Bloody silmarils, book I by Dilly

Chapter 1 : The miller of Gondolin

Read Chapter 1 : The miller of Gondolin

Volume I

 

 

 

Chapter 1 : The miller of Gondolin

 

 

Usually, the king sat on a golden throne in the highest tower of the Hidden City, wearing a magnificent nightgown-like robe and a sullen, severe expression. His eyes, bright and grey, were like curtains of rain pierced by sunlight, and his dark hair framed a face so perfect in its symmetry it almost seemed to be carved in stone. A circlet of white gold sat atop his hair, which nearly reached the belt at his waist. It was a tradition for the males of his line to let their hair grow as long as possible as a sign of virility, a fact which had long been the subject of dubious jokes among the sons of Fëanor.

But this day, Turgon, second son of Fingolfin, was in a rather good mood. He had nearly convinced his daughter to wear shoes when she went out, in the hopes of preventing some terrible injury. He had also measured a ten centimeter increase in the height of the white tree he had planted on the hill, and only once had he thought of his dead wife, when he had just awoken.

"My king," announced his chamberlain, interrupting an unhappy second time, "a human being is requesting an audience."

"A mortal? Bring him in."

A few minutes later a simply dressed man of an indeterminate age walked into the hall. His brown hair curled around his face and his chin was bearded.

"Mister... Erik requests an audience with his majesty King Turgon!" announced a herald.

The man bowed, staring at the king with a curiosity only seen in humans. He was not young by the reckoning of his people, but his eyes were a youthful shade of green like the first grass seen after a damp winter.

"Erik?" echoed the king, with growing interest. "From which House?"

Oh, humans often reminded him of cute little squirrels. Furry, with a short life expectancy.

"Fram the house b'hind the mill, sire."

Turgon raised a pointed eyebrow.

"He's the miller of Gondolin, my lord", explained the chamberlain.

"Since when can anyone just walk into this valley as if it were a mill house?" (1)

Turgon caught the unintentional wordplay, but Erik was eager to reply:

"Our fahder had lived 'ere, and the fahder of my fahder, my lor'. Our fam'ly 'ad gone with thou to thy magic valley, to grow crops."

"Huh, good. And what is the reason for your visit here, O Miller?"

"That'd be the bread my lor', 'twill make thy people sick ! Us, we saw some dark stains on the wheat, but the elves as brought it still wanted it ground, pretending elves cannot get ill, like!"

"Which is true, actually. But carry on with your account. Who consumed that wheat and what were its effects? I fear some dark invention of Morgoth."

"The elves fram the third farm before the city, my lor'. They was dancin' and laughin' and couldn't stop. Jumped right into the trees and sang some songs as sprang out o' their 'eads ! Invented some rhymes 'bout my beard and 'bout the bread, and slept with their eyes wide open!"

"No, my good Erik," concluded the king. "They're not ill, they're just normally like that."

 

* * *

 

"Whose funeral is that, Penlodh?" asked the king. "I haven't heard anything about it."

"Nobody of importance," replied the chamberlain "just a human miller. He was well appreciated in the valley, although he had a strange way of expressing himself."

"A human miller... You mean Erik the Miller?"

"Indeed, your Majesty."

"But how did he perish, he was so young?! I met him only recently, he came to talk to me about a wheat disease..."

"Young? He was more than sixty years old my king, a venerable age for a human."

"Then it must have been ten... twenty... thirty years ago," Turgon concluded. "He only took thirty years to die?!"

"One of my aquaintances offered me this interesting comparison, your Majesty : humans are like goldfish. One day you may return to your house and find them dead, without any visible explanation. All you have to do is turn away for a minute in distraction. A sudden chill or a heat wave, a bowl of food added or subracted, and BAM! They're dead."

The king's face darkened; for the sixth time that day he was thinking about the large iceberg that had killed his wife.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

(1) « To walk in somewhere like into a mill »/ « Entrer quelque part comme dans un moulin » is a french expression meaning you can just walk right into a place without any boundaries and control.

Chapter 2 : Blasé

Read Chapter 2 : Blasé

 

The King arrived, at last. A very good thing, since Lord High Constable, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, had broken a chair, a pitcher, and a glass during his wait. He had a great deal of difficulty controlling his strength.

"I do apologize for being late," the king said, "I had an appointment with the city's architects, and I'm sure you know how they are."

"I can well imagine, Majesty. The one in my employ has yet to finish my house, and the little that he's completed falls down as soon as it's touched."

Turgon wasn't sure that was the architect's fault, but he kept the thought to himself. Glorfindel had set several sheets of parchment on the round table, each one with a picture of the blazons of Gondolin's Twelve Houses. Only the king's was missing.

Turgon laid down the picture he had drawn, inked, and colored himself next to the rest. His coat of arms consisted of a white moon, a yellow sun, and a scarlet heart.

"It's very beautiful," commented Glorfindel with a smile, "but if I may be so bold, your Majesty... Why a heart?"

Turgon sighed in the manner of those who have answered a particular question far too many times. "Come, it is obviously the heart of my father, Fingolfin, the high king of the Noldor."

Glorfindel's smile froze in some indefinable expression.

"Your father's... heart?"

"I did just say that," quipped Turgon.

"You mean.. that's his cardiac muscle?"

"Glorfindel, why are you always so literal ? It's a symbol. The scarlet heart represents the love between us and the love he has for his people.

The expression on Glorfindel's face didn't improve.

"What about the heart is bothering you? Tell me now or cease wearing that confounded expression. You look as if you have been bitten by a balrog.

Glorfindel cleared his throat.

"Ahem... So, you really want my opinion, your majesty?"

"I would not have asked otherwise."

"Well... I find it looks a bit, how to define it... A heart, on a banner, facing the orcish legions of Angband..."

"Continue."

"They're going to..." Glorfindel trailed off.

"To what?" Turgon demanded impatiently.

"It looks..." Glorfindel faltered again.

"... Looks?" Prompted Turgon, thoroughly exasperated.

"A bit... sissy, Majesty," the elf choked out quickly.

Turgon, with his stony expression, looked at Glorfindel with his long wavy golden hair and his clothes which were dotted with embroidered flowers on a field of green.

"You don't say?"

The Captain of Gondolin nodded.

"And the golden flower does not...?"

"Well, you told me to be sincere, your Majesty. Imagine Gothmog's mirth on the battlefield."

"Well then it'll distract him. And you will take full advantage of his distraction and bring him down."

"There is no way I'm fighting a balrog," replied Glorfindel, rather alarmed.

"Why not? Aren't you the strongest elf in Middle Earth aside from my father?"

"I'm not crazy, I don't have a death wish."

"Is that not what I pay you for, to vanquish fearsome enemies?"

"With all due respect, Majesty, you don't actually pay me."

"I don't?"

"You don't."

Turgon turned back to Penlodh, his chamberlain who had been standing still in a corner of the room since the meeting began.

"Penlodh, do I not pay him?"

"No my Lord, you do not."

"But certainly he must be paid, like all the other soldiers?"

"The other soldiers aren't paid either," Glorfindel interjected.

"How is that?"

"You are the king," Penlodh addressed Turgon, "you don't have to pay them to fight for king and country."

"Alright Glorfindel, how much must I give you to face a balrog?"

"Not for all the gold in Arda, Majesty. It will be heading for certain death, and I didn't make it all the way across the Ice to return now to my starting point in Aman."

Glorfindel had a point, and Turgon thought of his wife again.

 

 

Three months later and two hundred miles away, on Himring the Ever-cold, a hunting party led by prince Maedhros and his brother Maglor, who was visiting from his post on the Eastern Gap, returned through the iron portcullis. They wore fur and silver armor but no jewelry. Maedhros' shining copper hair fell freely over his shoulders and about his face. There had been a time when he was a great beauty, but now his face was drawn and his eyes were haunted, bereft of their former spark.

He dismounted his horse and signalled for one of his squires to care for it.

"Anything new during my absence?" he asked his Seneschal.

"No my Lord. Nothing but a package from your cousin Turgon, which awaits you in your room."

 

* * *

 

"Maglor, come look at this!" Maedhros called out a few minutes later, "we just received Turgon's new standard."

Maglor the Bard removed his leather boots and then approached the wooden desk where the bright banner had been laid out.

"The work is beautiful," he assayed, touching the delicate embroidery on the fabric, "but that scarlet emblem here, it can't really be a heart, can it?"

"It definitely is."

The two brothers stayed silent and for a moment did not dare to voice their thoughts. Then Maedhros turned to Maglor. "Looks a bit sissy, doesn't it?"

"That it does," replied Maglor with a definite smirk.

 

 

 

Chapter 3 : Idril Ironfoot

Read Chapter 3 : Idril Ironfoot

 

Turgon was not an elf to shy away from a challenge. His approach to life was a slow and steady burn, and in spite of his sadness, the fire was still there. He would try to solve any problem he was faced with.

So, he went to his daughter's apartments that morning, determined to deal with a certain ongoing problem. Young Idril, who had the same golden hair as her Vanyarin mother, but with the high cheekbones and melancholy eyes of her father, was resting in her parlour, a brightly lit room with floors covered in a thick green carpet which was a perfect likeness to grass. Three very learned Noldor craftsmen had worked for several years to achieve this marvel - elves sometimes had rather unusual ideas.

"Good morning, Atar. What brings you here?"

"I have a present for you, Idril," Turgon answered.

He had his servants open the boxes they were carrying and leave the contents on Idril's table of blue marble.

"These magnificent shoes, made by the best bootmaker in the city. The buckles were forged at my request by Enerdhil himself, so go on and admire them ! I had them done from a molding of your foot so they should be a perfect match."

The girl came forward with small, careful steps, as if the shoes were alive and might attack her.

"What is this material?" she asked, tracing a taupe slipper decorated with gold.

"Vair. Aren't they adorable?"

Idril sighed. "Father, you know my aversion to shoes. They make me feel like a prisoner and they cause all sorts of corns and callouses."

"That can't be worse than having a centimeter-thick sole," said Turgon in his exasperation, "do you know what they call you in the city ? Idril Ironfoot. Because they say the soles of your feet are so thick they could stop an orcish arrow. And what elf prince will want to marry you with such feet ? You know what the Noldor look for in a mate ? Brilliant hair, melodious voice, long neck, small breasts, big thighs, and delicate feet."

Princess Idril burst into tears.

"Why? Why shouldn't I have the right to walk barefoot as a free woman? My aunt-"

"Do not use your aunt as an example. She is also unmarried, and why do you think Celegorm didn't offer her marriage ? Because like everyone else, he is saving himself for a beautiful, refined woman with delicate feet. Lately your aunt resembles a Telerin fishmonger. Besides, going barefoot is an Avarin practice and even they have the sense to put on boots before walking on gravel."

"Oh father, that is cruel! You are a mean elf."

"I am not mean. I'm sensible."

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, at an inn near the barracks, the White Lady of the Noldor placed her muddy boots on a coffee table. The she-elf, dressed in white trousers and a simple tunic, was telling a childhood story to the soldiers crowded around her, with a large glass of liquor in her hand.

"And that was my vengeance. I snuck into his bedroom as he slept and cut off his braids, ribbons and all. I can tell you that when he woke, Fingon the Valiant did not look so tough."

The soldiers called for a toast, "to Aredhel, the best teller of tales this side of the Sea!"

 

* * *

 

Back in the palace, Turgon was still lecturing Idril.

"And she dared to demand that our father include women in the line of succession! I mean really-"

 

* * *

Unaware of her brother's ranting, Aredhel continued to expound to her soldier companions, "it's true, I do not see why only men could rule. We women have the same skills. My brother loathes to admit it, but when we lived in Valinor, Galadriel always beat him at the sporting tournaments."

The soldiers nodded in agreement.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Turgon's lecture continued, "can you imagine your aunt ruling? Think of the problems she would cause, what with the men she brings home."

 

* * *

 

Back the inn, Aredhel got on with her tale, "and then Turgon said to me, 'you, Queen? So that you could give the throne right back to the Fëanorians?' So I answered him, 'if I am to be Queen, even if I get married, I shall keep the rule of the Noldor for myself. And I'll kick Morgoth's ass, for good measure."

The soldiers cheered their racuous approval.

 

* * *

 

Back at the palace, Turgon was sharing his perspective on that story. "And then, she actually said to me that she would 'kick Morgoth's ass.' I was reduced to giggles for the first time in ten years!"

 

* * *

 

And back at the inn, Aredhel finished her tale. "And then my brother started laughing, and said to me that even if women were included in the line of succession, if he died the throne would pass to his daughter, not to me."

"And how did you answer him?" One of the soldiers called out.

"I withdrew my demand," Aredhel said, and tossed back the rest of her liquor.

Women ruling was one thing, but a woman who walked around barefoot was another story entirely.

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Every kind of feedback is welcome :)

Chapter 4 : Epic poetry

Read Chapter 4 : Epic poetry

 

"Since you asked my opinion on the subject," Penlodh said haughtily, "my interpretation of the sacred texts is that Ilúvatar created the world in the manner of an artist.  And the world and its history are the fruits of a dialectic between the Void and the Secret Fire, the Secret Fire of Creation." 

I wonder how he comes by all this, Glorfindel thought as Turgon listened attentively.

"If we take the time to reflect, Majesty, this idea permits us to discern the initial source of evil. It's found in the relationship of Melkor to the Void. Melkor's disordered relationship with the Void rendered him impotent as an artist and caused him to hate our people, the Elves, who are naturally born artists."

