maedhros, nor are you Maglor; those two scamps I knew, but Fëanor had other sons which were not known to me.”

Tyelpe poured himself another cup of water. He was starting to feel violently thirsty.

“I am Celebrimbor.”

“That is a very long name.”

“My father had a lot to say,” he paused, “Most people call me Tyelpe.”

“I think it is wiser if I keep calling you Enerdhil.”

Tyelpe nodded as he swallowed down the cool water.

“My father was Curufin the crafty, fifth child of Fëanor. It is from him that I learnt smith-craft. But I am bound by no Oath and took no part in the kinslaying.”

“But you are Amanwyr?”

“Yes, barely. I think I was six or seven when Valinor lost the lights. When I was of age my father would not let me take the Oath as he wanted his descendants to have no part in it, although he changed his mind later.”

“You withstood him?”

Tyelpe sighed. “This is really more than I wish to speak of over breakfast.” He stood up and started to dismantle his elaborate citadel of breakfast things. “I need to get this back before your cook thinks you have been garrisoning an army.”

“Very well.” Rog paused, “I think Turgon will come round eventually, once he sees you have clean hands and many uses. But for now, as your master, I will read the report to Turgon, for it would be better your identity is revealed at a time of your choosing, not Lord Maeglin’s.”

“And I,” said Tyelpe, wiping away the escaped pickle, “will follow Lord Maeglin into his mines.”

*

“I know how this ends,” said Gwindor.

“Hush!” said Finduilas and Gelmir, “Do not ruin it.”

“I bet I do,” said Gwindor, “For all the prejudice against mine-thralls of Morgoth.”

“I revised my opinion,” said Tyelpe to the walls.

“I bet you did, when you realised you were going to end up here,” said Gwindor.

“In truth, I am probably lucky to have found my way to Mandos at all.” He looked at Gwindor gloomily, “You do not know how it ends Gwindor, even in your worst imaginings you could not dream of how my tale ends.”

“Really. Thanks to my stint as an ex-mine thrall, my imagination is now most vivid.”

“We are not going to play the game of my suffering-was-worse-than-yours,” said Maedhros. “it really is most wearisome, and completely unwinnable.”

“On the contrary, I think my fate was probably little more than I deserved.”

“So was there a fourth kinslaying?” asked Gwindor eagerly.

“Worse than that,” said Tyelpe, shifting his gaze to stare into the amorphous darkness blocking the corridor mouth.

“Nor are we going to play the self-laceration game,” said Maedhros, “We have all been carved up more than enough.”

“I still know how the trip to the mines is going to end,” said Gwindor.

“You did not give Rôg away, did you Maedhros,” said Finduilas.

“I doubted it was the elf I knew,” said Maedhros, “Really, he was the most frightful bore, seventy years old and full of his own importance.”

“He reminded me a lot of you,” said Tyelpe.

“Yes well, he certainly seemed to improve with age,” said Maedhros.

“Were you really a little scamp?” said Finduilas.

“I was a spirited child,” said Maedhros.

“So what happened on your great mine expedition?” said Gelmir, “Before my brother explodes.”

Tyelpe continued to stare into the darkness. It almost seemed to be waving at him as it circled in its endless swirls. It is calling me, he thought, and I should like so much to give in. There was something about ‘Eternal Darkness’ that had always seemed more soothing than peaceful to his furious mind, as if it were a place free even from the need of thoughts.

Maybe I should just have taken the Oath, he thought.

Fire-damp

Maeglin's beautiful tattoos came from the images drawn by the superbly talented and witty givenclarity on Tumblr. I'm going to shamelessly steal more of her characterisation of Maeglin in the next chapter. For now, enjoy the image of him here.

On a geekier note, I imagine Gondolin situated in a deeply scoured glacial corrie on sedimentary rock, not in a volcanic caldera. This minor detail has relevance to the plot

Read Fire-damp

The morning was clear and cold as Tyelpe made his way through the lesser market toward the House of the Moles. Gondolin’s lawns lay pallid in the shadows yet sparkled icy rainbows where they were struck by the low rising sun.  Trees stood black and stark against the white marble; the sky seemed fragile and pale, a weak blue like the eggs of thrushes and the distant spikes of the Echoraith were tipped with snow.

Frost hung heavy on the iron branches of Lord Maeglin’s doorway. Tyelpe’s breath sent clouds into the biting air as he waited, listening to the scrape of metal as the lock was withdrawn and the door creaked open. 

Tyelpe stepped over the threshold, out of the cool blue daylight into the warm amber of metal-craft and mines.

“You did not bring gauntlets,” said Maeglin.

“I did not know we would be working at the forge.”

Maeglin threw a heavy pair of leather gloves at him.

“We are not.”

Tyelpe looked at him quizzically but his face was closed and he did not appear ready to give further instruction. He handed Tyelpe one of the discarded leather belts.

“In the sliver box is a face cloth. If the air fails it will soak up some of the poison. I do not suppose you are any good with bow and arrow?”

“I thought you weren’t expecting to find any of the enemy?”

“I am not,” said Maeglin.

“I spent some time with the archers of Nargathrond,” said Tyelpe, “but no, I do not have much skill. I mainly spent my time improving arrow-head designs.”

Maeglin threw him a sword.

“I am not expecting the enemy but it pays to be prepared.” Maeglin took a hammer from the bench and tucked it into his own belt. “Also, it will give us extra proof of the mines safety. If there are orcs near, the blade will shine blue.”

Tyelpe widened his eyes, impressed.

“I do not supposed you will share the secret of that.”

“No.”

Tyelpe stared at his ill-mannered host. Maeglin lit a tallow candle, placed it inside a lantern then handed it to Tyelpe.

“Would we not get better light from the Fëanorian lamp?”

“It is not light that we require.”

Maeglin lit a second lantern then hung it from a hook on his belt. Tyelpe noticed that his tunic was not quite cloth. It appeared to be made of something like very supple metal. His breeches were made of it too. It was curious, as if he had woven metal on a loom or shaved off a layer of obsidian and rolled it into clothes. Tyelpe wondered if Maeglin usually made his mining trips in armour.

“Anghabar is not like the palaces of the Naugrim, Enerdhil. Anghabar is a working mine, rough-hewn and hazardous to the unwary.”

“I did not earn my braids by reclining in palaces,” said Tyelpe.

“All the same, you will find this place very different. Do as I say, or your life may be forfeit.”

They walked together through the House of Moles until they came to an archway, sealed with gates of polished steel. There was no lock or handle that Tyelpe could see. Maeglin removed his glove and pressed his hand to the cold metal and it swung open as if at his command.

For a moment, Tyelpe thought Maeglin was wearing some kind of ornate under-gloves. His pale hands were bordered with thickly curving lines, there were wide blue diamonds over the back of his hand. Tyelpe realised it was blue ink trapped within the skin of the Mole Lord. A muscle in Maeglin’s cheek twitched and he replaced the leather gauntlets.

Behind the gates the wide tunnel led uphill into the darkness. Tyelpe felt his stomach knot a little. Maeglin was right; it was not bright and cool as the mines of the Khazâdrim. The dissimilarity bothered him, calling in strange thoughts that teetered around the edges of his mind.

“Lift up your lantern,” said Maeglin.

