Smith of Nargathrond by Lipstick

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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

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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 Tyelpe’s breath sent clouds into the biting air as he waited, listening to the scrape of metal as the lock was withdrawn and the door creaked open.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.”