Turgon remained still for a few seconds, resting his chin on his fist.  Then he said to Penlodh, "I agree with you." 

He then looked to Glorfindel and Rog for their opinions on Penlodh's thesis. The two elves nodded seriously.

A few minutes later, they left the King and his Herald to their discussion and took refuge on the portico at the foot of the tower.

"Did you really understand anything he said?" asked Glorfindel.

"No," replied Rog.

"Me neither. When in doubt, I nod along."

 

 

It was Turgon's favorite way to spend an afternoon : indulging in painting or mosaics while Hildor of the Harp, his minstrel, regaled him with his latest compositions. In his most recent work, he told how Turgon's half-cousin, Maedhros, had been captured by orcs, brought before Morgoth, then tied by one iron wristcuff to Thangorodrim where he remained nailed for years before Fingon, Turgon's older brother, came to free him and end the torture.

 

Through his night-colored eyes he saw at the end,

The son of Fëanor, his old friend,

Alone and shackled to the cliff face :

Maedhros, the one well made.

 

"The one well made?" repeated Turgon, interrupting his work, "you call Maedhros the one well made?"

"Indeed, Majesty, that has always been his name. Maitimo, which means the well formed or the well made, the name he was given by his mother. If you recall, when we lived in Tirion, he had an incomparable grace and the most beautiful smile. I also remember, with great feeling, his copper hair and his grey eyes sparkling and overflowing with kindness. Only the Maïar stood taller than him and his entire body was perfectly proportioned, with a face, muscles, and rear end to match the sculptures of his mother. Those of all ages and genders struggled not to stare when he entered a room. Even Manwë was astonished by him. Maybe if there had been no tragedy, if Melkor had not stolen the light of the Trees and set us on the path to exile, maybe Manwë would have made him his cup-bearer up there on Taniquetil."

"Oh no, don't start with your delusions of grandeur."

"But Majesty..."

"I know very well how he came by that name. I am two meters and 30 centimeters tall and I only reached his forehead."

"Perfectly chiseled forehead, mind you."

"And I won't speak of my brother, who is fifteen centimeters shorter than me. No, the problem is that poor Maedhros is no longer all well made. He is missing a hand and covered in scars. He must feel terrible each time he hears that old name, don't you think?"

"In that case, Majesty, I suggest naming him Maedhros the One Handed. What do you think?"

"Is this a joke ? Who would be pleased with such a morbid epithet?!"

"It isn't out of place in the realm of epic poetry, my King," replied the vexed bard.

"Don't you have anything else?"

"Oh very well, he also has another name: Russandol, the Red Head."

"By Eru, do you really want to tell of the mighty deeds of 'the Red Head'?"

"Hmm... The only other name he was called by is the Tall."

"Perfect! The Tall works very well. Not too pretty, not too bloody. It's perfectly sensible, I like it very much."

"I'll have to change all the rhymes," muttered Hildor.

"So I was thinking... While we're discussing names... About my daughter..."

"Idril Ironfoot?"

"Couldn't we change her name as well ? Replace iron with silver, for example. Just a tiny semantic shift... With any luck, history, in the centuries that pass, will forget the reason for the name and attribute it to something else."

"That is to say?"

"That they won't attribute it to the thickness of her sole."

"Her feet are most endurant and well angled, Majesty."

"So as long as you are here... Wait, what?! No, no, when I make a suggestion it's the same as if I make a command, I do not ask for you opinion on the matter!"

 

 

Some time later.

 

"Ok... What is the name given to my cousin Finrod?"

"Felagund, the Explorer of Caves. You don't want to change that one, do you?"

"No, it fits well. And that of my cousin Artanis?"

"Galadriel, the Lady Crowned in Radiant Light."

"Beautiful. And myself?"

"The Wise."

Turgon sat straighter in his throne.

"I like it very much. Quite sensible."

"Indeed, Majesty, very sensible." 

 

Chapter 5 : Marriage

Read Chapter 5 : Marriage

 

"Master architects," announced Turgon, "I have called this meeting to address a very serious imminent situation. We have been at peace for ten years now. And it is precisely now that you must undertake your greatest challenge yet. In the coming fifty years, it is of the utmost importance that you build, build, and build some more. Houses, nurseries, schools. Lots of nurseries."

"Excuse me, Majesty, but what's the occasion?"

"Do you remember Valinor ? That period of bliss where the Noldor reproduced like rabbits ? History is about to repeat itself. Elven biology dictates that we do not have children in times of war or in dangerous conditions - our bodies' carnal urges naturally diminish. We have been in such a state for over a century. The populations of Nevrast and Gondolin have barely increased, the small number of births have not been enough to compensate for those lost in the war against Morgoth. But the threat has receded, the siege of Angband was concluded, and we prosper anew. Meanwhile, all the built up energy from the times of hardship hasn't disappeared. It's there, just under the surface. We are sitting on a veritable volcano of Elven libido. Soon enough, the honest artisan, the ethereal minstrel, they'll all transform before our horrified eyes into the likes of Fëanor, with the fire to sire seven children on their wives."

"By Varda! Seven children?"

"We must plan for the worst."

 

Six months later.

 

 

"A message from your father, Majesty," announced Penlodh.

"Don't tell me he's going to go and bang on the gates of Angband again? Morgoth will think he's gone truly senile." 

"No, my King. He only writes to inform you that your brother is now engaged."

Turgon spat out the wine he'd been about to swallow.

 

"That joke wasn't funny at all. For a moment I actually believed it."

"Your aunt Lalwen has always been known to have a sense of humor," Penlodh thought to explain.

For a moment, Turgon also wondered if Penlodh meant to imply a lack of humor on his part. Then he looked at his adviser, with his dignified mein, his oval face stoic and framed with neat chestnut hair that fell midway down his crisp, buttoned tunic, and any suspicion of hinted reproach left his mind.

"Penlodh, do you think I am a joyful person?" he finally asked.

"Joyful, Majesty?"

"Yes, gay... amusing... witty... funny, what have you."

"Well, to be honest, "joyful" isn't really the term I would use to describe your Majesty."

"What terms would you use, in that case?"

"Hmm... Imposing, far-seeing, audacious. Personable, analytically minded. With a dark sense of humor and macabre that most Elves don't possess."

The King's face was crestfallen and he suddenly seemed very depressed.

 

 

 

Related or not to his conversation with the architects, all the inhabitants of the valley were invited to a grand festival organized by the king to celebrate the completion of the construction in the northern quarter of the city. Everyone was there, simple farmers, butchers, whatever their race. Large tables were set up in the tower and around the city. Many jugglers and musicians gave performances. The festivities lasted several days, and the royal warehouses were emptied.

"Glorfindel, I've never seen your wife..." Turgon commented to the Elf sitting next to him after two glasses of wine, "did you leave her in Valinor, like some of the others ?"

"Oh no, Majesty," replied the blond warrior with a slight blush, "I have not found the lucky lady."

"Bah ! Getting married these days can't be too difficult. Anyway, your wife has every chance of dying a violent death, or one day deciding that you and your children aren't worth the pain of abiding in Middle Earth with such danger and laying down to die. It's the quicker way to get back to Valinor, since Fëanor took all thoses Telerin boats."

"But that's horrible!" Exclaimed Glorfindel, the hairs on his arms standing straight.

"It was a joke. Idril, don't tell me you didn't find that funny?"

"No, father!"

"And you, Penlodh, are you married?"

The minister replied with a long tirade, in which Turgon was able to make out the phrases "to best serve your Majesty," and "to focus completely on matters of State." 

"Ah!  You are like my brother.  Well, besides hunting and climbing and braiding your hair by a campfire... Him and my sister, the day they get married will be the day Maedhros' right hand grows back." 

Glorfindel started laughing.

"Why are you laughing?" asked Turgon with raised brow, "did I say something funny?"

 

 

At the same time, several rows back, Eudes and Robert, the sons of Eric the Miller, found themselves on the terrace with Elven beers in their hands.  

"S'takes you right uptown," explained Robert. "And by the all-father, do they never stop eatin'?! I swears I saw the King eat an entire deer by hisself!" 

"You see what!  That little lady can eat whatever she wants and she don't weigh a thing! And she done told me herself that they don't need to eat much jus' for stayin' alive ! She eats just for the pleasure of it!" 

"You think she does any other things just for the pleasure of it?"

"I dunno any of that, God! But for the rest of 'em, I seen 'em always singing sappy love songs or kissing, but never actually doin' the deed proper!" 

"But if these fairies never do it, how do they get their little 'uns?"

They were silent for a moment, contemplating the sheer rock face looking over the great plain and the green valley, with the farms all lit up for the festivities.

"Maybe the she-Elves be layin' eggs," Eudes guessed.

 

 

"Say, Glorfindel, my daughter as your wife... what do you think?" the King asked discreetly when everyone had left the table for the dancefloor.  

"Majesty, you would never permit me."

"What? But, look, yes, yes I would permit you ! You're of a noble family with Vanyarin blood ! The best Knight of the realm ! And then you're both blond, and they say like attracts like."

"But, Majesty..."

"What, you don't think my daughter is good enough for you? Okay, it's true she isn't very refined, but otherwise, she's a masterpiece!"

"The Princess Idril is very beautiful, but I don't love her, Majesty..."

"Well there we are. She cannot win your heart. You're not the Golden Flower, but the Blue! Go on, admit it, it's because of her feet, isn't it?"

Glorfindel didn't dare agree. 

 

Chapter 6 : The natives

Read Chapter 6 : The natives

 

It was well past midnight when King Turgon jumped out his four-poster bed to knock on the closest door.

"Penlodh! Wake up!"

He had to wait several minutes before Penlodh came to the door wearing a night shirt and night cap and holding a candle.

"What happened, my King?"

"Excuse me, my good Elf, but if I take liberties in waking you at this unholy hour, it's because the Sindar have started singing again just below the tower! It's impossible to ignore!" 

The two elves went out to the balcony.  Ten floors below, a group of blond musicians were in the middle of playing and singing, interspersed with laughter.

"Can't they sing somewhere else?! Also what even is that instrument?"

"I believe it might be a violin, my Lord."

"Argh, and that language... I'll never get used to it!"

 

* * *

300 years before in Mithrim

 

"Here are the indigenous people of this country, the grey Elves of Beleriand, also called the Sindar," Turgon noted before the aboriginal ambassador.

"Demat!" Responded the Sindar.

"What a strange language," Turgon wondered aloud.  "Penlodh, you're an Elf of science... In your opinion, what are they trying to tell us?" 

"Sindarin is a Celtic language," explained the Noldo, "if I'm right about the roots from the language of the Teleri in Valinor, I think we can reasonably conclude that it meant something like 'salutations' or 'hello'." 

"Very well. But what does Celtic mean? " Asked Turgon.

"I don't know, it's a term I remember from books we were given by the Valar.  But I'm not sure of the exact definition.  I think it might be a generic term someone came up with randomly.  That said, I've never been able to trace the etymology." 

"Another divine mystery.  Sometimes I get the impression they hide certain things from us on purpose." 

 

* * *

 

"Like when they said that Quenya is a Finno-Ugric language," grumbled the smith Rog, head of the House of the Hammer of Wrath.  

"But then what does Finno-Ugric mean?" asked Glorfindel.

Dressed all in white from head to toe, he shone in Rog's somber red forge like a great daisy.

"I don't know. I asked Penlodh, however.

"You are a curious Elf."

"But he said he didn't know. That's what it's called, that's all. It's what the Valar said."

"Have you ever noticed that when scholars don't know something, or they don't want anyone to contradict them, they always say it came from the Valar?" 

"If you want my opinion, it's a very good excuse."

"But practical, for the most part."

 

* * *

 

"And that there, the flute with some kind of large pocket?" asked Turgon from his balcony.

"Bagpipes, Majesty," replied Penlodh.

 

 

 

Telerin Song

 

'Tis not the Elf takes to the sea
'Tis the sea takes to the Elf
I heed the ocean's call
A Tuesday I recall

I traded out my boots
And my old winter coat
For shoes fit for a boat
And cape of ocean blue

I left behind the drips
Who told me to take care
The sea is full of shit
From the fish living there

When the wind starts to blow
So too must I go
Once the wind changes course
We really must be off

'Tis not the Elf takes to the sea
'Tis the sea takes to the Elf
I heed the ocean's call
And she's screaming
Screw it all

I'm seasick all the time
Upon the angry waves
I threw up after nine
And also after eight

I've been bruised all over
And slept amidst the damp
It costs to be a rover
But there's pleasure to be had

When the wind starts to blow
So too must I go
Once the wind changes course
We really must be off
Ohohohohoh hisséo!

'Tis not the Elf takes to the sea
'Tis the sea takes to the Elf
I heed the ocean's call
I'm telerin after all

I'd sail around the world
Just to see each port
If only all the world
Would let me have my sport

I'd fly to the four winds
And fuck the harbor whores
And the oceans would sing
My name forevermore
My name forevermore

When the wind starts to blow
So too must I go
Once the wind changes course
We really must be off
Ohohohohoh hisséo!