Maeglin’s dark eyes studied the flame, which save from catching in his disconcerting eyes, did nothing.

“Good, the air is clear. If it stutters, burns low or burns ragged, the air is poisoned.”

“You said Morgoth was unaware of the mines.”

“He is. There are spirits other than Morgoth that can turn the air sour.”

They walked on in silence. Tyelpe wondered how Maeglin knew this. It was mine-craft of a different nature to that of the dwarves. Then he remembered his own words to Rôg: his father was a mine-thrall of Morgoth.”

“You learnt that from your father.”

“We all learn things from our fathers,” said Maeglin. “Even when we have disowned them.”

Their shadows flickered huge on the tunnel sides as they continued up the passageway, subterranean winds blowing warm into their faces. Tyelpe realised it was the warmth that bothered him, the mines of Nogrod had been cool and dry, but the clammy breath of Anghabar was humid and heated. A sickly sheen of sweat prickled across his skin.

As they climbed, Tyelpe noticed a steel ropeway had been driven into the tunnel wall. Every so often, Maeglin would guide him around the rusting skeleton of an ore-bucket that had fallen from the cables.

“That is very similar to the systems used by the Khazâdrim.”

“I did not learn everything I know from Morgoth.”

“I did not say you learnt anything from Morgoth.”

“But that is what is said, that is what is thought and that is what passes for wisdom; I am an elf who would willingly go beneath the ground, so I must somehow be beneath his spell.”

“Iron does not grow on trees,” said Tyelpe.

“Do you know what it is to dig in the dark so others may wear finery?”

When they ceased speaking the only sounds were the occasional drip from the dark caverns above them. Tyelpe felt his cheeks flush in the noisome air, too quiet, too hot.

“I earned my gold,” he said softly.

“Not from the Naugrim,” said Maeglin, lifting his lantern so the metal on Tyelpe’s ears glittered.

“No, from the Ñoldor.”

“By whose authority do you wear those golden wounds?” said Maeglin.

“My father's,” said Tyelpe. “They really do not hurt.”

“So he was a metal-smith too? I know the Ñoldor custom.” Tyelpe felt his ears twitch beneath Maeglin’s unblinking scrutiny.

“A smith may grant his student mastery up to one level beneath his own, am I right? Some of the Moles who assist me at the forge also have similar taggings.” He paused. “It is strange, I have never heard anything good said of the smithies of Nargathrond, and yet your father must have been a very accomplished smith indeed.”

“It should only matter that I learnt my craft, not who taught me.” Tyelpe said, “It was not Morgoth.”

Maeglin did not appear in the mood to be softened. They walked on; Tyelpe ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of Maeglin’s eyes watching his gold glitter in the dark.

After about three-quarters of an hour of walking they finally reached another polished steel gateway, of similar design to the entrance to the House of Moles, but more intricate. The branches seemed to shimmer in the tunnel breezes, like a forest swaying beneath the wind. Tyelpe knew it was an illusion caused by the clever interweaving of wrought iron and steel, yet he was still struck by the art of it. Tyelpe pressed his fingers against the warm, thrumming steel.

“The quality of your metals is impressive, Lord Maeglin.”

Maeglin did not seem in the mood for compliments either.

“Welcome to Anghabar, the Mines of the House of Mole,” said Maeglin, “From its dark heart comes the wealth of Gondolin, although they do like to forget it.”

Passing through the gateway, Tyelpe felt the air lurch and change as their shadows vanished. The left side of the tunnel plunged away into a deep chasm. In the feeble light, he took in the narrow galleries where the rock-face was being worked, rows beneath rows downward until the darkness swallowed his vision. He assumed there must be another, identical workface on the opposite side of the abyss as the haulage cables were strung out into the void. He imagined buckets of ore appearing eerily as they were winched from the unseen workings.

It was working on a scale he had only seen in Nogrod, but it had none of the bustle of the dwarven workings, the convivial ring of picks and cheerful curses. Tyelpe supposed the mines were more pleasant when they were not gloomily abandoned, but he guessed-

“You find Anghabar amusing, Enerdhil?”

“Forgive me. I was reminded of Telchar, the dwarf I had the honour of studying beneath.”

“Do the Naugrim make jokes at the rock-face?”

“Of a kind,” said Tyelpe, sure the first thing that Telchar would do with Maeglin would be to banish his sour face lest it taint the ore.

“Of a somewhat crass kind.”

“I was told I hung like a donkey’s ball-sack in my harness.”

For a moment, Tyelpe thought he caught Maeglin’s lips twitch.

“It impressed me a great deal – as a child,” said Maeglin.

Tyelpe felt himself stumble. He looked downwards and found the tunnel wall had sagged on the right side, spilling rubble over the pathway. Below him, a ragged gash had ripped across the orderly cells of the mining galleries, as if a giant hand had clawed them to oblivion.

“Unsheathe the sword,” said Maeglin.

Tyelpe did so. It was dull in the lantern light.

“So the enemy is not here.”

“No,” said Tyelpe, “Orcs are not here. This cavern does not smell of them, anyway. But there are other servants of the enemy.”

“There are,” said Maeglin, “but they do not haunt here.”

“How do you explain this?” said Tyelpe, awkwardly unhooking himself from the snarl of cable that had caught his tunic.

“Lift up your lantern,” said Maeglin.

Tyelpe held it out. It looked just like a lantern.

“Notice anything, Miner of Nogrod?”

“No,” said Tyelpe, “Other than the flame burns long.”

Maeglin narrowed his eyes in the light of the flame.

“I thought not. For the rock they hew at Nogrod is altogether a different material to the rock we cleave in the Echoriath. Look closely into the light.”

Tyelpe stared into the flame, to his eyes it looked ragged, like the edge of a cloak that had been on a long journey.

“When we left,” said Maeglin, “The flame burnt low and golden. Here it is thin and tinged with grey. Our enemy is upon us. You do not frighten easily, do you Enerdhil?”

Tyelpe wondered if he should dignify that with an answer. He wanted to snarl, ‘I’m here, am I not,’ but bit the words back.

“No,” said Tyelpe, “They say I am more than half-dwarf.”

“Lucky you,” said Maeglin, “They say I am more than half orc.”

“I have never heard such things said.”

“Then you cannot have been listening very hard.”

Tyelpe thought Maeglin should really be more of an elf and learn to ignore the idle gossips. His jaw was starting to ache from biting back on the words Maeglin inspired.

“Tell me what you read in the flame.”

“In good time. First take out the white gauze from the box on your belt and tie it as I do. We shall not have time afterwards.”

“But the air here is quite clean.”

“I am not going to tell you again,” said Maeglin, knotting the edges of the curious kerchief behind his head. Tyelpe followed suit, feeling the material was powdery against his face, as if it had been dipped in a soft chalk.

Maeglin unhooked his lantern from his belt, then unlooped the hook itself. He reached up and clipped the hook to the cableway, reattaching the lantern beneath. He dragged it backwards a little way then pushed it forward, launching it like a new star sailing into the firmament.

“Let us leave,” said Maeglin, turning to go.

