Outsiders of Gondolin Mutual Defence League by Himring

Prologue

Aredhel and Maeglin leave Nan Elmoth; their ill-fated arrival in Gondolin.

A drabble sequence, perhaps to be expanded.

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White in the Sunshine

He stepped out of the eaves of the forest and blinked, squinting over the plain. Behind him, he heard her breathe out deeply, like a sigh. He turned and saw her stand tall in the sunlight.

As a child I thought it was just the way things were. All our secrets were games we played, never a conspiracy against the jailer. That is what she wanted me to see, so much that she had lost sight of the truth herself, perhaps.

Only when I grew up, made my own bid for freedom, did I see how she had been held.

Outside Gondolin

In the middle of a wilderness of rocks, Aredhel stopped. ‘I must change.’ She took off the dun kirtle she had taken from her chest when Maeglin first spoke of flight and stood revealed in white again. Maeglin watched, bewildered.

‘They might not know me, in such a novel manner of dress,’ she explained. He detected reluctant shame in her face. It was unanticipated; his heart lurched, fearing she was ashamed of him, too.

She caught his wrist, strongly. ‘You are my son, my son’, she said. ‘But stay safe, stay behind me, until we are sure of our welcome.’

 

 

At last, they stood at the foot of the cliff.

‘Here,’ said Aredhel, indicating the mouth of the tunnel.

‘Here?’ echoed Maeglin, and although it was he who had urged the destination of their flight at the outset, suddenly he was in doubt, wishing that they could have ridden on together, fast and free in the sunlight, just the two of them, without stopping anywhere at all.

‘Is there no other way?’ he asked, hesitantly.

‘This is the way.’ She shivered, in her thin white dress. ‘A new life, for you! And I will be right beside you,’ she said.

 

A Cold Thought

Mother’s boy.

‘You shall be my guide and I shall be your guard,’ he had promised her but, in the end, it was she who had to guard him from attack, she who had intercepted the sudden javelin and the double death it bore—dead, for his sake, before she had even spoken long to those she had missed.

He tried to think only of her, not of the other, of him, but could not help knowing that before the hot anger and violence, there must have been another, colder moment, when the javelin’s point had been dipped in poison.

‘It is efficient,’ he had said, during one of their journeys, when Maeglin asked cautiously about the use of poison (because Mother had said only orcs…?).

What game needed hunting so efficiently, on the trail of his wife and his son? Not merely resentment flaring momentarily in the face of insult, then!

The poison of that knowledge entered deep into the bone, until Maeglin was cold, colder than his mother’s corpse before him.

‘If I had been able to say to Turgon, the next day: that is my father? But I could not nor fit my mouth around the words.’

 

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Chapter End Notes

Notes on White in the Sunshine

1 x 100 words in MS Word.
Written for the prompt "White Lady" at Tolkien Weekly.

As is evident from elsewhere in my stories, I'm inclined to take a dark view of "not wholly unwilling".

I do understand the motives of those who detect Noldorin prejudice and want to write a revisionist account.

 

Notes on Outside Gondolin:

Aredhel's white dress canonically allows the pursuing Eol to find their tracks again at this point and has drawn comment. According to my take on the situation here, she wasn't wearing it out of carelessness, vanity or other reasons that have been suggested, but because she was worried that the guards of Gondolin would not recognize her otherwise. Certainly, Voronwe later on is very concerned that both Tuor and he will be killed as they approach Gondolin (his anxiety is emphasized in the version in the Unfinished Tales), so even at this earlier date there might appear to be a risk.

2 x 100 words according to Word.
Written for two prompts of the New Challenge at Tolkien Weekly on LiveJournal: new clothes, new life.

 

Notes on Cold Thought:

Tolkien 100 prompt: Cold be Hand and Heart and Bone

 

Lemon Tarts of Gondolin

The first conversation.

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The lemon tart was rapidly becoming a problem. It sat within easy reach in lonely splendour on a huge platter in the middle of the table, long after most of Turgon’s court had risen to dance, twirling elegantly about each other in the middle of the hall.

Salgant had resolved that he would on no account have a second helping of dessert and, up until the last couple of minutes, he had had every hope of keeping that resolution.

Now, after trying to keep a conversation going with Maeglin for about an hour, he felt himself crumbling in every way.

 

He had sought out Maeglin’s company out of sympathy for a fellow outsider. At least, he was sure it had been fellow feeling and compassion that had motivated him, mainly, even if maybe other not quite so noble feelings might have played a part as well.

Who could have helped feeling sorry for Maeglin after all, stranded as he was among virtual strangers, after his own father had tried to kill him and ended up killing his mother instead and then had himself been killed by Maeglin’s uncle? What a horrendous mix-up! And Maeglin was so young for it, too!