'Tis not the Elf takes to the sea
'Tis the sea takes to the Elf
I heed the ocean's call
My boat is in its thrall

My noble ship is proud
Such beauty and such might
The three most famous masts
Look like a bird in flight

Olwë, Annaël
Cirdan et Riguidel
Adorn no piece of junk
Or aught that's not made well

When the wind starts to blow
So too must I go
Once the wind changes course
We really must be off

'Tis not the Elf takes to the sea
'Tis the sea takes to the Elf
I heed the ocean's call
A Friday I recall

Mother don't you cry
Your son's not a failure
Father don't you cry
Your son is a sailor

See your little child
He sails the seven seas
It's naught to make you smile
But it's my destiny

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

1 - ""Demat" is a breton word meaning "Hello". Breton language is a Celtic language that has strong resemblance with Welsh - and therefore Sindarin. Bretagne/Brittany is a maritime country in France, and Bretons are said to like drinking (like Thranduil). So the Sindar/Teleri being like Bretons is a private joke to French readers. Bagpipes are a typical Breton musical instrument.

2 - Originally the song is by the french singer Renaud :

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=25g0AohErlg

Chapter 7: The Round Table

Read Chapter 7: The Round Table

 

The heads of nine Houses of Gondolin were meeting around the Round Table, a superb work of carpentry divided into twelve even pieces, each triangular section depicting the symbols of one House.

Seated around the table were the illustrious Lords of Gondolin. There was Constable Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch, rich as all the members of his House, Duilin of the Swallow, the agile archer, the powerful Rog of the Hammer of Wrath, Salgant of the Harp, also called 'the ugly', the voyager Voronwë, of the Wing, Galdor of the Tree, the young Ecthelion of the Fountain, and lastly Enerdhil of the Mole, miner and silversmith.

"Why are we here?" asked Glorfindel, turning questioning eyes to his surrounding colleagues.

"Because Fëanor wanted to reclaim the Silmarils?" guessed Egalmoth.

"And because then Fingon followed the crowd without thinking?" continued Rog.

"And because Fingolfin wanted to go ice skating?"

"No, I meant, why are we here right now?" clarified Glorfindel.

Egalmoth made a gesture with his right hand as if he was shooing away pigeons.

"More boring matters, like the population transfer from Vinyamar or the sanding down of the hill..."

"When are we going to get some action?" Ecthelion said in frustration.

"What you you mean by action, exactly?" asked Glorfindel.

"You know well what I mean... Fights, monsters, saving a prince, the usual."

"But why a prince and not a princess?" wondered Enerdhil.

"Because Noldorin women aren't stupid enough to risk their lives in such an ill considered manner," explained Egalmoth, "just for prestige or treasure. Therefore it's always the men who end up as prisoners."

"That makes things far less interesting," said Glorfindel.

"Lastly, it's said that once rescued, the prince can help fight on the way back," added Galdor.

"That all depends on the state he's in," replied the Constable. "Most often, he's terribly weakened and ends up in the saddle while you walk to get the food and the loot."

 

 

Turgon and Penlodh made their entrance. The son of Fingolfin took the place for the House of the King, his chair next to the only window in the room. As for Penlodh, he sat at the place for the House of the Tower of Snow and placed his files on the place for the Pillar.

"Greetings," said the King. "We can begin the meeting. Penlodh, what's the order of business?"

"The security of the interior and the smoothness of Amon Gwareth, Majesty."

Sighs were heard at this announcement.

"Glorfindel, don't lean on the table," said Turgon. "And what's this I hear? Were those sighs? Ecthelion, make yourself useful for once. Tell me, what's the reason for all these malcontent faces?"

"Majesty, you spoke to us of interior security," replied Ecthelion. "For my part, I would really like it if we talked about insecurity. The quality of sandpaper used to sand down Amon Gwareth doesn't interest me."

"I'll remind you that it was Ulmo who told me to do that. You will be very happy if we were invaded one day and the orcs couldn't climb it!"

"Perhaps... But in the mean time, with all due respect, I'm being bored to death!"

"You're so dramatic... I find you quite entertaining."

"I think what Ecthelion wants to say, with his youthful impetuosity," said Galdor, "is that maybe we could spend a little less time on certain subjects and a little more on others."

"Is that so," growled Turgon. "And what other subjects?"

"Adventure!" exclaimed Ecthelion.

"Adventure..." repeated the King incredulously. "Penlodh, do you have anything to propose on the subject of adventure?"

The seneschal consulted his files.

"Let's see... there's the son of your cousin Angrod who was kidnapped two weeks ago while hunting."

"Oh, really? Isn't he called Oro... something or other?"

"Orodreth."

"The teen is always getting into trouble, isn't he ? Well. A prince to rescue... does that interest you?"

Ecthelion nodded vigorously.

"Good. Glorfindel will go rescue Orodreth."

"What?!" shouted Ecthelion.

"What about it? I want to be sure my nephew returns in one piece. And there is no way I'm sending a second person, it's not worth sulking over. Now so long as we're here, is there anything else?"

"Yes Majesty," declared Egalmoth. "Why do some of us have the right to lead two Houses instead of one?"

"Are you thinking of anyone in particular?"

Everyone turned to look at Penlodh, who raised his left eyebrow.

"There's favourites..." someone muttered.

"If you want to double your workload, Egalmoth..." goaded Turgon.

"It's not a question of workload," clarifies Egalmoth.  "There is also the matter of tax collection : double houses, double taxes." 

"Taxes? What taxes?" asked Turgon.

"The taxes necessary to the running of the State, Majesty," declared Penlodh.  "But I don't see how it would be profitable to levy double taxes when as soon as you do so the money, which is currently distributed and utilized legally, will end up in a secret account in a Dwarven bank on the other side of the Blue Mountains." 

Egalmoth paled.

"Is that an accusation, vile bureaucrat?"

 

 

A quarter hour later, a general Noldorin style argument had erupted and Turgon took the opportunity to slip out of the room, just like Salgant. A few meters away he noticed the unusually stocky figure of the harpist.

"Oh, Maleagant! Did you escape as well?" joked the King.

"No, I'm Salgant, Majesty."

"Please excuse me.  Their barking gave me a headache... When I think it was Ulmo who told me to build the round table, where everyone could be equal... You see the result." 

He gave a heavy sigh.

"Salgant... Why are we here, exactly?"

"Because of your Uncle's Silmarils, my King."

"Argh. Bloody Silmarils." 

 

Chapter 8: The Knight of the Fountain

Read Chapter 8: The Knight of the Fountain

 

King Turgon had descended to the lowest level of the white wall which surrounded the city of Gondolin. He held a sheet of paper in his hands.

"Duilin, open the gate."

The archer did so. To his astonishment, he saw the King crouch, then crawl in his fine, long robe past the small door. Soon enough, all that could be seen were the soles of his gilded slippers.

"Sire?"

With his grey, penetrating eyes, Turgon studied the immense smooth and black surface comprised of rock polished over the centuries. It looked more like glass than stone. The Noldo took his sheet of paper between his thumb and index finger. He held it against the polished stone of the cliff face, at just the spot where the wall ended. Then he let it go, and watched it slide perfectly to the bottom and land on the green lawn below.

"I'll never tire of this," he said.

 

* * *

 

"Tell me, Glorfindel," said the King in his deep, pleasant voice, "you told me that you were in Nevrast for three days, to see your parents. Is the capital still as beautiful?"

"Just as beautiful, Majesty," replied Glorfindel, who was wearing a necklace of sea shells. "And the sea air is very invigorating. Also, I saw your aunt Lalwen there, and extended your greetings."

"Good. You did not reveal the location of Gondolin, I hope? Not even to my family?"

"I said nothing, Majesty."

"Nor to my cousin Angrod?"

"Angrod? But I did not visit Dorthonion..."

"You did go rescue his son Orodreth while you were gone?"

The great constable cleared his throat.

"Well, the Lord of the Fountain asked me if he could complete this mission... And I thought such an experience would serve him well."

"Oh this isn't good! You sent that brat Ecthelion to rescue Orodreth?! He has trouble tying his own laces! Reassure me, tell me he's accompanied by battle tried warriors, mages, and rangers!"

"No Sire, he left alone... With his human squire."

"By Eru! With a human, no less! And since when are humans squires?"

"This is Belin the Blond, one of the sons of Eric the Miller, Majesty. He had no inheritance, and he was unemployed..."

"And so you thought you would make him a soldier..."

"On the other hand, Majesty, there are only trolls and vampires near lake Helevorn, nothing compared to your brother's trial."

Turgon shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, you know, my brother never actually went inside Thangorodrim... he couldn't find the entrance... Trolls and vampires, you say?"

 

* * *

 

Two men walked through a somber tunnel. The one, with silver armor and long black hair with violet highlights was very tall and handsome. The other, who held the torch, was smaller, hadn't shaved in a week, and wore clothes rendered threadbare by the weather and the damp air.

"My poor friend," said Ecthelion, "you really seem miserable. Why do humans always seem miserable? I always said they're some species of poor wet dog."

"S'cuse me, milord. I swears I don't do it on purpose."

"I know, I know... And no need to hold the torch up like that, I don't need that much light to see. Elves can see pretty well in the dark. By Tulkas, how is it possible to be so small?"

"Yet I be the tallest in my family!"

"Oh God, I can't imagine how the others... And could you stop making grammatical errors every five minutes..."

The Elf stopped, leaned his sword against the wall, and pulled out a map from his bag.

"Good, according to the map Caranthir gave us, the vampires' lair should be just at the end of this labyrinth. That is to say left right left left from here."

 

* * *

 

"I think we are lost," said Ecthelion as he dropped down to sit on a large stone.

"Perhaps we should have left some small peebles on the floor, milord."

"Hmm, let's see... What would Fingon Fingolfinion, my idol, do in these circumstances?"

"Who's that, milord?"

"The most valiant of the Noldor. What would he do?"

The young Ecthelion then sang from memory the Lay of the Mad Quest by Hildor of the Pure Voice.

Lost and all alone

In danger and distress

His hair a frightful mess

Deploring that his loved

"No, this passage doesn't tell us anything... Look further down..."

And then he took his harp

In his hands strong and fair

And played a little air

He'd known in Valimar

When he had been content

"Yes, that's it!"

He took his silver flute out of his bag. Belin stared wide-eyed as the Elf began to play, in the underground tunnels. A happy tune, a simple, childhood tune...

And just as incredibly, a voice responded in the darkness.

At the clear fountain

I go at break of day

The silver water shines

And this is where I bathe

I loved you so long ago

But I never will forget

Ecthelion's face lit up at first. Then a bit of mangled grammar in the second verse caused him to raise an eyebrow; he turned to his squire and saw it was he who had been singing.

"Are you completely stupid or...??"

"But milord, I couldn't help meself... That's a tune I know well and it's so pretty..."

"MANWË SEND ME AID, OR I THINK I WILL KILL THE LITTLE BUGGER!"

"Ok, but what's that noise?"

It was a feminine voice they were hearing.

"William, go see if there aren't still Dwarves creeping around the corner... If there are, you have the right to eat them. Ai ai ai ai."

"The vampire!" Hissed Ecthelion.

He put away his flute and took up his great sword, ready to fight.

The fight did not last long. After they had silently killed the troll, William, the two adventurers had only to follow his footprints in the dust which led to a narrow corridor. This opened into an arch decorated with the odious symbols of Morgoth. But there, in the great hall where the feminine voice had come from, was the most unexpected scene.

In the back of the room, a young Elf with short blond hair was lying on a pile of cushions with a half naked vampire, kissing him lasciviously and running her clawed hands over his body. In another corner, trolls were playing cards and drinking wine.

"Orodreth?" blurted out Ecthelion.

"Ai ai ai," cried one of the vampires, who had the most attractive bodies, and raised a hand to stop the trolls from getting up. "Look, we have visitors."

"I love home delivery!" exclaimed one of the trolls.

She stood, clad only in a diaphanous skirt and black jewelry that stood out against her pale skin. And she stared into Ecthelion's eyes, who lowered his sword as Belin looked on incredulously.

"Milord...?" whispered Belin the Blond, left alone by the other succubi who judged him too mangy to be desirable.

The vampire placed her hand on the young Noldo's cheek, and traced his bare chin with a long, red fingernail, stopping just above his chain mail.

"Let yourself go, Lord of the Fountain," implored Orodreth in a vacant, far away voice. "She knows things... things you could never imagine... If you knew..."

"He's right," purred the she-demon, pressing her chest against Ecthelion's. "I know how to rid you of your excess blood... With my mouth."

"Milord, don't listen to 'er!"

But Ecthelion's darkened eyes didn't seem to see anything but the scantily clad vampire who was now talking about things to do with a sword left too long in its scabbard, or else some drilling-related activities.

"Milord!" cried Belin in desperation. "Think of Fingonfinion!"

Suddenly, the enchantment was broken, Ecthelion's pupils regained their normal size and shining gaze.

"TO YOUR DEATH, HARLOT!" he shouted.

 

* * *

 

A month later, the three young people had returned to Gondolin, and Ecthelion made his report to Turgon in the throne room.

"And that's when she turned into some kind of squid and caught me with her tentacles and held me still.  But I had my helm with the point and I headbutted her.  I'm sure Fingon Fingolfinion would have done the same.  The blood spurted onto Belin, my faithful squire, but he remained undaunted.  He took up a giant troll club and started beating the squid lady until she let me go." 

Hildor the bard was totally excited. The King wasn't.

"And when you knocked out Orodreth, who you needed to save in the first place, when was that?" he asked coldly.

"After we had killed everyone, Sire. He didn't want to follow us and desired to await the return of Thuringwethil.  So I knocked him out and carried him on my back."

"And is that why he has a concussion and the doctors say his cognition and decision making abilities are irreparably damaged?!" roared Turgon.