Tyelpe followed, slumped slightly into an anger he could not be bothered to hide. Maeglin had shown him nothing but some Avarin superstition. Maeglin had taken him to Anghabar as a feint to expose him before Turgon. Tyelpe felt he had been tricked into a tunnel oozing with sickly heat and a morning with worst company in Middle-earth. He had learnt nothing. He was so angry he nearly missed Maeglin’s hand against his arm, commanding him to stop.

What now, thought Tyelpe, some incantation to Melkor, Lord of the Underworld?

“Grasp the cable,” said Maeglin.

Maeglin turned back to the distant lantern, tiny in the pressing darkness. He took the hammer from his belt and raised it, aimed it, drew his arm back and sent it hurtling across the chasm. Tyelpe swallowed as he saw the glass shatter and the candle fall. It fell for less than a heartbeat before a great roar rent the air of Anghabar and a hand of flame opened out a vast palm to seize it.

Tyelpe felt the cavern swell in the roiling flame. The air rushed from the walkway and Tyelpe would have been sucked into the fiery vortex, had not Maeglin thrown himself bodily over him, grasping at the cables with all his strength. Tyelpe reached behind himself and clung on too, Maeglin’s heart beat hammering against his chest. Whips of flame prized boulders from the cavern sides into the tumult of boiling flames beneath. Stones rained down from the ceiling.

“I told you to grasp the cables,” hissed Maeglin in his ear.

“Did you know it would do this?”

“Yes.”

Tyelpe felt his cheeks seared raw above his facecloth. He could smell his gauntlets singeing against the hot cable. He looked down at the lantern at his feet. It had gone out.

“The air has failed,” says Maeglin, “We must leave swiftly.”

Tyelpe turned himself awkwardly beneath Maeglin and they fumbled along the cableway as the beasts’ breath dragged them backwards. Tyelpe’s shoulders ached from the strain of pulling his body away from it along the blistering steel rope. The air stank of rotten eggs. The creature pummelled the mine walls with its flaming tail and the ground quaked beneath their feet.

“That is worse than a Balrog,” gasped Tyelpe.

“Save your air,” grunted Maeglin.

They threaded hand upon hand until the cavern walls closed in again, although the wind continued to roar up through the tunnel towards the burning chasm. They reached the Gate of the Moles and the orange glow behind them faded to a softer, flickering gold.
Tyelpe felt Maeglin curl his fingers around his hand.

“Lord Maeglin?”

“Can you see in the dark?”

“Not pitch dark.”

“Neither can I,” said Maeglin. “But I know these tunnels better than you. The powder in the cloth lasts less than an hour, so we must make haste.”

Tyelpe let Maeglin drag him down the sloping walkway, occasionally halting him to step around an overturned ore-bucket. Tyelpe was not sure he believed Maeglin could not see in the darkness.

“You may try your lantern again, once we round the next corner.”

“I left it at the mine face.”

“Idiot,” said Maeglin.

“You had just awoken a demon of the undeeps that was trying to suck me into its fiery heart. What did you suggest I picked it up with?”

“You have a hook on your belt.”

“Could you not have mentioned that before now?”

“I thought you knew your way about mines.”

“In the name of Eru, Lord Maeglin! Why must you treat everyone to the scales and spines of your bitter hide?”

Maeglin said nothing. The wind howled in its rush to meet with the fire; their footfalls echoed about the tunnel walls. Maeglin did not let go of his hand.

“You may try lowering your kerchief now,” said Maeglin.

Tyelpe lowered his mask and took a breath of air. It felt good to be free of the clinging cloth. He wiped the sleeve of his tunic across his forehead where grimy sweat was threatening to drip into his eyes.

“What have we awakened in the mines, if it was not a Balrog?”

“One of the silent hazes of the underworld,” said Maeglin, “I do not think even Morgoth can control them; they disrupt his workings as much as they do ours.”

Tyelpe realised he could hear Maeglin’s breathing as they walked. He felt mildly annoyed with himself for snapping at the peculiar elf. Maeglin spoke again, quietly:

  “Nîd-vorn, the choker; slinks upon the floors,

  Nîd-galen, the stinker; seeps from fresh hewn walls,

Nîd-faen, the poisoner; creeps in after flame,

  Nîd-naur, the killer; brings the others in his train.”

“The stinker was certainly very much in evidence,” said Tyelpe, wondering if Eöl taught Maeglin lore from the mines of Angband as a nursery rhyme.

“It was nîd-naur, the fire-damp that was lurking at Anghabar, but as the rhyme states, where he goes the others follow.”

“So what will you do with this spirit now you have aroused it to wrath?”

“Leave it to smoulder,” said Maeglin, “It will burn down in a few days, then the workings should be safe.”

“It seems a rather –hazardous - operation.”

“Iron does not grow on trees,” said Maeglin, “and as we cannot leave the leaguer of Gondolin, we have to take our ore where we can find it. You can let go of my hand now.”

Tyelpe had shut his eyes once they started to ache and throb from attempting to focus in on nothing. When he remembered this, he opened them. He had to blink hard several times before he registered the faint pearl of the entrance, looking as distant as the evening star. Tyelpe doubted his ability to see in such a fragile light, but had no wish to humble himself before the Mole Lord by begging to continue clinging to him.

He released Maeglin, who gave no further sign of acknowledgement.

When they finally emerged into the kit-room, Tyelpe felt his cheeks smart again. He was glad of the low light that Maeglin appeared to prefer, the ruddy glow from the forge was soft on his darkness-adjusted eyes.

“You may bathe before you leave,” said Maeglin, “if you do not wish small children to run in fear. The Moles have a very pleasant bath house just to the right, and the water is always warm from the heat of the forge.”

“Thank you,” said Tyelpe, “I shall if you do not mind, for I do not think my eyes are yet ready to face daylight.”

Tyelpe took of his gauntlets. The leather had singed in black-bars where he had clutched the metal rope. He unfastened his belt and left it on one of the empty benches which seemed to be the Moles’ custom.

“Take off your boots before you tread ash into my floor tiles,” called Maeglin after Tyelpe’s retreating back.

*

“Well my guess proved right,” said Gwindor. “He did learn that rhyme in Angband.”

Tyelpe nodded.

“I guessed as much, although it would have been his father he learnt it from, as he had not yet been to Angband himself.”

“I am trying to imagine what sort of parent teaches their child the wisdom they learnt as a mine thrall,” said Finduilas.

Maedhros knotted his silvery brows.

“This is the same Eöl that murdered Ar-Feiniel?” he said. “Fingon told me. I have heard little of this elf that I like, although even your father admitted he was gifted in smith craft.”

“Father hated him,” said Tyelpe. “I believe Eöl attacked a hunting party on the edge of Nan Elmoth and slew most of the hounds with poisoned darts.”

“Why in Arda did he do that?” said Gelmir.

“He hated the Ñoldor,” said Maedhros, “although I heard he himself was of the Tatyar that stayed with Morwë.”

“It was said in Nargathrond that he was kin to Thingol of Doriath,” said Gelmir.

“If you asked the Sindar they would say he was Ñoldor and if you ask the Ñoldor they said he was Sindar,” said Gwindor.

“Eöl did not hunt for sport,” said Tyelpe, “Although he and his followers did hunt for food. He would not keep any animal tame or captive either. Maeglin could never understand milk or cheese, he thought it disgusting and unnatural.”

“He would not keep an animal captive yet he kept his wife a prisoner?” said Finduilas. “No wonder his son nearly blew up our Tyelpe.”