 

But he had quickly discovered that sympathy alone did not equip him to deal with the situation he had brought on himself. He had tried to ask Maeglin questions and received monosyllabic answers. He had trotted out his best and most entertaining anecdotes and realized that they were banal. He had tried to make jokes and they had come out flat and unfunny. Clearly, he was in no way as interesting or intelligent a conversationalist as he hoped he was. 

Despite the recent banquet, Salgant was now feeling ravenously hungry. How long could he go on ignoring that lemon tart?

 

‘You worry too much,’ said Maeglin, suddenly. 

Salgant blinked in surprise. It was the first comment that Maeglin had freely offered. Salgant had no idea where it was coming from. Had Maeglin actually been listening to anything he said?

‘So, we’re not like them,’ said Maeglin. ‘Why should we care?’

There was so much wrong with this that Salgant’s jaw dropped and he was stricken dumb—especially because Maeglin clearly did care, badly. 

But Maeglin picked up the tart, delicately taking the tiniest bite.

‘See?’ And he smiled, genuinely smiled at Salgant. ‘Not a problem any more. Now it’s taken.’

---

Chapter End Notes

Of course ultimately this friendship ends in disaster, but maybe it need not have if it hadn't been for Morgoth.

This chapter is 4 x 100 words in Word.

Prompts: "resolutions" and "mix up"

Inventing Gondolin

The dream city.

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‘You’ve stopped talking to me, Salgant.’

‘You didn’t seem all that entertained...’

‘True, I wasn’t entertained, but I was trying to follow, trying to work out why things were meant to be funny.

I thought I knew Gondolin, Salgant. I’d imagined it all, from my mother’s stories. Uncle Turgon was just like my father, only without the not-so-good bits, and I’d convinced myself there was a place waiting for me here. Here, I’d fit right in! Then we arrived and I realized right away, even before…

I’d invented Gondolin, Salgant, out of whole cloth. The city was nothing like that.’

‘Your mother had left things out?’

It was still strange—wrenching—to think of their lady Ar-Feiniel in Nan Elmoth and worse, knowing the end of it.

‘My mother left things out in her stories, yes—fewer major things than you might think, but so many small ones that it did not even occur to her to mention. And I asked no questions, or the wrong ones, content to believe Gondolin would be Nan Elmoth, only with more room to breathe… ’

‘You’ll get used to us in time.’

‘Maybe. Keep talking, Salgant, as I try to work things out.’

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Chapter End Notes

I think the canonical account is probably meant to hint at Maeglin's future plotting when his reaction to Aredhel's stories is described.
But I have a hard time believing that Maeglin would think of Turgon's not having a "heir" as one of the Edain might, because even in Beleriand, elven kings are not expected to die or their heirs to succeed to the throne as the natural course of things. Instead, I tend to read Maeglin's reaction as the kind of wish fulfilment or adoption fantasy that children do indulge in, in less happy moments: the idea that there is somewhere out there someone who fully appreciates them. This kind of dream often doesn't survive contact with reality, but in Maeglin's case the outcome is especially traumatic.

The Tolkien100 prompt here was "in time". This chapter is 2 x 100 words in Word.

Under the Trees

Trees of Nan Elmoth and trees of Gondolin.

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He trusted the trees at first. Like a true child of twilight he played among their roots; they were both protection and company. It was only later that their dark branches began to lie like prison bars across his mind—like his father’s grasp, controlling, confining, unable to let go.

Maeglin stood peering up into the radiance of Belthil and Glingal, glittering work of his uncle’s hands, fashioned with the Noldorin skill he had come here to learn. It bothered him that they were trees. Out of sight, but inescapable, hovered the shadow of his own trees, black now, unforgiving.

Salgant, who was serious enough about art to forget awkwardness, said, squinting upward: ‘Brilliant, of course. Only, they are memories—neither the real thing nor something entirely in themselves. You feel the lack; sometimes I just want to do something like string a clothes line between them.

It was strange for the Sindar, at first, coming here from Nevrast to live among Noldorin memories, I think. You might like Finrod’s work better, if I could show you Nargothrond.’

Salgant bought Maeglin a tree in a bowl, stunted in its growth, an expensive item: ‘You see? Regardless, its leaves are green.’

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Chapter End Notes

"Child of Twilight" is the meaning of the name Lomion given to Maeglin by Aredhel. 
Belthil and Glingal are images of the Trees of Valinor that Turgon made.

2 x 100 words in Word. The Tolkien100 prompt was "under the trees", which I also used as a title.

Salgant Attempts to Soothe Maeglin with Music

Salgant of the House of the Harp attempts to comfort his bereaved new friend Maeglin, who is feeling less than happy in Gondolin, with music and song. It is not a straightforward task.