The proud Ecthelion looked skeptical.

"Personally, Majesty, I can't really see the difference from before."

 

* * *

 

Belin listened amazedly to Ecthelion - amazedly, and looking for all the world like a poor wet dog.

"And when I've finished teaching you how to speak correctly, we'll find you new clothes... And I'll teach you how to braid your hair, write letters, sing passably, and play the transverse flute. Civilization, that." 

 

 

Chapter 9: The 'Hug'

Read Chapter 9: The 'Hug'

 

It was about a month since Turgon had returned to Nevrast, in the capital of Vinyamar, the oldest Noldorin city in Middle Earth, located on the coastline.

But that morning it was an hour past his usual wake-up time, and he still hadn't moved from his bed. The shutters remained closed.

Someone knocked.

"Majesty?"

"Come in..." replied the King.

It was Penlodh.

The adviser said nothing. He moved a chair next to the bed and sat down. The King was half lying down, his back resting on a pile of pillows. His face looked completely drained of energy.

"Your Majesty, I think it's necessary that you get up."

"Penlodh... How long will this take, again?"

"One week."

"Why?"

Turgon's handsome and severe face twisted into a painful grimace.

"I made your special tisane," the steward said at last.

He took the gold bell that hung from his waist and rang it. Two servants entered, one carrying a tray, the other with a steaming pot of water.

"Thank you Penlodh."

 

 

Once Turgon had gotten up, after a half hour of discussion with Penlodh, he took another two hours to get ready. He took a bath and was sumptuously dressed by his servants. Next, they tended his long black hair that reached his waist. Turgon never braided his hair, preferring to leave it loose, only held back by a white-gold circlet, but this occasion called for a more elaborate coiffure. So he had his hair done in the old style of Tirion, which is to say that several strands were pulled back into a twist behind his head and tied in a bun.

When that was done, he went to make sure that the kitchens were ready for the visitors. Then he went to the Lighthouse of Vinyamar, built on one of the protrusions of Mount Taras, and stationed himself on the grand circular terrace, where he had a view of the entire Eastern side of the city and the plains of Nevrast. For the moment there was nothing to be seen on the horizon, just bright white clouds and fog. To the West, houses of granite were decorated with blue banners bearing the Noldorin High King Fingolfin's emblem. Large flags also graced the walls.

Turgon looked back to the plain. He squinted. The bright cloud seemed to coalesce and become more distinct. Men in armor?

A sharp noise startled him. Something flew past a meter from his shoulder. He turned. An arrow stuck in the gap between two stones.

But it wasn't an Elven arrow, and attached to it was a hollow cylinder with a message. Turgon removed the arrow and opened the cylinder. He sighed.

Written on the paper were these words:

 

                        HELLO, LITTLE BROTHER!!

 

The time was here.

The nightmare had begun.

 

 

Ecthelion and his squire had milled about the crowd watching the parade of arrivals from Hithlum.

Belin the Blond, the miller's son, had certainly changed since his adventure in the vampire's lair.  He was clean shaven, his blond hair was carefully braided and held behind his ears.  His clothes were light blue and silver, the colors of his master's House, and the emblem of the fountain was sewn here and there.

"You look much better like this," commented Ecthelion.

"I admit so, but these boots are still too tight about the foots."

"The what?"

"The foots, milord."

"You mean to say the feet, I suppose. Look, here they come!"

The trumpets blared another time.

"Oh, milord!  How handsome is that one there!  That's the King's nephew, no?  He looks like him, but less grumpy." 

The Noldorin elf behind them laughed.

"But that's not the King's nephew, my young friend. It's his father. Look at his headpiece."

"Ah ! It's quite true he has a sorta crown, just like on the gold coins. But how can that be, him looking younger than his son King Turgon ?  And that guy there, that must be his twin brother... he's the same, but with braids."   

"No, that one there, that's his son."

Ecthelion made a sort of strangled cry. Belin raised his eyebrows, having already gotten lost in the family tree.

"The son of Fingolfin," the Noldo explained to the human. "Findekáno Fingolfinion."

"Findekáno? And Fingon? He here too? Milord? Are you ok?"

 

 

"My son !" exclaimed Fingolfin when he came before the throne in full armor.  "It is such a pleasure to see you! And my daughter!" 

Exceptionally clad in an actual dress, Aredhel smiled wanly, having to await her brother's signal.  Turgon stepped forward, as was the custom. Once he was before the High King, he knelt, kissing his right hand.

"My King..."

He stood up.

Fingolfin looked worried.  He raised his eyebrows, which were pointed like his son's, his grey eyes dimmed.

"Turgon, will you not give me a hug?"

"Oh no. I don't really like those..."

"See her ! Your brother Fingon always gives me a hug!"

"Father..."

"Fingon, give me a hug."

Fingon came forward next to Fingolfin, a weak smile on his lips.  Turgon noted with a certain jealousy that his older brother's braids were still the longest.  Interwoven with golden chains, they came down to his knees.  How did he do it?  Turgon's own hair still barely reached his waist.  

The valiant prince then drew his sword as Fingolfin knelt.  In that moment, he struck his neck with the flat of his blade.  His father did not seem affected, and he jumped up immediately as if on a spring.

"And now for you!"

Fingon knelt in his turn, and undid his braids.  Fingolfin took his great sword Ringil, and gave him a blow.  His son stood as if he'd just had a nice massage.

"Now it's your turn, Turgon..." he said, Ringil still in his hand.

"No Father, not this..."

"Oh well... I'm sure your sister..."

"Either my sister or..."

"To make your dear old father happy..."

"You're not that old."

"Oh, don't be silly!"

Against his will, Turgon knelt, and braced his neck muscles.  He saw his father's feet move, felt a rush of air against his neck and then an intense pain that didn't even have time to dissipate.

Because he fainted.

 

His sleep was filled with nightmares. He was back in his childhood. His brother Fingon bounded into his room like a thunderstorm and teased him for spending all his time reading and not enjoying the outdoors. His mother Anairë wanted to teach him all sorts of complicated instruments and forced him to take music lessons.

In moments of great loneliness he stayed happily by his cousin Finrod, who was the same age. Often they sat outside drawing. But suddenly Finrod was a wolf who mauled him to death.

 

"Sire! Do you hear me?"

It was the voice of Penlodh.

Turgon turned towards him. He found himself in the canopied bed in his room in Vinyamar.

"I'm being stupid... It was nothing but a bad dream..."

Then he saw Glorfindel, Aredhel, and even Fingon were at his side. And he felt as weak as a wet towel.

"You fainted, Majesty," explained Penlodh. "I think a cup of your special tisane will make you feel better."

"It's a tisane for headaches?" asked Fingon worriedly.

"No, for depression," Turgon replied laconically.

 

And it was true.

 

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

The original title is "L'accolade".

Chapter 10: My Brother the Hero

Read Chapter 10: My Brother the Hero

 

Fingon Fingolfinion was taking a breath of fresh air in the courtyard of the castle, and the gold chains in his great plaits made quite a martial din as he walked.

Belin and Ecthelion watched him silently, hidden behind a straw bale.

"They look 'like each other very much, Messire, the High King of the Noldor and Fingonion. It's a bit like when you're doing a cuttin'. You cut a branch off the shrub and plant it in the ground. And then it's the same shrub all over again. It's kind of the same for those two."

"Belin Goldenhead", said Ecthelion, "however daring Fingolfin Finwion may be, no one has been able to match the valour of his son Fingon to this day. He is a model for all of us, a kind of ideal. That said..."

"Yes?"

"I never thought I'd be taller than him."

"So you're a little disappointed."

The Lord of the Fountain looked at his squire in surprise.

 

 

Later in the evening, King Turgon was seated at the festive table with a plaster collar around his neck. Fingon, his elder brother, was sitting right next to him. He had taken off his armour and traveling clothes and put on a Prussian blue tunic in a shade that suited him well. The stern and determined expression that was usually on his face had temporarily gone away. At that moment he looked only... kind.

"By Aulë, but what a beautiful necklace!" Turgon remarked then.

"Which one?"

"The third in silver, with the ruby."

"Ah, this one... it's a gift from Maedhros."

"Why doesn't that surprise me," Turgon grumbled to himself.

"I have to admit that I hadn't had a chance to wear it until today," said his brother. "But I think it's mithril, not silver."

"Can I look at it more closely?" asked Turgon, engrossed in his plaster.

Like his cousins Finrod and Curufin, he was very interested in the arts of jewelry. Fingon untied it and placed it in the palm of his hand. Turgon began to observe him, his eyes shining.

"Indeed, it is mithril... and this ruby... by Aulë! It's not a ruby, it's a red diamond!"

"What's the difference?"

"Don't you know the difference? Red diamonds are the rarest of all types of diamonds! Your necklace must be worth a quarter of my gold reserves and… gemstones like that, there must be no more than three of them in all of Middle-earth! I can't believe Nelyo gave you this!"

"Some Naugrim must have given him... and since he's not very fond of necklaces…"

Turgon had a skeptical pout. He gave him back the collar and started to eat a plate of cold cuts to console himself.

 

* * *

"I'm so glad to see you, little brother," Fingon confessed with a slanting glance, just before the roasts arrived. "My little brother whom I hadn't seen for so long... because he had disappeared into the wilderness and no one knew where he was."

"But I do what I want, in the end! Is there a law that says I have to keep you informed of everything I do? I was taking a breath of fresh air in a quiet, secluded place, and by Ulmo, I won't talk, even under torture."

"By Varda, I just wanted to know where you were ! And I remember Vinyamar, on my last visit. Now half the houses look deserted. Where have all these people gone? It looks like some kind of supernatural phenomenon."

"It's vacation time in Nevrast."

"Or rather, they've all migrated to your secret kingdom."

Turgon's gaze fell on his brother's left forearm, which was even more muscular than the last time he had seen it, and which seemed hard as stone. He touched it with his fingertip.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Nothing... I was wondering if they were like Glorfindel's."

* * *

Two hours later, the desserts were brought to the table. Turgon had already drunk more than he should have, and he dreamily said to Fingon :

"Once, I fell asleep on the lawn over there... And I had a prophetic dream."

"Again?"

"I dreamt that you got married and had a child... His name was Galahad. Gil-Galahad."

"But of course... I'm not getting married to please you."

"You should think about it, though. People talk."

"Talk?"

"They tell things. You're still only seen with men."

"That's a really stupid accusation," replied Fingon. "I must have told Maedhros at least ten times already that I had nothing but curiosity about Men. He was imagining things."

"I wasn't talking about those men! But since we're talking about Maedhros... What's this weird relationship between you two, exactly?"

"It's called friendship, brother."

"Friendship? I wasn't born under Arien. He keeps sending you gifts, each one rarer and more expensive than the last. And I can see how he looks at you. There's a little blazing inferno in each of his eyes when he puts them on you. It looks like his father."

"This is ridiculous. There was never a flame in Maedhros' eyes."

Hildor the minstrel seeped into the conversation: "In his hair, on the other hand..."

"Oh you, don't start," Turgon ordered sternly.

"You bore me about my necklace, but that bracelet on your wrist, wasn't it a gift from Finrod?"

"It's a simple gold bracelet he made me for my birthday. It has nothing to do with a red diamond."

"Bah! I'm told you're sharing your quarters with your steward."

"Of course, so that communication is faster between us, and so that I always have him on hand."

"Always on hand, you say?"

Turgon's face turned red.

"Dare you imply that me and Penlodh...? " he became indignant. "Two such respectable persons and…"

The end of his defence was lost in indistinction.

"I'm not implying anything, brother, I'm not implying anything... I am simply stating the facts..."

It was time for fruit and marzipan. The cupbearer filled Turgon's cup with a dark, thick wine.

"Tell me, 'cause I'm trying to refine the thing here... Does Maedhros ever touch your hair?"

"Huh? Why do you ask?"

"Because if he touches your hair, it's proof that he feels much more than friendship for you. Elenwë often touched my hair. And so did I..."

Fingon looked embarrassed.

"Why are you bringing this up again? No, Maedhros doesn't touch my hair."

"Well, that's something. And does he have a small dog?"

"A small dog?"

"Yes. A tiny dog. Elves with inverted tastes often have a tiny dog."

Fingon frowned on her spiky eyebrows, and a fingolfinian expression of contempt appeared on her face.

"But this is ridiculous! Maedhros doesn't have a small dog... And I don't see what having a small dog has to do with being gay!"

"Of course, this is not an established truth," Turgon conceded. "But it's a statistical fact..."

"Oh, boy. I've never heard anything so stupid," replied Fingon with a cold laugh.

"Why are you getting so angry," said Turgon as he emptied his glass.

"Because it's a totally stigmatizing assertion."

"Stigmatizing what?"

"That's absurd... And I never thought you'd believe in such commonplaces..."

"Commonplaces, commonplaces..."

Fingon rose abruptly from the table.

"I have a small dog!" he exclaimed, throwing his napkin on Turgon's plate. "And I'm not a homosexual!"

He left the room.

Turgon looked devastated.

"By Eru and all the Valar..." he murmured. "He's the woman in the relationship!"

 

 

 

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

On the subject of Maedhros gifts, you can read the one-shot "The Lord of the Gifts" in the same series.

Chapter 11: The Young Man and the Sea

Read Chapter 11: The Young Man and the Sea

 

That midday, in a tavern in Vinyamar, the atmosphere was warm and the spirits joyful despite the drizzle that had been falling continuously since dawn.