“What else was he supposed to do with a mine full of nîd-naur?” said Gwindor.

“You know it?” said Tyelpe.

“I lost my hand to it, and the top layer of my skin. The mines of Angband were riddled with it. When we hit a pocket – the captains would make the elves draw lots to be the one who fired it, holding a long pole with burning rag at the end.” Gwindor shivered. “The elf who drew the short straw was only twenty-eight. I took it from his hand and claimed it was mine.”

“You did not tell me this,” said Finduilas.

“I did not wish you to know that,” said Gwindor. “Unlike Eöl, there are things I would protect those I love from knowing.”

“The Khazâdrim do not usually care for the type of rock that is haunted by nîd-naur,” said Tyelpe, “they prefer harder stone, stone strong enough to support the excavation of their vast halls. But when they dig for coal they encounter it. Narvi showed me the systems they had designed to vent it away.”

“It is why Morgoth prized Fëanorian lamps,” said Gwindor, “and tried to steal as many as he could. No flame so no explosions. I liberated mine when I escaped. They really are quite ingenious.”

“Maeglin stole his from his father,” said Tyelpe, “He must have got his from the mines too.”

“Three hundred and ninety seven,” said Maedhros. “Father made three hundred and ninety seven then stopped and never made another. I have no idea why he thought that number important.”

“Did you ever consider copying the design, Tyelpe?”

“I tried my hardest to steal Maeglin’s,” said Tyelpe. “He would not even let me borrow it for a night because he feared I would take my hammer to it.”

“Would you have taken your hammer to it?” asked Finduilas.

“Of course,” said Tyelpe.

“While blowing up Anghabar was surely entertaining,” said Gelmir, “you appear to have been side tracked in your quest to understand these designs of Lord Maeglin.”

“On the contrary, I have discovered two vital clues. I just had not yet realised their significance. The first I will realise soon enough. The second only fell into place in the very nick of time, when this tale turns sour and sad.”

*

Rôg took one glance at Tyelpe and his cheeks flushed as red as his hair.

“That is it,” he said quietly, “contraband Fëanorian or not, I am going to the King.”

Tyelpe had developed a pounding headache. Rôg’s anger was not helping. He was huge and red and Tyelpe hoped that he was not going to do anything stupid.

“Maeglin is an unorthodox miner,” said Tyelpe, slumping on the bed like a sack of turnips. Bathing had not rid him of the smell of sulphur. His clothes reeked of it and his hair smelt like a bonfire.

“Maeglin is a bitter half-orc who just tried to murder my under-smith.”

“No, no,” said Tyelpe. “He saved my life when the fire tried to pull me in.”

Tyelpe made a weak grasp for his boots. He realised the room was swaying. He felt a little like he had done after his experiment with the holly berries, achy, sick and cross.

“Your hair is crinkled with fire, your cheeks are singed and your eyes look twice as big as usual.”

“I have small fragments of Anghabar trapped in my eyelashes.” Tyelpe sighed. “Can you help me take my boots off? I feel quite peculiar.”

Rôg took hold of Tyelpe’s left boot and yanked. Tyelpe held on to the bed and for a moment thought the Blacksmith was going to pull his leg off before the boot gave. Tyelpe felt like the leather was sucking onto his feet.

When they had removed both boots they discovered the problem. Tyelpe’s feet looked like fat baby piglets.

“The heat,” Rôg explained, Tyelpe just felt relived his boots were off, he sat on the edge of the bed and wiggled his bloated, ridiculous toes. “Blood and darkness, what was that elf doing? I am going to ask Turgon to clap him in irons.”

“We need iron,” said Tyelpe. “He had to clear the mines.”

“Aulë’s fires, he tried to kill you,” said Rôg. “The king should never let him in the mines again.”

“Then who would take his place?”

Rôg shrugged and left the room. Tyelpe lay down at the bed. He tried to work out if he was angry with Maeglin or not and decided it didn’t matter. He could not shake the feeling he was ever so slightly poisoned.

Rôg came back and started fussing at him, pulling off his stinking tunic and getting him into fresh linen.

“These are going in the fire," said Rôg, balling up Tyelpe's fetid tunic and breeches.

“Have you ever been in Anghabar?”

“No,” said Rôg, “Maeglin never lets anyone but his Moles in there. Feet up!” Tyelpe lifted his feet so Rôg could slip a cushion beneath them. He put cold cloth over Tyelpe’s feet. “Unless he is trying to assassinate them, of course.”

“Rôg,” said Tyelpe, “You are clucking like a mother hen. Maeglin does not scare me in the slightest. He is proud, and he reminds me a little of myself when I was young. He takes himself very seriously and desperately wants the world to do the same.”

Rôg was busy ruffling through the study drawers.

“The mine though,” said Tyelpe, “every scrap of dwarf in my soul is crying out that mine is unsafe.”

“Do you keep a lot of dwarf in your soul?” said Rôg, who was now holding a delicate silver box.

"May Mahal keep my axe sharp and my beard long.”

“Here,” said Rôg, holding out the box, “you look like you have two fillets of fresh trout for cheeks.”

Tyelpe opened the box and scooped out a finger-full of the greenish salve.

“Why did you call Lord Maeglin half-orc?” said Tyelpe stroking the cool balm across his smarting cheeks.

“Because of the state of you when you walked in.”

Tyelpe hissed. Rôg looked at him.

“Sorry, the salve stings a little.”

“I should not have said that,” said Rôg.

“He said everybody calls him that.”

The salve was beginning to take the heat out of his cheeks; it smelt like open places, like fresh clear air on sandy heathland when the flowers were in bloom. Tyelpe smudged a little more over the tops of his cheekbones, before closing the box.

“You seem to have got more conversation out of him than the entire city of Gondolin to date.”

“It was mostly complaints,” said Tyelpe. “Can my report wait until after I have had a nap?”

“Nap away,” said Rôg, taking the silver box from Tyelpe’s hand.

“But tell me why Maeglin is a half-orc first.”

“I should not have said it.” Rôg sighed and sat down on the chair beside the bed. “It is little more than you told me before. The rumours that half-turned elves lived in the shadows of Nan Elmoth, already shunning the light.”

“Do you believe it then? That orcs are elves that Morgoth corrupted. Uncle Maedhros thought it was so, but I have heard other stories that they were once a strange people who lived in the Ered Engrin and fell under Morgoth’s sway.”

Rôg pushed his hand roughly through his fiery hair.

“I think the long years beneath the earth had changed the elves of Nan Elmoth, changed their customs, their culture and what they thought they were. They had hardened, their suffering had numbed them to the will of others.”

“He took the Lady Ar-Feiniel by force,” said Tyelpe. “That is what father said.” Tyelpe looked at the grime beneath his fingertips. He hated the clumsiness of the thick gloves and often worked without them, which left his fingernails grey as the nails of a corpse.

“We do not know that,” said Rôg.

“He could control the forest,” said Tyelpe. “She could not escape.”

Tyelpe felt mildly fey, as if his soul had become oddly buoyant and wanted to float up to the ceiling. He was still clammy with sweat and the thought of food turned his stomach. He pressed his hand to his forehead. “This is all very maudlin. I am afraid something in the strange heat of the mine has made me ill.”