[This was written for B2MeM 2018 and is not fixed-length.]

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‘I could ask Sindar to teach me songs from Doriath’, offers Salgant, meaning: maybe they were sung in Nan Elmoth, too?

‘Thank you’, says Maeglin, meaning: don’t.

‘I can learn how to adjust my style to make it less Noldorin’, says Salgant.

‘No, thank you’, says Maeglin, even more firmly, meaning: that is just what I’m worried about.

But the familiar songs of Gondolin won’t do, not on a day like this, with Maeglin in such a bleak mood that even the sky above Gondolin and the earth beneath his feet seems to trouble him, nor will songs of Valinor do, for Maeglin refuses utterly ever to indulge in dreams of unattainable white cities on green hills again.

But, even though he has neither Maglor’s voice nor Ecthelion’s skill, Salgant’s faith in music is not so easily shaken and, despite the lack of encouragement, he goes on trying, taking up his harp and plucking a few notes, observing Maeglin’s reaction, until eventually he finds that Maeglin can enjoy songs and stories of Nevrast, even on dark days; he likes to think of his mother riding by the sea, despite the fact that he has never seen it, or of her hunting by lake Linaewen, long before she met Eol.

It seems like quite the achievement to see Maeglin soothed by songs of wind in the reeds or waves breaking along the coast, but Salgant later comes to regret it—for when Tuor arrives from Nevrast, with the favour of Ulmo on him, it seems to make things worse: Maeglin silently turning his back on what had until then been his favourite tunes as if they, too, have now betrayed him.

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Chapter End Notes

Written for B2MeM 2018 and its general theme Music of the Waters. The prompt used was the image of a pond with trees (initial prompt no. 29).
I have interpreted the prompt as Lake Linaewen in Nevrast.

If anyone would like some harp music to go with this piece, I would suggest Alan Stivell's "Ys" (found on YouTube in several versions, including a cover version by Sylvain Demonchaux with beautiful images of waves).

I uploaded this as a separate story in the same series on AO3.

Small Sizes

Salgant and Maeglin in a short exchange about body size.
Maeglin has a comment to make about cultural relativity.

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‘I was slender just once in my life—when, after long starvation, we reached the Hither Shores, crossing the Ice.’

Salgant actually sounded wistful, even though all Gondolin agreed about the horrors of the Crossing. Maeglin looked sceptical.

‘You don’t believe I could ever be slim, under any circumstance?’

‘What I think is: half-starved would not be a good look on you. Your bones are more—dwarvish than other people’s.’

‘Thanks for the compliment!’

‘You think dwarves are ugly? But you’ve never been to Nogrod. A few days completely surrounded by dwarves—Salgant, you’d start feeling impossibly spindly. Even you!’

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Chapter End Notes

The Tolkien 100 prompt was: Upon this Hither Shore.

In my take on things, Maeglin has no real friends among the Dwarves, because he was never there long enough, or in relaxed enough circumstances, to do so. But he has learned things from them, and it is not meant to imply he is anti-Dwarf.

1 x 100 words in MS Word

A Three-Course Meal

In the meantime, Maeglin has become head of his own House, the House of the Mole, and has consequently hired a cook.
Maeglin takes measures to prevent another lemon-tart problem.
(And Salgant thinks of almost everything in terms of art.)

Read A Three-Course Meal

Maeglin finds his cook stirring a mysterious dark liquid in a huge pot. She hands over to her assistant in order to give her new master her attention.

‘I’m planning to invite Salgant for a private meal.’

‘Salgant?’ the cook responds. ‘That’s a lord who likes his food!’ Quickly, she starts scribbling on a scrap of paper. ‘I’m thinking this, for the menu…’

Maeglin reads and frowns. ‘Pork sausages?’

The cook draws herself up. ‘What’s wrong with my pork sausages?’

She came highly recommended. He had hoped for better than this.

‘Nothing. But this—this is a menu for Rog!’

‘For Rog? Not for Salgant?’

Maeglin will eat anything, whatever keeps him going at the forge. Gondolin’s food is as strange to him as anything else in the city. If he can’t make himself clear, he may need to replace the cook. He tries...

‘The starter—that’s all right. You could add something, even, make it a little more filling, take the edge off. But the main course is too heavy. And the dessert, that should be really light.’

Good, she is listening.

He needs Salgant to be comfortable as his guest, not confronted with mountains of food, however delicious.

The dessert is a concoction beaten and whipped to a froth so light that almost it could float off the spoon and away through the window.

Maeglin has been watching Salgant closely during the meal, for signs of tension or enjoyment. His first success as a host!

‘My compliments to your cook!’

‘I asked her to prepare something specifically for you. I’m glad that worked.’

Salgant is surprised. Then he nods, smiles.