The innkeeper, a Grey Elf with a long nose, came quickly to ask the latest customers – a tall black-haired knight and his blond younger brother suffering from a facial allergy – what they wanted to order.

"Hello to you, Innkeeper," said Ecthelion. "We'll have two glasses of goat's milk and the daily special, if it's made with sea fish."

"Sea Bass with Roasted Vegetables, Noble Sire," replied the Sinda.

"Very well," said Ecthelion. Do you have any shrimps?"

"Surely, my lord: beautiful, large prawns."

"Bring us some, too."

When the innkeeper left, Belin said he felt as if people were staring at him. Since he had adopted the elf's clothing and hairstyle, he had blended in relatively well. But that had changed in a few hours. Ecthelion's skin was still perfect, although he never took care of it. Belin's was not. That day he had a flare of acne on his forehead, blackheads on his nose, and shaving cuts on his chin.

"As my father used to say, you have to let the talkers talk," said the Lord of the Fountain. "You're making great progress in the handling of weapons, and that's the main thing. As for horses, this is an area that you already mastered, but you have learned to use our tools instead of your own."

"I've always liked 'orses, sir, ever since I were little. I don't know how to talk to them like you do, but it's as if me and them don't need the same language to understand each other."

Ecthelion nodded, pensive.

"Two goat's milk!" announced the innkeeper, putting the contents of his tray on the table. "And the shrimps, very hot!"

Belin opened his eyes wide when he saw the plate of shellfish.

"Are these beasts really in the sea, milord?"

"Yes. There's even a lot of them. Uh, no, don't eat the head."

"That's good! Thank you, gentle sire."

Half a smile appeared on the ruthless and proud face of the elf lord.

"I-LU-VA-TAR!" suddenly exclaimed a voice to his right. "But who am I meeting here!"

Ecthelion turned with horror.

"Orodreth?!"

Orodreth hadn't changed since the last time they saw him. He was still as blond as ever, with a bobbed hairstyle in the way of Nargothrond, and his candid blue eyes. However, he was no longer wearing Angrod's colours, but Fingolfin's.

"What are you doing here?" Ecthelion asked.

"Well, right now I'm apprenticing with my great uncle Fingolfin in Barad Eithel. And I followed him here for a few days. I'd never seen Vinyamar before. So you followed King Turgon?"

"As you can see."

Orodreth sat down in front of him, next to Belin, who was busy eating his shrimp.

"Hello !" he said to the human. "Are you a companion of Ecthelion ? Oh, by Eru, you've got quite an allergy!"

"You recognize me not, good sire?"

"He's my human squire, don't you remember him?"

"What? My God! No, I didn't recognize him... How he's changed ! It's because of the beard, surely... But this allergy?"

"They are not allergy, milord," Belin replied. "They are youthful pimples, which my older brothers also had at my age."

"Oh. How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Seventeen springs, my lord."

Orodreth suddenly looked terrified.

"They grow faster than we do," Ecthelion explained.

"You scared me!"

Belin then offered to share his shrimp with Orodreth. When they were finished, a waitress came to take them back, and soon put the rest of the meal on the table.

"Here are your fish, young gentlemen," she said.

"Do I look that young?" Orodreth murmured with a disappointed look.

But Belin looked at the waitress with a kind of nostalgic astonishment, and in doing so, he looked miserable again.

"Do you like her?" asked Angrod's son.

"Oh, I was just looking at her because she is not ugly, and seems nice."

"They say that the Sindar are easier than the Noldor," said Orodreth with a scoundrelly air. "You should take advantage of this, Ecthelion. Especially since I've heard that you're very popular."

"No, thank you."

"I... In Barad Eithel... There's a sindarin lady I like. But I think I leave her colder than an iceberg in the Helcaraxë," moaned the blond elf.

Ecthelion seemed as passionate about this conversation as a Vala to whom we talk about contraception.

"My heart bleeds every time she talks to someone else. And you, Belin, is there a lady in your heart?"

"Oh no, milord. There have been no humans in the Gondolin Valley for ten years."

A Spy of Morgoth, who was over there, held out his ear.

"The last one who died was my aunt. And just before that, my mother."

"It's sad..."

"So that leaves me, my brothers, and two of my cousins. I don't have a girl cousin. My brothers Eudes and Robert were not allowed to marry. It is not easy for them, 'cause at the mill they work with women-elves, and they're always good looking, and nice! But they don't want them as spouse. It's 'ard for me too, and I never knew a woman. So I has to take care of myself alone."

"We're all reduced to that," said Orodreth.

"Wait... What do you mean exactly?" Ecthelion asked.

"Well... Relieving ourselves."

"Of course not!" Ecthelion denied.

"You never do it?"

"There's no shame, milord," said Belin.

Morgoth's Spy suddenly wondered why he'd started listening in on this conversation. As for Ecthelion, he had a gag.

"Since I tell you I don't! And after my misadventure with the vampire, I took a vow of chastity."

"You are brave," said Orodreth. "I think Uncle Fingon took a vow of chastity too. He's refused to marry for centuries."

 

 

 

Half an hour later, the two elves and the human were at the beach with bottles of wine and cider bought by Orodreth at the inn. He and Ecthelion were sitting on the sand. The drizzle had stopped, and the sky had cleared. Farther on, Belin had both feet in the water, and he touched the crest of the waves with wonder.

Orodreth uncorked a bottle of cider and handed it to Ecthelion.

"He looks like he's having fun..."

"He had never seen the sea."

Tuor wasn't the first, contrary to legend. But of Belin, the miller's son, few remember today, and all of them live in Valinor, the fairy paradise.

"Come, milord !" he shouted, after taking off his clothes. "It's fresh, but not bad."

Orodreth and Ecthelion put down their bottle and went to join him. They were surprised to find that Belin could swim.

"This is the greatest lake I've ever seen, my sires! And the water is so salty... What's on the other side of it?"

"Did you go there?" asked Orodreth to Ecthelion.

"No."

"Neither do I," said Angrod's son. "I was born here, in Beleriand."

Pensive, the three of them remained silent. Then Orodreth began to splash his companions, and the bathing degenerated into wrestling and swimming contests.

A bit later, Belin, who had disappeared, returned with a net he had made from three pieces of wood and a piece of cloth.

"What are you going to do with that?" Ecthelion asked.

"Catching some shrimp, milord."

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Orodreth is a kind of Janice.

Chapter 12: Shut up and sand!

Read Chapter 12: Shut up and sand!

 

"So, what is the agenda, Penlodh?" King Turgon asked.

"The smoothing of the hill of Amon Gwareth's majesty."

"What?!" exclaimed Egalmoth, the Lord of the Heavenly Arch. "But it is still not finished?"

"Three quarters are done," the king explained. "But the northeast quarter is still missing."

"Wait a minute," Egalmoth said, "How many years has this work been going on? It's been 150 years, hasn't it? What's with those copper fingolfins workers you've employed? Can't you ask them to work faster?"

"I tried," said the king. "But they have acquired rights and maximum working time per week..."

"Show them who's the boss, damn it."

Penlodh coughed and then spoke.

"I believe that if Egalmoth could, he would enslave all his employees."

Egalmoth had a scornful laugh.

"You can't stand the merchants anyway."

"That has nothing to do with it."

"Yet your father was one, you should remember that."

"That's not true... My father was not a merchant."

"I remember him in Valimar, with his... carpets. He gave them away for free, perhaps?"

The steward's cheeks turned red.

"He made carpets, but he didn't sell them."

"He exchanged them for chickens, it's the same thing."

"All right, that's enough," says Turgon. "If you want the work to go faster, Egalmoth, we can always use orcs. But in that case you will get orc work."

"So the agenda was: should we leave a projection in this part of the hill, or not? Duilin brought the plans."

But the respite lasted only a few minutes.

"And you know what he did next with his chickens? He traded them for jars of honey. I'm not telling you the traffic."

Turgon took his head in his hands.

"Such assertions..." Penlodh began.

"The thing about Penlodh is that by the time he get to the object in his sentence, you have time to finish the dessert and go and empty your bladder..."

"STOP."

"Majesty", Penlodh said at the time, "since Egalmoth seems so sure of himself... Why don't we propose to him to negotiate with the workers' unions?"

"Are you serious?" said Turgon.

"Yes, I am."

"A piece of cake! Let me take care of that and in a month's time your hill will be completely sanded down... like an egg. And above all, you'll stop breaking our jewels with it!"

Penlodh, the king's chancellor, had a slight ironic smile on his lips. He was savouring... because he knew what was going to happen.

 

 

The next day, on the north-eastern quarter of the hill, two workers among many others were working inside a gigantic scaffolding. 

The one on the left, the Noldo, was brown and muscular. The other, a Sinda named Thavron, was thinner in build and wore a wreath of spring flowers on his head. He did not rub the stone, but artistically caressed it with his hand.

"I love the stone... and it loves me... I enter into symbiosis with nature, so that my hand can perform the finest and most delicate sanding..."

"Rha, but shut up and sand!" said his neighbour on the left.

"No, no... On the contrary, I want to sing... I want to sing while I work!"

 

It is said that beyond the seas
Over there under the clear sky
There is a city
Where the stay is enchanted
And under the big green trees
Every evening
To her goes all my hope

I have two loves
My country and Tirion
By them always
My heart is delighted
My forest is beautiful
But what's the point of denying it
What bewitches me
This is Tirion, Tirion as a whole.
See it one day
It's my pretty dream
I have two loves
My country and Tirion

When on the shore sometimes
In the distance I see
A ship leaving
Towards him I reach out my arms
And the heart beating with emotion
Half voice
Slowly I say: "Take me away!"

I have two loves
…

"Are you all right, am I not disturbing you?" asked the foreman suddenly.

"Let's just say I had one more verse left," Thavron replied.

"Is this an approved helmet? " he asked, pointing to the wreath.

Thavron frowned.

"It's Friday."

"Let's be serious, Thavron. I have a problem with you. You've been on the same square metre of stone for a month. And you still haven't finished. So I think you'd be better off sanding with more energy instead of singing along !"

"The right to sing is enshrined in the Charter of Rights in Beleriand which was signed at the Mereth Aderdad," Thavron protested. "It is stated that in the case of monotonous and boring work, every elf has the right to start singing. Anyway, I'll leave you to it, it's four o'clock."

"And?"

"So, it's time for the crêpe break. We'll talk about it again in half an hour?"

 

 

 

 

At the same time, at the foot of the hill and the scaffolding, Egalmoth was in the middle of a discussion with another foreman, the chief foreman.

"Penlodh?" said the merchant. "But there's no one more unequal than this guy! To ransom the richest, ah that, he's the first, but as soon as it's a question of making the poorest work, there's nobody left!"

"You tell me we're not going fast enough," said the First Foreman, "but I assure you that we're doing our best given the legal framework we have in place."

"Wait... Why are three-quarters of the workers leaving their posts now?"

"According to the sundial, it's time for the crêpe break."

"The what?"

"The break where you eat a crêpe and drink a glass of milk or cider. It was the Sindar trade union that made this happen."

Egalmoth then saw a line of elves pass in front of him with a triangle of pastry filled with jam or honey in their hands.

"And the wreaths of flowers on their heads?"

"It is also an idea of the Sindar trade union."

"So, let's get things straightened out and make it clearer for me... How many breaks do they have during the day?"

"Work starts at 10 o'clock. At 11 a.m. there is a 20-minutes break for Valar prayer, but this is not compulsory. Finally, there is a compulsory break, but not for prayer. The workers can take a glass of cordial, to warm themselves up. Then work resumes until 1 pm. There, there is a two-hours meal break. See the building over there ? There is a large refectory and rooms for free activities. At the moment there is a novelty, the knitting course. Work starts again at 3 p.m. At 4 pm there is the Crêpe Break, until 4.30 pm. At 6 p.m. the working day is over."

"Are you kidding me now? They only work five hours a day? In Tirion, we worked forty!"

"But these were valian days, my lord..."

"I don't give a damn! What are these lazy slackers? Convene the unions now!"

 

 

 

 

Egalmoth sat on a high-backed chair in the hall of the Gondolidhrim Workers' House. The leaders of the three main unions soon arrived, looking suspicious.

The president of the SSCL, the Sindarine Solidarity Confederation of Labour, spoke first: "I am astonished that the king has sent you, a merchant whose sinister reputation is to practise a wild and unbridled capitalism."

"Huh? Firstly, I don't understand what you're saying, and secondly, you're going to moderate your remarks, because I'm one of the heads of one of the twelve noble houses of Gondolin!"

"So what?" replied the president of the NUU, the Nandorin Unitary Union, an elf with a green headband. "How did you win your title ? Explain to me in the name of what we should accept the decisions of aristocrats who were not elected by the elven people, and who most of the time were born with a diamond spoon in their mouth ? Is there a higher principle, written somewhere, that says that a person's birth gives him the right to govern the lives of others ?"

Egalmoth opened wide eyes.

"But what kind of bullshit logic is this," he murmured, wondering where he'd landed in.

He turned to the leader of the NWF, the Noldor Workers' Front, thinking he could find support there.

"You, I suppose, are reasonable, and you agree to parley."

The Sinda and Nando burst into a cold laugh, preventing the Noldo from speaking.

"So let me tell you that your attempts at racial discrimination..."

"Where is Penlodh? Why is he no longer our contact person?"

"Racial discrimination? I can't help it if your people are soft ragpickers who spend their time not doing anything and are still making wooden tree houses!"

"By Elbereth!"