Rôg looked at him sharply.

“Before Maeglin we had nothing but the iron we bought with us. There were some rough caves to the north that were explored for ores, but all the explorers found was a hazy sickness, that made them lightheaded and sick to the stomach. People began to believe that some foul creature had slunk down from the North and curled into the caves to die.”

“The caves that became Anghabar?” said Tyelpe.

“Yes, of course the good news is none of the mine adventurers became seriously ill, after some sleep and some fresh air, they were quickly cured of everything, including their need to explore dark underground places.”

“But Maeglin did not get ill.”

“No,” said Rôg.

“So Gondolin has iron and yet people whisper Lord Maeglin has the blood of an orc.”

“I do not see how that could be,” said Rôg.

“Neither do I,” said Tyelpe. He looked up at Rôg and felt heat flash behind his grey eyes. “My father was a full-blood Ñoldo of the Royal House of Finwë.” Tyelpe swallowed. “He kept an elf-maid prisoner in the cellars of our home.” Tyelpe ripped his thumbs angrily through the braids that framed his face, rending them, reducing them to tattered clumps of unruly hair.

Rôg took hold of Tyelpe’s hand and held it down against the coverlet.

“I was living there, and she was locked up in our cellars, while I just went about my day. My father took a woman prisoner so my uncle could marry her by force. In my home.”

Tyelpe took a deep breath. He felt his mind flapping like a bird with a broken wing. He was aware that beneath Rôg’s hand his own was shaking.

“You have sent the accursed to fight the accursed.”

Chapter 4

Read Chapter 4

“I did always wonder how Celegorm expected to survive his wedding night,” said Finduilas.

“Really,” said Maedhros, “I wondered if he sustained a head injury on the flight to Nargathrond.”

“He did not,” said Tyelpe.

“I would say,” said Finduilas, “if your plan is to lie naked beside one of the most powerful beings in Middle-earth, it would only be prudent to have that creature’s permission first.”

“It was the oath,” said Tyelpe.

Maedhros raised an eyebrow.

“There was nothing in the Oath in regards to kidnapping.”

Tyelpe stared into the void to his left; torn veils of darkness, swirling down to oblivion.

“He knew it could not be fulfilled,” said Tyelpe, “He despaired, and it corrupted him.”

“I have to say, he did not look despairing to me, nor did he sound it when he sent Finrod to his doom,” said Gelmir.

“Do you presume to know my father better than I do myself?”

There was silence. Tyelpe thought he had encountered silence before, while out in the wilds or deep beneath the earth. That was not silence, something had always hummed or scratched, a blade of grass had turned, the air had moved in a breath of wind.

The silence of Mandos was the silence of stones. It was the silence of petrification, where nothing could move and nothing would stir. It was a silence you could drown in and never speak again.

“You loved your father,” said Maedhros.

“How could you not?” said Tyelpe.

“I managed it a few times,” said Maedhros.

“And yet the belief still holds,” said Gwindor, “that an elf who has been held captive by Morgoth has lost something of his elven nature, as if the dark lord may drive holes in his soul that will always await the summons of their evil master.”

“That is untrue,” said Maedhros, “Evil can be done by any elf.”

“I suppose you would know,” said Gwindor.

“Still, it is chilly comfort to know we shall always be suspect even if Námo sees fit to rehouse us,” said Gelmir.

“We are Fëanorians,” said Maedhros, waving a hand at Tyelpe, “that is the least of our problems.”

*

Tyelpe had felt slightly out of sorts for several days after his trip to Anghabar. It was hard to put a finger on the feeling of it, other than a general sense of restlessness and a heaviness in his limbs. It passed soon enough.

“You stopped moping?” Rôg looked at Tyelpe who was curled up in bed around a draughtboard and was busy sketching without thought for the sheets.

“I did just get blown up,” said Tyelpe.

“I think Turgon was less pleased with Lord Maeglin’s heroics than he had expected, especially when I brought up the memories of the mysterious sickness that haunted the ore caves. We had Lord Maeglin quite flustered. Turgon has demanded a royal inquiry and a list of safety recommendations. Although fortunately, he has agreed to the opening of the mine again.”

Tyelpe continued to sketch. He had been busy adding the haulage system into his sketches for Maeglin’s finished machine.

“So I take it that is the end of Maeglin passing his designs on to the House of the Hammer?”

“Probably,” said Rôg, pulling up a chair beside Tyelpe’s bed. “I had not thought of that.”

“It is just as well I haven’t been malingering then,” said Tyelpe. “I am quite well, I just needed to see clearly. If I had started to work at the forge other shapes would have clouded my mind. What do you think of this?”

Rôg stared at the sketch and whistled.

“How does it work?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” Tyelpe sucked the end of his quill thoughtfully. “I saw sketches once from the Longbeard Palace out in the east of a great waterwheel that was used to turn a crank in the fashion that the crank turns here, but as you can see from the equations at the bottom, you would need the river Siron in spate to power this.” Tyelpe twisted his braid through his fingers. “Rôg, where do we get out charcoal from?”

“We submit a request for an amount each year to the palace and are then granted a much smaller quantity in the Kings Accounting. We drink wine and complain about it, but that is how scarce goods are shared out – and there are no forests in the White City.”

“And can anyone read the Kings Accounting?”

“I am sure Lady Idril could.”

“Then suggest Lady Idril looks over what Lord Maeglin has been requesting.  This peiriant must consume something to give it power.”

Rôg raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“A peiriant Enerdhil?”

“It is a dwarven term for when elves attempt mechanics. Apparently, it comes from the first mess of wheels proudly displayed to a group of dwarves by its elvish creator: Behold! The peiriant! The dwarves fell about laughing and have thought it the greatest jest ever since.”

“And now Maeglin has made one.”

“No, Maeglin has made one which works.”

*

Tyelpe was like a rat with a flea. He found himself avoiding the forge until Rôg scolded him, but his attention would not hold. His mind would not wind down to the soothing, stubborn rhythm of hammer on anvil. He was as jumpy as needles and pins which led to a stroke of his hammer nearly splitting his thumb.

Banished from the smithy, Tyelpe paced barefoot about his room, laying out Maeglin’s plans, walking over the plans. Kneeling over a detail and rising to smooth out a kink or a poor connection in his own image of the final machine. He was in a fury; a truly Fëanorian fury of sleepless nights and ragged braids. He was Maglor wrestling an evoked feeling out of dry words, he was Ambarussa on the hunt, he was Maedhros driving orcs before him with fire in his eyes and a left handed blade.

He was the one who was lost; black-scaled and sooty, bringing the tang of metal and the scratchy smell of smoke into his bedroom, come to kiss him goodnight before he returned to the fury of a three-day session at the forge.

Still he could not read the design.

Rôg scolded him that he would sicken again and found himself on the receiving end of Tyelpe’s temper:

“I shall not sicken. You do not know of what the Children of Fëanor are truly made.”

“I know they are made of elf,” said Rôg unmoved, “And if this one does not eat something soon he shall be expounding his wisdom to Mandos.”

Tyelpe stood in the midst of the parchments that he had laid out over the study floor like a carpet and laughed. To his ears he sounded half-crazed.

“I dare not go in the kitchens. The cook is still angry with me for taking his stove apart.”