‘She is an artist.’

‘An artist? The cook?’

‘Like a painter. Many are good, but only in their own style. But true adepts can excel with any palette!’

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Chapter End Notes

Tolkien Weekly prompts: stir, add, beat.
3 x 100 words in MS Word

Sister Sword to Anglachel

Rog is not as wise as Melian, but he knows about swords.
The sword Anguirel catches his eye.

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‘Let me see that sword of yours, young Maeglin,’ said Rog.

Anguirel, his father’s sword that Maeglin had stolen almost on impulse, noticing only later how the theft conflicted with his claim that he had outgrown Eol’s teaching. Had he intended to buy Turgon’s favour with it? 

Maeglin reluctantly handed it over. Rog studied it carefully, sifting through his impressions.

‘Truly excellent metalwork,’ he commented, ‘and the material is remarkable! But…’

‘But it’s not Noldorin?’ Maeglin asked, defensively.

‘I have seen Sindarin smith-work,’ said Rog mildly. ‘Something about this troubles me, and it’s not that.’

Maeglin shrugged, sheathing the sword. 

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Chapter End Notes

This is, obviously, inspired by the scene in which Melian warns Beleg against Anglachel and Beleg ignores the warning.
It has been suggested Rog may not be entirely Noldorin, because of his very untypical name. At any rate, I chose him here as someone who would probably not be prejudiced against others' work, but who might genuinely sense something about Anguirel that makes him uneasy.

The prompt for this was "sift".

For us the time is short

Hurin and Huor have obtained leave from Turgon to leave Gondolin, partly by pointing out their short life span.
Maeglin told them, in Turgon's hearing: "the law is become less stern than aforetime".
After that conversation, Maeglin visits Caragdur, where Eol was executed.

Read For us the time is short

He stood gazing out over the precipice. Nobody came here; he was surprised to hear steps approaching.

It was Hurin.

‘I asked why you said what you did. They told me about your parents. I am sorry.’

Maeglin gazed at him rather blankly. It had been the first time he had ever come close to saying to Turgon: Could you not have let him go?

‘I do not begrudge you the leave,’ he said finally.

How staunchly the young Mortal believed in Gondolin, in Turgon’s plans! Even though, when his home was attacked, Turgon had not moved hand or foot.

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Chapter End Notes

The title is quoted from Hurin's previous words to Turgon, when he was persuading Turgon to let them go.
Maeglin is said to dislike all Men, in this passage in the Silmarillion, although it seems very unlikely he had actually met any at this point besides Hurin and Huor, so I'm choosing to take that statement with a grain of salt, coloured by knowledge of the later development with Tuor. The wording of Maeglin's comment to Hurin reads to me as if it is really aimed at Turgon.
It's interesting to consider that, by Elvish standards, Maeglin might still be be as young as Hurin is here, by the standards of the Edain, although the text never seems to make anything of Maeglin's age, after his arrival in Gondolin.

Written for the prompt: Doomed to Die.

Merely a Glimpse: After the Battle

Maeglin followed his uncle Turgon into battle to assist Fingon, but that battle was lost and Maeglin's other uncle died there, without Maeglin ever having met him in times of peace.

Read Merely a Glimpse: After the Battle

His uncle’s face turned briefly towards him, in the midst of battle, strong emotions flickering over it. That love, the joy that lit it up were for Turgon, not him, he reminds himself. They didn’t really have a chance to meet.

‘He would not have cared for me, anyway.’ Because I was the death of his sister.

A crude thing to say about a fallen hero. But Maeglin is Eol’s cold son, cannot be breaking down over the death of an uncle he did not even know!

‘Fingon was more likely to care for people than not,’ says Salgant, somberly.

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Chapter End Notes

Prompt was: Flickering.

Clear Notes in Harmony that Ran from Tower to Tower

Maeglin works on the Gate of Steel.

Read Clear Notes in Harmony that Ran from Tower to Tower

Maeglin had not understood his uncle’s desire to lock Gondolin away from the world. His first experience of battle and defeat changed that. He drew on all he had learned from Eol, from Turgon and Rog, and began designing the Gate of Steel. This gate no enemy would get through.

‘Formidable,’ commented Salgant, shown the plans and the measurements. ‘But it’s the innermost gate. We hope Morgoth will never see it! It’s the guards who will. Can you make it more... appealing for them?’

That is how the gate, when struck, came to sound like a harp of many strings.

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Chapter End Notes

The title is from the description of the Gate in the Unfinished Tales (Of Tuor and his Coming to Gondolin).
Salgant was chief of the House of the Harp; if he inspired Maeglin's work on the Gate of Steel in any way, it would most likely be in this.

This drabble was written for a Tolkien weekly prompt "measure".

100 words in MS Word.