The three trade unionists looked at each other and then left the room, furious.

"Come back, that's an order!" shouted Egalmoth.

In vain.

 

 

 

The next day, the First Foreman succeeded in getting the trade unionists back to Egalmoth. This time a table was set up, around which everyone took their seats.

"Good. I hope that we will be able to resume the discussion under good conditions. Let's start with working time... Five hours a day, or twenty hours a week, since Wednesday is a public holiday. That's not enough, the work is progressing too slowly."

"What are your proposals for increasing productivity?" asked the head of the NWF, the Noldorin Workers' Front.

"At least ten hours of work per day."

"Ten hours!" exclaimed the Sinda. "But we are not in Angband!"

"Already when they leave work at 6 p.m., it is difficult for our workers to have a fulfilled personal life, especially given the hardship of their task."

"Hardship, hardship... Please, your guys aren't Enerdhil's miners!"

"Do the same gestures for five hours, we'll see what condition your arms are in!"

"If 10 hours is really too much, then let's say 8 hours."

"Is this a joke?"

Egalmoth took a deep breath.

"I suppose that since this morning you have agreed among yourselves on what you have to offer me."

The First Foreman laughed.

"If there's anything you can't expect from them, it's to agree among themselves."

"No wonder we can't reach an agreement," replied the NWF chief, pointing to the Sindar, "half the time they are drunk."

"Rubbish! "exclaimed the President of the Sindarine Solidarity Confederation of Labour. "And you, the Foreman, the Oppressor, don't try to sow discord between us. We may sometimes have differences of opinion, but we remain united beyond partisan labels!"

"It makes me laugh," replied the foreman. "I know that you're the one who is sticking SSCL parchments all over the premises! There are even some in the toilets!"

"Speaking of sanitary facilities," said the Noldo, "there are big improvements to be made."

"I agree," said the Sinda.

"Me too", said the Nando. "There aren't enough of them, which causes queues."

"Do you want a measure to improve productivity? Here's one," said the head of NWF.

"Yes, and I would add that the marble used for the bowls is cheap marble that is very uncomfortable."

"OK, OK for the toilet if it saves time," conceded Egalmoth, "Anything else?"

"Yes, a significant number of workers would like to have music in the toilets."

 

 

 

 

Egalmoth was sweating profusely. He began to caress the bell of his blue mantle (a large diamond) to try to keep his calm.

"So we're cutting back on the pauses, then. Do you realise that between the lunch break and the crêpe break there is only an hour and a half of work?"

"This is out of the question! The introduction of the Crêpe Break is a major social breakthrough! We can't go back on such an achievement!"

"I agree!"

"So we're cutting back on the lunch break."

"...And digestion?"

"The mental well-being of an elf requires a two-hour lunch break. Studies have been done on this subject. The meal is an indispensable moment of socialisation. Moreover, to be in full possession of his means, the worker must have had time to digest his meal."

"In Tirion we ate on the run and didn't piss off our world!"

"In Tirion you had the two Trees, here we're freezing!" replied the Sinda.

"And then you need time to digest the digestif, otherwise you'll still have workers falling from the scaffolding!"

"Rather, there will be Sindarin workers falling from the scaffolding", specified the leader of the Noldor Workers' Front.

 

 

 

 

Three days later, Egalmoth returned to King Turgon and gave him, without a word, a list of the reforms decided upon.

"So, let's have a look at it..." Turgon said. "The end of the day is set for 5.50 p.m... A new sanitary building is to be built. The marble of the latrines will be changed. Barrel organs will be installed there... And hand massage sessions will be offered in the Gondolindrim Workers' House... Well, such a wonderful result. I think you agree to leave this task to Penlodh in the future."

Egalmoth nodded his head and left the room, still silently, without noticing the SSCL parchment that a trade unionist had hung on the back of his coat.

 

 

 

Notes:

- The song is © Joséphine Baker.
- I hope there are no grammatical errors in this translation...

---

Chapter End Notes

- The song is © Joséphine Baker.
- I hope there are no grammatical errors in this translation...

Chapter 13: The duel

Read Chapter 13: The duel

 

"Favouritism, more favouritism!" exclaimed Egalmoth when he heard the news. "The lads of my house are always the ones who get pinned down by the king... And why? Because Mr. Penlodh doesn't like me."

"From what I understood, he is the brother-in-law of his ex-wife's sister."

"That nepotism disgusts me."

 

 

The day before.

Penlodh, the king's steward, was undisturbed as he cut and artistically arranged a bouquet of flowers with carefully thought-out symbolism. In the same room, his sister, a young woman with long curly hair of dark blond bronze, sang a hymn to the glory of Ilúvatar in their native Quenya.

But the serenity of this painting was to be interrupted by Glorfindel, who knocked on the side of one of the arches to signal his presence, damaging the marble with a slight hollow in the process. The harpist stopped singing.

"Penlodh? Can I talk to you for a few moments?"

"What's the matter?"

The Constable came closer, and whispered in the ear of the steward.

"There is a problem with the Lord of the Fountain..."

"Ecthelion?"

"He challenged a member of the House of the Heavenly Arch to a duel... Barandîr, who commands a regiment of infantrymen."

"Yes, I see who he is... What is the reason for the conflict?"

"Well, Barandîr is said to have insulted Ecthelion's squire, a human. The duel is scheduled for tonight at six o'clock... It's a duel to the death. I couldn't find the king right away, so I thought it best to warn you."

"You have done well! Private duels are forbidden by law... We will have both parties summoned immediately. I'll see to it that the king is informed."

"Very good."

Glorfindel walked to one of the exits. But as he did so, he felt the blonde musician's gaze directed at him. His cheeks turned pink and he almost missed a step.

 

 

"So, what's all this about a duel?" asked Turgon on his throne, looking alternately at Ecthelion, stiff as a pike, and Barandîr, no less stiff but less austere.

"My squire was gravely insulted, Your Majesty," explained Ecthelion, his eyes shining with anger. "It is my duty to wash away his honour."

"His honour... Or your?" asked the king.

Barandîr laughed.

"Well... What exactly happened?"

"I came to the barracks with Belin the Blond, my faithful squire, who is, as you know, a human being. But when Lord Barandîr – if I can still use a title of nobility for such a vile and repulsive person – saw us, he asked me if I had come with my monkey."

"It was only a joke, Your Majesty," the other defended himself.

"Enough is enough ! I will not tolerate that Humans are insulted in my city. Lord Barandîr, you will be condemned to pay a fine, the amount of which will be determined later, and you must apologise to Ecthelion's squire."

"Is that all?" exclaimed Ecthelion. "How can I..."

"I would like to make it clear, although it goes without saying, that duels are forbidden, so if I hear anything about this, you will both end up in jail."

"But..."

"I spoke. Get out of here."

 

 

"I didn't ask for anything", explained the squire to Penlodh, on the main square.

"I understand well..."

The steward and the human then saw the two defendants leave the King's Tower, where Turgon had just dispensed justice. Ecthelion walked two metres behind Barandîr. Then suddenly he grabbed him by his hair, which was very long, and pulled him back to himself. He had done this with his left hand. In his right hand, he held his naked sword, which he placed under the throat of the other elf.

"No..." Barandîr murmured.

"Dog..." replied Ecthelion. "Do you think you deserve my pity?"

Penlodh and Belin had no time to do anything, nor did the other elves who were there. Ecthelion was about to deprive Barandîr of one of the parts of his body, the most important for an elf, the part that made him a male.

With a movement of the blade, in front of the great fountain of the esplanade, everyone saw Ecthelion cut the hair of his prisoner to the ground. Barandîr, who was no longer restrained by his head, fell forward. Then, with a scornful gesture, the other let the brown hair fall back on the mown head, like a handful of sand offered to the wind.

"Let that be a lesson to you."

 

 

"Argh, but why does he always has to do things like that!" exclaimed Turgon. "It seems he is incapable of the slightest moderation... I don't like it Penlodh, it makes me anxious... It reminds me of the Maniac."

"The Maniac?"

"You know... Fëanor."

"Don't worry too much about that. I think young Ecthelion will have time to meditate on his actions where he is at the moment."

And indeed, where he was, there wasn't much else to do.

The jails of Gondolin were comfortable if compared to prisons of other races. But they were still prisons, and offered little privacy. The crime rate was low and most of the cells were used as drunk tank for Sindar who had abused alcohol (a pleonasm, some Noldor may say).

On the first day, Belin came to visit his master and gave him a bag through the bars.

"There is a change of clothes, kind lord, your hairbrush, your shampoo, and some oranges that I has bought at the market."

"Thank you."

"I can't believe it!" exclaimed a guard as he noticed the squire's round ears. "Is he human?"

"Yes, that's what I be," Belin replied naively.

On the other side of the bars, Ecthelion made a face.

"Does he always talk like that? They say they can't pronounce all the sounds... Is that true?"

The elf lord did not answer.

"What d'you mean, that I prononce all the sounds not?" Belin asked.

"Oh la la! I'm sure you hired him because he was less expensive than a real elf squire. Hey ! Just between us, the king can say what he wants, but humans are not like us. It is said that the intelligence of an adult does not exceed that of a ten-year-old elf child, and that some of our dogs are smarter than them... Besides, I am surprised that he didn't bring you banan..."

The guard could not continue his speech, because a burst of oranges fell on him.

Ecthelion's detention was extended for a week for "assault and battery with food".

 

 

But Belin the Blond came to visit his master every day, and the latter sadly noticed that he was now hiding the top of his ears under his hair.

"There is a question I would like to ask thee, m'ssire. With all due respect..."

"Do."

"What has become of my pred'cessor?"

"Your what?"

"My pred'cessor, the elf who was your squire before me."

"Ah! Him! Not much. An Orc captain caught him once... And he gutted him right above my head."

Belin became whiter than a sheet of paper.

"Is this true, my lord?"

"Of course it's true."

 

 

Chapter 14: Prison break

Read Chapter 14: Prison break

 

 

"So if I understand you correctly, Ecthelion is still in prison!"

"For a fortnight," replied the king as he continued to examine the fabric samples shown to him by Egalmoth.

"Now that I think about it..." said the merchant. "On my way here I passed his squire, the little blond lad there, who was wandering about the square like a soul in pain... a basket in his hands."

"Well, he'd better stop bringing him food," replied Turgon, "because Ecthelion uses it to season the guards ! Just yesterday one of them complained of a bruise to his carotid artery, from a throw of sausage. As a result, Ecthelion was given another week's extension."

"The youth of today!" sighed Egalmoth. "They're not 100 years old, they never saw Telperion, and they want to play in the big league!"

"I told Glorfindel that Ecthelion was a good-for-nothing," grumbled the king. "The day he will be useful to this city... snakes will fly in the air."

 

 

 

The king jumped with a loud cry. There was a large dark shape protruding from the large windows opening onto the balcony of his room, and it seemed to move.

"Don't be afraid, King Turgon, son of Fingolfin," said the shadow. "It is only me, Thorondor."

Turgon breathed a sigh of relief. He approached the shadow, only to realise that it was the eagle's gigantic head, which he had passed through the window.

"You scared me! So, any news of the lookout?"

"Nothing to report," Thorondor replied in his majestic, deep voice. "We continue our watch and patrols."

"Good... Praise Manwë for having addressed you to me."

"He has not forgotten you."

"Have you had dinner yet?"

"Yes, I have."

"That's a pity. I would have offered you something before you left... Oh, but I know!"

Turgon went to search in the chest where were stored all his scepters with one hand on top of them. He took the one whose hand had the hooked index and the raised middle finger, and then began to scratch the top of the eagle's head with this royal tool. Thorondor uttered a long grunt of contentment.

"Ho-ho-ho, now that's a good boy," Turgon whispered, brushing the feathers against the direction of their growth.

"Hum... Thank you, I never manage to reach that part myself."
 

 

 

 

One day, as he was about to bring a cake to his master, dressed in his red hooded coat because winter had fallen, Belin overheard a conversation between two elves and one of the jailers. He didn't know it, but the two elves were the brother and uncle of Barandîr, the captain whom Ecthelion had sheared.

"Find a way!" exclaimed the uncle. "We pay you enough for that ! Insult his mother, or his horse, I don't know what else!"

"My imagination is starting to dry up..."

"This should help it get back on its feet."

The elf slipped a golden fingolfin into the guard's large hand.

Furious, Belin turned around and walked towards the house of Glorfindel. It was located in the south-western part of town, not far from the Arch of Ingwë. It had just been finished and the paint was still fresh on the white walls and the green ironwork.

"This is a beautiful villa," thought the human.

He knocked three times.

 

 

 

"The bastards!" exclaimed Ecthelion when Belin told him about the plot against him.

"Hush, my lord! Somebody may hear you..."

"You're right," he replied in a low voice. "I should have killed that dog when I had the chance. Or worse, emasculated him."

Belin frowned. He didn't understand he logic of his master's words.

"Don't be afraid, my lord !" he said then. "I've warned Glorfindel Lauredindil... You will be released shortly."

"But the king would have to give his consent! He doesn't like me."

"The King likes you not? But if he likes Glorfindel, and if Glorfindel likes you..."

"It's true," Ecthelion murmured. "You're here, fortunately. Once again, you saved my life. I am in your debt."

"Take this, milord", Belin replied simply, removing the tea towel that covered his basket. "I brought you a butter galette, that I made accordin' to my mother Jehanne's recipe, who made them all the same. But you must not throw it at the guards."

"Thank you, my good man. I will eat it right away. You'll get a raise as soon as I get out of here."