“You have shadows beneath your eyes and you look like a hedgehog.”

“I meant to say, you do not know my people. The ones amongst who I was raised. We do not let go of a challenge.”

Rôg bent down and retrieved a small band of gold from among the parchment.

“Is this yours?”

Tyelpe put his hand to his ruined hair.

“It is not the piece I am missing though.”

“What is the name for them anyway these – toggles?”

“I call them clasps.”

Tyelpe took the band as graciously as he could. He needed Rôg to stop talking. He needed time to think. He ran his hand over his face.

“I am sorry. Listen to me, I am everything I must not be if I am to read this riddle.”

“Come on,” said the enormous elf, “You are the colour of ash. Sit down and tell me what you must not be.”

“That is just what I mean.” Tyelpe felt as if his very bones were shaking with the desire to keep in motion. “I am being secretive, when I should seek the wisdom of others, I am being furious when I know I should be calm. But I only know one way to be.”

“What troubles you, Smith of Nargathrond, in what you read in the designs?”

“What bothers elves about the dwarves,” Tyelpe smiled. “That no-one quite knows from whence they got the spark of life.”

“Maybe Lady Idril will have some luck in finding what Maeglin feeds his strange creation.”

“Maybe,” thought Tyelpe, picking at a grey fingernail. “Although Maeglin has the whole belly of the mountain at his disposal and may well need nothing from the King.”

“You know fire needs air as well as fuel to burn bright. You need to rest your mind on something other than lines of ink.” Rôg threw Tyelpe his cloak.  “If you cannot sit still, go and walk in the gardens until the winter sun sets.”

*

“And those were the words that sealed my doom,” said Tyelpe, feeling a memory of a pinch around his mouth that would have been a half-smile “Uncle, may I ask an impertinent question?”

“When have you ever held yourself back before?” said Maedhros.

“Was it true about you and Uncle Fingon?”

Maedhros laughed.

“You are asking if we were bound as lovers as well as crazed adventurers and kinslaying eldest sons of feuding families. That is impertinent, and it is truly none of your business.”

“Such bonds were not unheard of,” said Finduilas, “although they were rarely spoken of. In my wardrobe, I once found my chief seamstress naked and engaged in an act of love with Nelleth my lute player. When I questioned them about it afterwards they stated they had discovered their love in Valinor much as other couples do, and except for having to exercise some creativity in achieving the physical act of union, they felt themselves no different to any other elven pair.”

“Nelleth and Ithilwen?” said Gelmir, “I thought everybody knew that.”

“I did not,” said Tyelpe.

“Might I ask an impertinent question?” said Maedhros. “Why is this of interest to you, Tyelpe?”

“Because I argued with a dwarf once. He thought I had marred his doors.”

Tyelpe felt the word happy again, bubbling up like a spring through stony mountainside, wrestling with the golden-ringed fingers for the meaning it once held.

“Which was more than fair, because in truth, I had.” Tyelpe smiled, “You were there uncle, the shining star of the House of Fëanor, the stricken anvil of Durin’s folk, the Two Trees of Valinor, I put all I had loved into that work, into my dream and when they were finished I showed off my work, flushed with pride in the moonlight.”

“Was not the stricken anvil the sign of Rôg’s house too?” said Maedhros.

“So it was,” said Tyelpe. “The dwarf was my good friend Narvi, who had started to wail:”

- You have ruined them!

“At first I could not think what he meant, for even I knew the work was beautiful, from the Fëanorian silver-blue light trapped inside the mithril to the curved archway adorned with words of friendship in Tengwar.”

- Durin’s hammer! Never trust an Elf with a work of importance.

“Narvi stood and stared, rending his beard in rage. I followed his gaze to the silvery words which had transfixed him.”

  Ennyn Durin Aran Moria

The ghostly elves shivered.

“So once you had insulted Durin as King of the Black-void, did he take his axe to you?” asked Gwindor.

“It was close,” said Tyelpe. “At first I tried to dissemble, saying the doors were meant for elven use, and that was the name of Khazâd-dûm in the elven tongue. Narvi continued to tear his beard.”

-  None that are welcome here. My doors Shorty; my life’s work -.

- My love. I loved the darkness once, the black-pit, for it was what I saw in the eyes that still hold my heart.

- You have not spoken of this before.

- It is not after the manner of dwarves to discuss their hearts’ inner secrets.

“To my relief Narvi took his hands from his beard. Sensing that a truce had been called, I continued:”

- It comes to something, when a dwarf would shun the darkness. Is it not you who is always telling me you mistrust the golden light?

- The light is fine. It is the owner I mistrust. He wants your soul, Shorty, you mark my words.

- Well he cannot have it. Did you not hear me? It is already taken by another.

- Somehow I cannot see that stopping him.

- I do not think I am going to get a tombstone Narvi. In our secret light, I would all that I had loved be remembered here.

- Of course you are not going to get a tombstone, you are a bloody elf, you go on and on until the levelling of the mountains.

- I have seen the leveling of mountains.

- Well there we are then. Leave an elf in the moonlight for ten minutes and you get no sense from them. Come on, let us get inside and we shall say nothing more on it.

“So you loved him,” said Maedhros, “This unwilling spirit of nightshade and the deep forest.”

“Yes,” said Tyelpe, “He thought I had terribly poor taste.”

“Did he return your love?” asked Finduilas.

“I do not think he knew how,” said Tyelpe, then paused. “I am being unfair, he did love me.”

“You sound very sure of that for such a slippery creature,” said Gwindor.

“Slippery as elm-bark,” Tyelpe said, “Cool as pines, secret as the heart of the forest.”

“Go on,” said Gwindor, “We do love a good love story.”

“It ended very badly,” said Tyelpe.

“They usually do,” said Gwindor.

*

Tyelpe paced about the garden, although he barely noticed the trees. He was scrolling through his fathers’ book of equations, of the horses needed to turn a winch, of the volume of water needed to turn a millstone. He remembered sitting beside his father as they scratched in the unknown numbers, combined equations, painstakingly chipped away until the figures were revealed. Once they had an answer his father would flip the pages of the book and Tyelpe would squeal in delight as the numbers broke free of their sums and danced through mid-air.

“It is good that you are back in your feet, Enerdhil.”

Tyelpe returned to late-afternoon Gondolin and a slight headache above his right eye. Maeglin was standing a little way up the path from him, with his back to the sunset and his face in shadow.

“It is good to see Anghabar is working again, Lord Maeglin.”

Maeglin stepped towards him, bringing his sharp, black eyes into view. Animal eyes, thought Tyelpe, eyes of a creature that is hunted, that scurries through the undergrowth.

“That is not the impression you gave in your report.”

“To the contrary – did you not read the passage where I commented very favorably on the strength of the walls, the construction of the tunnels and the judicious use of pit-props, referencing the three Khazâdrim mining disasters and the oral tradition of mine safety that has developed following them?”

They were now stood facing each other, Maeglin with his back to the bright city, Tyelpe wincing slightly as the low sun leveled with his eyes, sending blinding rays around Maeglin’s dark form.

“You went into greater detail about the explosion.”

“It does rather stick in the mind.”

“It is standard practice for the dispersal of flammable hazes.”