And he bit into the cake to the teeth, because he was young and ate like four.

Ecthelion was released the next day, with help from Glorfindel. However, the king's opinion of him had not changed. Since his arrival in Gondolin, the young elf had been a source of all kinds of trouble.
 

 

"Tell me, Thorondor, while I have you at hand..." the king asked the giant eagle, for he had not seen him since his departure for Vinyamar.

"Yes?" replied the majestic creature.

"When you brought my brother Fingon and Maedhros back from Thangorodrim... Didn't they kiss each other, or something like that?"

"No... Why?"

"Oh, for nothing... We sometimes have those crazy ideas that go through our heads."

He mechanically lowered the tip of the sceptre into the eagle's neck.

"Right there... Oh, yes yes yes yes..." growled the bird.

 

 

Chapter 15: As rich as Egalmoth

Read Chapter 15: As rich as Egalmoth

 

The folk of the Heavenly Arch were rich, very rich. They were so rich that the splendour of their clothes and their homes evoked the lost magnificence of Tirion. The tower of their house was covered with a mosaic of semi-precious stones; and if the members of the House of the Fountain, by a choice that was both aesthetic and moral, preferred silver and diamonds, all types of gemstones and metals were favoured by those of the Heavenly Arch.

Simple merchants, knights, goldsmiths or drapers, the elves of that house were all rich. But the richest of them all was their lord, Egalmoth the Fortunate, who wore two rings on each finger, a blue velvet mantle with opal-encrusted edges and a bell made of a single diamond so large that it created iridescent reflections all around him.

His tunics were made of scarlet cloth, his boots of the best leather in the country. He wrote with a peacock's feather. He drank from golden cups. He put carnelians in his bathtub together with bath balls. And his bath balls contained perfume essence, and the inside of his bathtub was made of mother-of-pearl.

His wealth was so great that it had become proverbial. When the Noldor of Beleriand wanted to say of someone that he was rich, they used to say he was "as rich as Egalmoth".

Moreover, he had never been poor, being from a noble family of Tirion. But it was in Vinyamar and then Gondolin that he had developed his fortune and his businesses, for the talent of his House lay in machine construction. The Irisian Elves had started in Nevrast, with looms. Then they began to design war machines : catapults, trebuchets, ballista... Naturally, in Gondolin, they found themselves in charge of the construction and management of these machines posted on the walls. Soon, they also began to build musical instruments playing by themselves, and all sorts of automatons, especially for children.

"We even sold a mechanical hand to Maedhros... So he can sweep the broom!"

That day, Egalmoth was having his portrait painted by Cenedril, Gondolin's master artist.

"Ah, Maedhros..." said the painter, while remaining concentrated on his work. "I painted him when he lived in Tirion. He was the most handsome young man in the city, and the most desired bachelor in the whole continent... I saw him recently. He looked like a magnificent palace... fallen into ruins, or ransacked by savages. Still beautiful, but faded, with cracks, missing parts..."

"That's it", said Egalmoth.

He hardly resembled this red-haired prince. His eyes were not grey but green as jade, with pieces of amber in the iris. His wavy dark hair, divided on the left side, rested on the top of his rainbow stitch, embroidered with gold and gems. A curved sword hung from his belt, for he was also a skilled swordsman, although he was even more skilled with the bow.

"Such a waste..." murmured Cenedril.

"Did you choose a mythological or historical subject?"

"No... I just painted him naked... well, with a vine leaf. Be careful, don't move..."

"Uh, you're leaving me my clothes, huh? I don't want to find myself in Tata's outfit, with a pine cone on the nuts! This painting is for hanging in my dining room. And I am a father."

"No, don't be afraid, my lord. I had painted Maedhros naked because his body was a real gift for an artist."

"And mine isn't?"

"Not really," replied Cenedril. "Well, it is... correct. But Maedhros, how can I put it... He was another level. Besides, you had to see the state he put women in..."

"And not only women! ...How much longer is this going to last?"

"I think you should come back for an hour everyday until the end of the week. Then, I'll take care of the finishing touches and I won't need you anymore."

Half an hour later, Egalmoth left the studio of the painter. As the artist lived in the northern district, the merchant had to pass through an alleyway populated by Nandor, the Wood Elves, and when he reached the gate of his mansion, two opals were missing from the edge of his mantle.

"Bloody hell! They chored two stones from me... Those foresters are really scum... Next time, I'll go back home in a sedan chair!"

In the hall, two of his five daughters came to welcome him with a cup of drink.

"Good evening, Father. Did you have a good day?"

"Did you make a profit?"

"Lots of profits, my loves. And you, you earn profits in beauty."

"Thank you Father."

The girls bowed their heads. These ones were not yet married, and there was also the little one, who was probably in her arithmetic class.

"We've had your afternoon snack prepared for you. It is waiting for you in the blue lounge."

The rich merchant climbed the steps of a staircase in pink marble. In the blue living room, on a table made of noble wood with gold leaf embellishments, the servants had placed a silver plate containing pheasant appetizers. On another tray, there was also his mail.

Egalmoth let himself fall into his padded armchair with a yawn of self-satisfaction. It was a day as he loved them. None of those silly meetings at the Palace, no military obligations... Just business.

He nibbled a bite and then began to open his mail. The first was a letter from his wife, who was now on a trip to one of their counters in Eglarest. She gave him a number of professional details and then explained how much she missed him in the evening, which made his blood boil a little. The second letter, however, brought down this rise in his libido in one fell swoop. It came from the administration, and more precisely from the treasury department, managed by Penlodh. Egalmoth didn't understand when he read the name of the sender. He had already paid his income tax, as well as the various taxes related to Real Estate, State, and even State statements. What could it be about? So it was with frowned eyebrows that he unsealed the letter, to discover words that he had never seen put together before:

 

Solidarity tax on wealth

 

A flow of rage coloured his rich man's face. What, a new tax? Reserved for the richest?!

"Too much is too much, Penlodh," he said. "This time it's war."

 

* * *

 

 

A few centuries earlier, in Valinor.

 

"Fëanor", said Fingolfin in a mood, "were you obliged to hang a half-naked painting of your son in the middle of our father's palace?

"Does it bother you, brother?" replied Fëanor bitterly. "It seemed natural to me that everyone should be able to enjoy this marvel."

"But this is indecent!" exclaimed Fingolfin.

"You find it indecent because you are jealous," replied the other with a smile of pleasure.

"Jealous? But of what?"

"Jealous that my eldest son is more handsome than yours."

"My son is still only a child, I remind you."

"But that doesn't matter... There is nothing special about his look. At the same age, my son had already given his name to a hair colour : Russandol red. All that is said about yours, for the moment, is that he likes to climb up sideboards and wear dresses!"

"It's very difficult to climb up a sideboard while wearing a dress! My son is a brave little boy!"

 

 

Chapter 16 : Game of thrones

Read Chapter 16 : Game of thrones

 

King Turgon liked to build models, and he was particularly gifted in this field, taking care of every stage of his creations, from calculations to execution. That day, he stood in the middle of a giant map, which covered the floor of a room in his palace. The map represented the Beleriand up to the Ered Luin, and also included the Ossiriand. It was painted on the parquet floor, and miniature forts and cities, as well as statuettes of princes, were placed on it.

"So this is the crown of the Noldor," he said.

He had put down a pewter crown on the plain of Ard-Galen, in front of the black fortress and the plaster mountains of Thangorodrim.

"Originally it belonged to Nelyafinwë, Maedhros, the eldest son of the eldest son of Finwë, the high king of the Noldor."

A small statue with red painted hair and one hand missing was at the side of the crown.

"But he bequeathed it to his half-blooded uncle, Nolofinwë, my father Fingolfin, to schmooze. And because he wanted to make up for Losgar's betrayal... Maybe also because he wanted to bang my brother."

Using a rake, Turgon pushed the crown to the part of the map called "Hithlum" and then placed the figure of Maedhros south of Ard-Galen, near a miniature fort on a line of hills.

"Now the power has passed from the House of Fëanor, the Dispossessed, to that of Fingolfin, and resides in the capital of Hithlum, Barad-Eithel, which watches over the fortress of Morgoth : Angband, hidden under the Iron Mountains, and protected by the peaks of Thangorodrim. But there is also another king in Beleriand, installed earlier, King Elu Thingol, sovereign of the Sindarin Elves. He resides in Doriath with his wife, the maia Melian. And with the exception of the people of the House of Finarfin, he does not like the Noldor, because they massacred those of his people beyond the seas."

Another crown, a band of interlacing whiplash lines, was placed on the central forest where the words 'Doriath' and 'Ring of Melian' were inscribed.

"There is a third power, on the western banks of the Beleriand: Círdan le Teler, and his two ports of Brithrombar and Eglarest. He has more or less given allegiance to Thingol, whose race he shares, while remaining autonomous. Finally, there are the Nandor, the Wood Elves who live in the rest of the country, in the East and South. And then there are the Sindar scattered all over the country too... But let's come back to the High King of the Noldor..."

"He has several vassals. First, those of the House of Fëanor, the brothers of Maedhros: Maglor who protects the Breach to the East of Himring, there, Celegorm and Curufin who do the same for the Aglon Pass, to the West, between the hills of Himring and Dorthonion; and then Caranthir the Dark, who reigns over Thargelion, at the very east, next to the Dwarves, and below them, towards Amon Ereb, the twins Amrod and Amras, of whom we don't know too well what they do – on the other hand it's not as if they are of interest to many people. If we go back to Ard-Galen, going southwards, we come across the land of Dorthonion and the northern valley of the Sirion, ruled by the House of Finarfin, that is to say Finrod Felagund and his brothers, Angrod and Aegnor.

All three figurines had their hair painted yellow and a sympathetic expression.

"Then we cross the Sirion and the Ered Mithrim, under the country of the High King... There is Dor-Lómin, the fief of the eldest son, the Valiant and Viril Fingon, his father's favourite. One wonders why..."

Fingon's statuette was the same as Fingolfin's, except that it had braids.

"And to the west, by the sea, there is Nevrast, the land of Turgon the younger son, with the city of Vinyamar, the first one built by the great noldorin architects and builders. But Turgon went to live in a hidden valley near the Sirion, south of Dorthonion... because he wanted to be left alone."

He moved the statuette of Turgon to the place where Gondolin was. Then he went out to continue working on his model of the two Trees.

 

 

Egalmoth the merchant put the letter on the desk of his first secretary, Nindë, a dark-haired elf with a long nose.

"Look what this raptor of Penlodh has laid for us again! A new taxe reserved for the richest elves in Gondolin!

The assistant blinked as he read the letter.

"25 % of total income? That's a huge sum," he whispered.

"You bet it's a huge sum!" exclaimed Egalmoth. "This time, enough is enough! As they say, don't toss Tulkas in the begonias!" (1)

The secretary raised an eyebrow.

"We must act, Nindë, and quickly!"

"But how, my lord? The king will be difficult to convince. Penlodh is his first adviser."

"Then he must be brought down in disgrace."

The Noldo savoured his own words. His eyes shone, turned towards the invisible goal to be reached.

And that very evening, surrounded by other lords and good wine, he bragged in the main lounge of the tower of the Heavenly Arch.

"I'm fed up with this favouritism practised by the king towards the Vanyar!"

Some frowned, others nodded their heads.

"It's not a secret," sighed Enerdhil. "Turgon has always admired them. He even married one of them.

"You know, I've never really been a fan of the Maniac..." Egalmoth began.

"The Maniac?"

"Fëanor. But sometimes I feel like repeating his words: Show me thy black hair!"

"Well, he was in no position to say that, he had three redheaded kids."

"Yes, but red can be accepted. It's the colour of fire. On the other hand, blond hair is evil!"

Glorfindel startled.

"I remind you that the Valar have always held the Vanyar in high esteem."

Egalmoth raised his hands to the sky.

"The Valar? Stop telling me about the Valar! They're shy bladders! Who was it that went after Melkor when he ran away like a thief, with all the silverware, and after ruining our giant candles? Us! The Noldor! With our little hands! While the Valar were hiding behind their mountains... And they grew them! Why did they grow them? Because they chickened out!"

The other knights took their heads in their hands.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Egalmoth and his secretary met again to take stock of their initial research.

"I can't believe Penlodh managed to concentrate so much power in his hands!" exclaimed the merchant as he looked at his papers. "He rules two Houses, the House of the Pillar and the House of the Tower of Snow, he is Mayor of the Palace, Great Chamberlain, Intendant of the Treasury, First Counsellor to the King..."

"And the king is so infatuated with him he gave him a part of his apartments," Nindë added bitterly.

Egalmoth had a dry laugh.

"Soon he will distribute the Lembas instead of Idril! Besides... I wonder what's in this tea he brings to the king... Who knows if he doesn't use it to cloud his mind..."

"We should try to have it analysed...

"Do you know someone in the kitchen?"

"The pastry chef."

"Very good. Did you find anything else? He must have a weakness somewhere. Everybody has one. A fiancée? A concubine among the natives?"

"I didn't find anything about it, I must admit. It would seem that he has no particular love interest."

Looking pensive, Egalmoth scratched his chin. He made his conjectures aloud: "If there is nothing on the women's side – which doesn't surprise me that much, just between us – maybe there is something on the men's side ? I've always found him suspicious."

"Alas, I found nothing, Lord Egalmoth."

"Have you searched his past? Not only in Beleriand... "

"Indeed. I took the liberty of having a few biographical elements gathered..."