He is angry, thought Tyelpe. He is hiding it well, but that bloodless skin keeps no secrets and there was a slight flush along his cheekbones. Tyelpe felt strangely pleased to have angered the other elf, payment in full, he thought, for all the discomfiture you have given me.

“Standard practice can always be improved on.”

“So my Lord Turgon thinks. He was quite taken by your proposal for a ventilation system. I can only hope it is as effective as my method.”

“Rôg informed me that you would consider it on my head were the system to fail.”

Maeglin turned aside, lowering his head.

“I have lost elves to the Nîd-naur,” Maeglin drew level to Tyelpe, “I am a miner, not some lordling who had an extended jaunt to the Naugrim. I live my life underground and value the lives of the elves who work alongside me. I trust my methods to keep them safe.”

“Very well,” said Tyelpe, “As you will. So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Lord Rôg has some old designs of mine that I would like to study again.”

Tyelpe turned and fell into step beside Maeglin.

“Your peiriant?”

Maeglin lifted his head and looked hard into Tyelpe’s face.

“Where did you learn that word?”

“On my little holiday to Nogrod,” said Tyelpe airily. He found having the upper hand in a conversation with Maeglin a very cheering turn of events. He lifted his head higher, letting his replaced clasps flash in the sun. “How did you become familiar with it?”

“That is no concern of yours.”

“But I can see you are familiar with the style of Nogrod. Studying your designs was almost like being back there.”

“So Rôg has let you study the designs.”

“Of course. I am his under-smith and so I am the one he consults with on realising any complicated work.” Tyelpe smiled a very Curufin-the-Crafty smile. “Besides you know this or you would not be asking for them back.”

They reached the Hall of Blacksmiths. Tyelpe was feeling wondrously daring, cherishing a hope that if prodded in the right way, Maeglin may let slip the clue he needed. He led Maeglin directly to the cluttered study that had become his quarters, and was pleased to see Maeglin’s eyes widen as he took in the arrangement of plans on the floor.

Tyelpe watched the flush of anger drain from Maeglin’s face as he took in his own sketched projections of Maeglin’s machine.

“There is one thing I know,” he said coldly, “there is one thing of use that I brought out of Nan Elmoth, one thing that can make me shine. And you, Smith of Nargathrond would take it from me.”

“Nonsense,” said Tyelpe, “I have no desire to take anything from anybody. You have a skill unlike anything I have seen before.” Tyelpe looked at Maeglin who was staring blankly at the sketches. He looked very young, and very sad. “I just – for various reasons – happen to be very skilled myself. Surely we would achieve more working together than trying to compete against each other in the dark.”

Maeglin looked up. For a moment he stood dead still, jet black eyes staring into nothingness. He took one step forward and pushed the rough leather of his glove across Tyelpe’s face, leant down and kissed him like a maiden.

The soft smack as their dry lips met echoed through Tyelpe’s head. The mouth against his was warm, intriguing; Tyelpe was just reaching out his tongue to explore further when it was withdrawn.

His lips tingled from the contact. He felt the in-rush of blood; his skin warming as if it were readying itself for touch.  He sensed something swooping, down-falling, like a hammer striking upon the anvil of the earth.

  And doom fell on Tinúviel.

Or as the Khazâdrim say, Mahal brings down his hammer and the world is riven.

Maeglin was getting up to go, which was no good at all. He was almost at the doorway when Tyelpe caught his wrist, causing static to crackle and snap at his fingertips. Maeglin jumped, but Tyelpe felt calm. They were both blacksmiths, it was oddly natural that their bodies should strike sparks.

“Wait!”

His voice sounded thick. Maeglin looked at his trapped hand and then up into Tyelpe’s face. Tyelpe cupped the back of Maeglin’s head with his hand and pulled him into a kiss.

This kiss was longer, more familiar. Tyelpe shut his eyes and let his tongue languidly explore Maeglin, running over the roof of his mouth, stroking against his tongue until they twined together, gasping into each other’s mouths.

He ran his fingers roughly through Maeglin’s sleek, ink-black hair; he caressed the crest of a hip-bone as it rose from the waistband of Maeglin’s breeches, gently stroking the shadow between bone and smooth skin. Maeglin panted and flinched, turning his body so their hips pressed together hard.

They stared at each other in shock, lips still moist and swollen from the kiss. Tyelpe reached up and stroked his Maeglin’s lip gently; calming him as if he were a wild animal, calming himself.

“We are aroused,” said Tyelpe, moving their hips together experimentally. He laughed. “I do not know what I was expecting to happen.”

Our bodies act as if we were any other couple, thought Tyelpe, desiring physical union to consolidate our –

“I do not know what to do,” said Maeglin, the edge of fear in his voice sending a rush of blood down to Tyelpe’s crotch. He wrapped his arms around the other, pulling their bodies desperately together as they kissed, Tyelpe discovering he could gain relief by pushing his arousal hard against Maeglin’s.

“I want to see you naked. I want to touch you and kiss you on your body. You know how to do that?”

“This door does not lock,” hissed Maeglin, breaking the kiss to stare black-eyedly at the door. “Someone could walk in at any moment.”

Maeglin looked dazed. Tyelpe whispered into his ear.

“I need to taste your skin. I do not care if it sends the whole city gossiping.”

“My chambers lock.”

Maeglin had stilled in Tyelpe’s arms; he seemed frozen. Tyelpe released him and he straightened out his disarranged clothes. Tyelpe noted with satisfaction the flush on his cheekbones remained.

“I shall bring your plans back this evening, and we shall discuss the matter further.”

Maeglin nodded. Tyelpe kissed his cheek.

“It will be alright. It will be good, I promise.”

*

Tyelpe looked at the pale-grey remnants of elves gathered before him, leaning forward bright-eyed and twitchy with curiosity.

“That was a very brief courtship,” said Gwindor.

“There seemed no point in drawing it out. We had no families to consult, no others that bound us. We were as free to lie together as the first-woken elves in the wildwood.”

“Except Maeglin was doomed to die in Gondolin and his spirit wonder as a houseless Avari.”

“I was not thinking of that at the time,” said Tyelpe.

“Thank Eru you were not in Nargathrond when that mortal twit showed up or there would have been two of you mooning after that accursed dolt.”

Gwindor looked as though he was heaving a sigh, even though he was no longer in need of breath.

“Brother -,” said Gelmir, resting a ghostly arm on his shoulder.

“You sound just like him,” said Tyelpe.“In truth, after five hundred years I thought I had become as the Khazâdrim masters; they find deep love in friendship and their life is lived through that which they make. I craved the fire in the blood of a new creation and suffered the dismal heartbreak of a design that cruelly fails. I did not see the use of the unstable bonds that joined the flesh of lovers, although I supposed I might have wanted children one day.

“So I am assuming you two magicians of mechanics managed to work out which piston thrust into which cylinder,” Maedhros silvery eyebrow hovered upwards.

“Maeglin would say nothing of the designs,” said Tyelpe coolly, “even though we became lovers.”

They did not need to know the details. They did not need to know of the tender awkwardness of the first time they were naked together. They did not need to know that Tyelpe let his Fëanorian curiosity run wild, until he could smell Maeglin on his fingers and taste him muskily in his mouth.

They did not need to know Maeglin was shamed by his blue skin. Instinctively, Tyelpe had reached out to touch the thick swirls beneath his collar bone. Maeglin knocked his hand away. My father’s marks, he had said, I did not ask for them. It was between them that Tyelpe had felt Maeglin’s pulse beat hard through his skin as he touched him, read the spike of terror that sometimes over-rode desire. They did not need to know Maeglin had been afraid.

He never accused Maeglin of fear, for he knew that would be disastrous. Yet he knew Maeglin knew he was aware of it, it seeped wordlessly out of the black eyes that stared at him as he worked his hand over the tip of Maeglin’s cock, biting his lip at the skill with which the other controlled his arousal.

  You know but are not afraid.

They did not need to know how he had taken Maeglin’s hands and put them on his most intimate places, spread his legs and encouraged him to explore between them, the strange uncharted territory beneath his ball sack and down to his arsehole.

They did not need to know Maeglin seemed less fearful touching another’s body. Neither did they need to know the pleasure Tyelpe felt watching Maeglin explore his hidden places, noting which points caused Tyelpe’s cock to twitch and his hips to buck. He watched Maeglin observing his flushed and aching flesh as if he were determining the qualities of a new alloy, pushing his finger against Tyelpe’s quivering arsehole with Ñoldorin curiosity shining brightly from his eyes.

He is less afraid when his hands are on my body, thought Tyelpe, then Maeglin’s finger slipped within his arse, down through the ring of muscle to stroke deep inside his body.

They did not need to know that Tyelpe went into a near-trance when he was touched there, deadly calm and painfully aroused. That he had sat up as Maeglin continued to stroke him, clenching rhythmically around his lover’s finger, drowning Maeglin in open mouthed kisses so that he may share the taste of this restful bliss and the burning ache coiled at the base of my spine.

The skin on Maeglin’s cheek was flushed red with passion, but his skin was singing with fear and a little shame. Tyelpe sensed they were powerfully close, he felt as if his fëa had come loose from his hröa and was pushing softly against Maeglin. He kissed the pale elf’s cheek.

“By Eru and Varda, maker of the stars, please fuck me.”

They did not need to know how utterly devoid of grace it had been. That they had used some kind of burn-ointment that made the room stink of camphor. That Tyelpe had knelt before Maeglin and kissed the rod that would impale him, suckled it as hard as iron. That it had taken Maeglin three attempts to enter him and that he came hard inside Tyelpe within minutes.

They did not need to know how achingly tender Tyelpe had felt towards Maeglin as he collapsed onto his chest, stunned and shaking from the experience of orgasm. He stoked Maeglin’s back gently as he came back to himself, shifting Maeglin slightly so he could watch Tyelpe lazily stroke his own arousal. Maeglin had made some muttered murmur of defeat and Tyelpe had softly laughed into his hair. Did you forge a blade perfectly at your first attempt?

Maeglin had looked lost. Tyelpe suddenly remembered that the elf beside him was from Nan Elmoth, and Eru only knows how he was made to learn his craft.

Maeglin had kept his dark eyes fixed on Tyelpe’s hand teasing at his cockhead, muttering that Enerdhil sounded like a dwarf.

Tyelpe had smiled and said, I learnt a lot from dwarves.

But it had been his crafty father who had told him the secret of love and patience, the gentle secret that accomplishes great art.

Tyelpe had carded his fingers roughly through Maeglin’s black hair, raven black, as if he would sweat blue ink from the darkness of it. Maeglin’s body felt slack from orgasm, but Tyelpe was still taut as a bow-string. He had nosed down to Maeglin’s neck and nibbled him into alertness. Kiss me, touch me, make me come.

And so it went, until the sparrows chirped their morning chorus, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

“Tyelpe?” said Maedhros.

“I apologise,” said Tyelpe, “I must have drifted off.”

“Pleasant memories?” said Gwindor, rolling his eyes.

“Yes they were,” said Tyelpe, “I had forgotten I had them. I had forgotten what it was like when something good happened to me.”

“Was not Maeglin-,” said Maedhros.

“- The Moriquendi who wanted to sleep with the Princess. Yes. He saw marriage to Idril as acceptance, – the banishment of Eöl from his history. He would belong in Gondolin at last. He desired this very much, and with very little hope, although he had no love for her bodily.”

“She was a Ñoldo,” said Finduilas, “She would not willingly bind to one who did not love her.”

“Yes,” said Tyelpe, “She knew of his desire and she despised him for it. She saw him as one who saw her as an object, a silmaril, to be plucked from Turgon’s court and paraded in victory.”

“Besides, from Tyelpe’s smiles it seems that Maeglin is very much bound to him,” said Gelmir

“Maeglin was not raised under Ñoldorin laws and customs,” said Tyelpe.

“The bond still holds,” said Gelmir.

“I was going to say,” said Maedhros, “was not Maeglin the traitor of Gondolin?”

“Yes,” said Tyelpe, “That was true, he was captured and broken into a willing servant of Morgoth.”

“The cuinagorthrim,” said Maedhros, “The living dead, the ones that crawl.”

Gelmir shuddered.

“Yes,” said Tyelpe, “I guess that now.”

“For those who did not make it to Angband?” said Finduilas

“The cuinagorthrim were our worst fear,” said Gwindor, “They were as hröa from whom the spirit had departed. The ones who sat down and waited quietly for death. They had no fear of beatings; they did not care for warmth or food. They were the terminal stage of Angband’s degradation and the orcs would to cut them down like dead leaves from a tree.”

Tyelpe smiled. “Your worst fear.”

“Yes,” said Gwindor, “I do not see why you find it so amusing.”

Tyelpe laughed. The other elves were looking as though he were a quendë possessed.

“Your worst fear, the gaoler in the shadows, the sorrow of the Ñoldor,” he paused, trying to contain the laughter that was still threatening to burst out of him. “Stand forth, Lord Maeglin – I would recognise your sulks anywhere.”

Nothing happened. The four other silver figures continued to stare at Tyelpe, who was now on his feet, standing before the impenetrable dark.

Tyelpe’s laughter rang hard and shrill on the silent stones of Mandos, the cold walls of the Halls of Waiting echoed with his beautiful, crazed, Fëanorian laughter.

“It is just the darkness,” said Gwindor softly.

Tyelpe shook his head as if he were working his brains loose.

“Come out of the darkness, Lord Maeglin,” said Tyelpe, “causing terror to tormented souls is beneath you.”

The silence that fell in after Tyelpe’s laughter was thick as porridge. Noise fell dead against the flagstones; Tyelpe should have heard his heartbeat, should have heard his breathing, but in the dead world of Mandos, fear travels unaccompanied.

There was one minute of this perfect silence. The vortex swirled as empty as the void, and then at its heart, something coalesced, inky coils merged and twisted into the shape of an elf, more smoke than silver, a wispy black outline around a fëa as pale as chalk.

The shadow hovered in the void for a moment and then stepped forward onto the flagstones before Tyelpe.

“Welcome to the ward of the Ñ-specials, Maeglin Lómion,” said Maedhros. “You have been expected for some time.”

---

Chapter End Notes

This owes a lot to alackofghosts characterisations of Celebrimbor and Maeglin, and their first kiss is taken right from one of her illustrations. Tyelpe's interest in Maeglin's hip bone can also be seen here