"Good."

Nindë took his notebook and began to transmit and synthesise the information he had found.

"So... From a rather modest origin, he was born near Valimar, to a noldo carpet-maker father and a vanya mother... His mother was a herbalist."

"A herbalist? Interesting..."

"He has two brothers and a sister. His brothers, as well as his parents, stayed in Valinor. As for his sister, Nieninquë, she followed the exodus and settled in Mithrim, then more recently in Vinyamar. She does nothing special in life. According to my latest information, during the king's trip to Vinyamar, Penlodh took the opportunity to bring her here, to Gondolin."

"Good. Maybe you may find out things by investigating her later."

"Still about Penlodh, in his youth he took courses at Tirion University in various doctrines, including the most prestigious. He even spent several years meditating in the Pelori with a Vanyarin master."

"Only the Vanyar waste their time doing this kind of crap."

"Then Penlodh came to live permanently in Tirion, where he became one of Fingolfin's advisers. After the Crossing, when Turgon left to settle in Nevrast, Fingolfin recommended him to his son."

"And the son wanted to please his father, of course..."

 

* * *

 

After leaving his secretary and fellow conspirator, Egalmoth continued his investigation by going to the barracks of the Tower of Snow. Aredhel, the king's younger sister, was busy there training young archers.

"So Penlodh has entrusted you with some of his responsibilities in this House, My Lady," Egalmoth commented aloud.

"Indeed. But why should this be a surprise? Does it bother your pride as a dominant male raised in a fundamentally patriarchal society?"

The merchant's eyes widened. Suddenly remembering the way the Nandor trade unionist spoke, he was subject to post-traumatic stress disorder.

"Uh... No... Not at all..." he replied with difficulty. "Besides, I sometimes think... that since Penlodh runs two Houses... he could leave this one to you."

"I don't know..." Aredhel murmured thoughtfully. "I'd never thought of that."

Hit, said Egalmoth to himself.

"Whatever... You must see him often... and be close to him."

"Not really," said the young woman. "He is very kind, but he's a secretive person."

"I always wondered if he had plans to get engaged... Or if he was dating someone... I don't remember ever seeing him arm in arm with a woman."

"I don't think so either..."

"Has he ever courted you?"

Aredhel laughed.

"No! That's not like him."

"Really? A beautiful woman like you!"

Egalmoth thought his compliment would be well received. It was not. Aredhel looked exasperated.

"By Nessa, it's unsane! This way of always reducing women to their physical appearance!"

"That's not what I meant..."

"Oh course it was what your meant ! Your Noldorin macho education conditions you and speaks for you!"

The merchant tried to keep his cool.

"What I wanted to say... is that maybe he has other tastes... apart from women."

"Huh?"

Aredhel frowned without understanding.

"That he is a faggot!" specified Egalmoth.

The elf-woman shook her head.

"No, I rather believe that he is not interested in the things of love, and that he prefers to devote himself to his work... A bit like my brother Fingon."

Egalmoth could not suppress a laugh.

"If he's like your brother Fingon, he is a faggot..."

"What? But my brother isn't..."

"Come on!" said the merchant. "Either he is, or he's locked in a closet with glass doors! A guy who embarks on a suicide mission to save another who has already sold him twice... If that's not love!"

"You're such an awful person!" exclaimed Aredhel. "I won't let you insult my brother like that! Get out of this room!"

"She's not so open-minded, after all", Egalmoth thought, scurrying off with what little dignity he had left.

 

* * *

 

Soon, Nindë reported to Egalmoth: the herbal teas that Penlodh had prepared for the king had been analysed.

"What was the result?"

"Mint, St. John's wort, and chamomile. A classic recipe to combat black moods and digestive problems, it seems. Nothing harmful to health, on the contrary."

"It may depend on the dosage."

"On your side, my lord, have you found other elements that could harm him ?"

"Not really. Only guesses... But I think we'll have to make do with it. As the proverb says: Slander, there will always be something left of it! That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to talk to Turgon about it. Breathe the seed of suspicion into his mind."

"Maybe it could work."

"Send a message to the king saying that I wish to meet him alone, in private."

Egalmoth received an answer within hours. The king was ready to meet him that evening in his apartments.

 

* * *

 

After a good dinner, the trader put on his blue mantis and set off. The guards let him pass through to the top floors of the King's Tower. But when he entered the first living room, he was surprised to find that no lights were on. Only starlight was visible through the wide windows.

However, a very tall, hieratic silhouette was waiting for him in the shadows. It turned around, becoming more visible. Its hair was lighter than Turgon's: it looked like chestnut and not black. The nose looked different too.

"What a pleasure to meet you, Lord Egalmoth," said the elf.

It wasn't Turgon. It was Penlodh.

"What? Where is the king?"

"He will not come."

"Why?"

"Because he never got your message."

Egalmoth startled.

"Because I know you are plotting against me," Penlodh continued. "And because since your messenger had several members of his family being convicted of bribing jailers so that the Lord of the Fountain could not get out of prison, he thinks he owes me some service in return for my indulgence."

"The traitor ! I will exclude him from my House!"

"He will enter one of mine."

"You're such a..." Egalmoth whistled.

"Son of a small carpet maker? But I didn't come here to harm you. I would like to know what made you take a chance. What you have to reproach me with. So that we can discuss it... Even if you have nothing concrete against me."

"You know that very well! This new tax on wealth! And as for what I hold against you... I know that it's you who give the recipe for the infusion that the king takes, and who have it prepared. Who knows what you have put in it?"

"The king suffers from melancholy," Penlodh simply replied.

Most of the time he would keep his eyes down, and then suddenly raise them up to stare at you, and then you would notice that the iris of his eyes was extremely light. The eyes of the half-vanya seemed to open your soul as if it were just a banal material thing, but there was also a certain gentleness and kindness in them that seemed to respect that soul as something fragile and unique, as powerful and important as the whole world – as another whole world.

"Think, Lord Egalmoth. What will it change to your life, to pay this tax ? You will still have as many precious stones embroidered on your clothes. And what? Maybe a little less carnelian with your bath balls."

"Ah no! Bath balls are sacred! Wait a minute... How do you know that?"

"There is nothing that escapes the king's police," replied the Steward.

Egalmoth was fulminating inside. He felt as if he was facing an unknown and omniscient entity against which all struggle was in vain.

"If you need extra time for payment," Penlodh said, "you can ask for it to the Treasury."

"I don't need a delay," protested Egalmoth. "Who do you think I am? One of those penniless Sylvans?"

He left the room.

This time, he might have lost... but one day he would win. He would discover Penlodh's weakness... And then he would crush him. As one squashes a fly. Or rather as an orc squashes a fly. For elves don't kill flies.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

 

It was an image that all the young Noldorian elves born in Beleriand had in mind.

In the vast royal yurt supported by an imposing wooden frame, Fingolfin, sitting on a curule seat, had a calm and grave face. Facing him, Maedhros Nelyafinwë, thin in his rich clothes, had knelt down, his long emaciated face hidden by locks of red hair.

"f there lay no grievance between us, lord, still the kingship would rightly come to you, the eldest here of the house of Finwë, and not the least wise."

He removed the Fëanorian crown from his hair and handed it to his uncle.

And Fingolfin accepted it and took it in his hands.

 

But what followed was not known.

Night had fallen, and all the members of the court had returned to their tents or campsites. The guards remained outside. Fingolfin was alone in the part of the yurt that served as his hall of honour. Sitting on the wooden throne, with his brother's crown on his head, he seemed pensive.

After a moment he took off the crown and looked at it, resting it in both hands, with a melancholy and weary look on his face.

Then his face changed, and an unexpected word came out of his mouth.

"FINALLY."

 

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

- (1) In French = "Faut pas pousser Mémé dans les orties !" => "Faut pas pousser Manwë dans les orties !"

- This chapter is dedicated to the memory of Enguerrand de Marigny.

- Also I'm sorry for Egalmoth's pov.

- Game of Elven Thrones : https://petitedilly.tumblr.com/post/615055219544473600/game-of-elven-thrones-this-thing-i-will-never-do

Chapter 17: The bachelor flat.

- I am directly inspired by the Iliad and Kaamelott for the starting point of the sulking knight.
- I found it difficult to translate this chapter because there is a lot of colloquial language in the original French version.

Read Chapter 17: The bachelor flat.

 

Turgon looked at the Fëanorian clock in front of him for the second time.

"Well," he said to the other members of the Round Table. "It is 10.10 and Ecthelion is still not here."

"Majesty," said Glorfindel. "I don't think he's coming."

"Why? Is he injured?"

"In a way. In his self-esteem... He took umbrage."

"Umbrage? But umbrage at what?"

"Well... he feels like you don't like him. Therefore he is offended."

"Wait a minute," said the king. "Ecthelion is 'vexed'? Am I dreaming? Since when am I supposed to love my knights?"

"Rather, let's say he thinks you despise him. According to him, you criticise him and discriminate against him all the time because of his age."

"Really?! But what is this generation of arrogant and touchy young people! Ah, we don't have the right to criticize them at all, all they admit is that we butter them up! Another one who has been too much pampered by his parents: he should have been given a few sword blows on the neck. But he’ll get what he deserves. I'll go and see him after our meeting. And if he gets disbarred, too bad for his mug ! Where does he live, actually?"

Most of the elf lords turned mechanically to Penlodh.

"Does anyone know where he lives?" asked Turgon again, because for once Penlodh didn't have the answer to his question.

"So there!" exclaimed Egalmoth. "You can't say Ecthelion is the talkative type. He's more the 'I look over your head and tolerate your existence' type. Telling us about his life, it's not one of his priorities!"

"It is true that he never talks to us," Galdor said then. "Or rather, he doesn't come to discuss with us."

"Sometimes he does, with me," said Enerdhil. "But it's always about his weapons. I think only Glorfindel knows him a little."

"That's right," the Lord of the Golden Flower confirmed. "And it seems to me that he lives in a flat in the town centre, in a street that goes down from the King's Square."

"That's correct," confirmed Penlodh, who had just consulted one of his registers.

"Perfect. Write down his address on a piece of parchment," said Turgon. "He'll see what I'm made of."

 

* * * * * *

 

That morning, when Ecthelion opened the door, he was dressed only in a short blue nightgown which brought out the width of his shoulders and his high height, although he was rather thin, and his body seemed to hang from this natural clothes hanger. He was pale and his blue-grey eyes were lined with dark circles. He didn't look very awake. His long black hair was tousled, and he rubbed his eyes, thinking he saw the king at his door.

But when he had rubbed them, the king was still there, immense and crowned. He looked grim.

Ecthelion closed the door.

"Oh shit."

 

* * *

 

"Ecthelion, open this door!" said the king.

The door opened again.

Ecthelion was still in his nightgown.

"Stay there," Turgon said to his bodyguards.

He broke into the flat, in front of an astonished Ecthelion.

"Ecthelion, my young friend, we need to have a serious conversation. Do you have something to drink?"

"I... I have some fruit juice, I think..."

He disappeared into one of the rooms overlooking the corridor.

"It's not very big," thought Turgon as he assessed the width of the vestibule and then the corridor.

It still looked like there were several rooms. But the lord of the Fountain did not seem to be a cleaning maniac. Clothes were hung here and there. On the floor there were bread crumbs and greasy paper from take-away food. On the largest of the walls, however, there was a picture of two warriors in armour, a man and a woman. The cartouche on the frame bore the words : "The city of Eithel Sirion, to his worthy heroes."

Ecthelion came out of the kitchen.

"You can go ... into the living room, it's at the end."

Turgon walked up the corridor. The living room was in an even messier state. There was a valuable metal bench seat, but the cushions were scattered on either side of the wooden coffee table that faced it. Opposite the sofa stood a small mechanical theatre, but also empty beer amphorae, there, and around the table. Turgon picked up a brown woolen sock whose quality of knitting left something to be desired.

"Do you wear this kind of socks?"

"It's not mine... It's Belin's... my squire."

The king sat down on the bench, after checking that the place was clean. Ecthelion sat on the left side.

"Your squire leaves his socks at your house?"

"Oh, no... He lives here."

Turgon froze in a sharp freeze.

"I mustn't think about what this looks like..." the king thought to himself. "I mustn't think about what this looks like..."

"But do you realise what this looks like?!" he exclaimed.

"What does this look like?" asked Ecthelion most innocently.

"Oh... uh, nothing. But it's still unusual for a knight to live with his squire, a human being at that."

"He was being hazed at the barracks," explained Ecthelion as he filled the king's glass with fruit juice. "And he didn't even dare to say it. So as I had several bedrooms, I offered him to live with me. And he bakes very good bread."

"Thank you. He is a bit like your your servant, actually."

"He makes the bread because he comes from a mill, but I am the cook."

Turgon found it hard to imagine Ecthelion cooking. Besides, he could hardly imagine him living with someone else. In fact, he could hardly imagine him living at all.

"And this cat is yours too?"

He pointed to a large tabby cat lying on top of a chest of drawers. The cat was wearing a lace ruff around his neck.

"No, that's Belin's pet."

"Does he have a lace ruff around his neck or am I hallucinating?"

"That's definitely a ruff, Your Majesty. This cat has a taste for clothes. And sometimes, it almost looks like... he understands what he is told."

Ecthelion emptied his glass of juice, which made his Adam's apple and the line of his neck move until the border of his shirt. He put his glass back on the table.

"By the way, what did you want to tell me?" he asked, turning again to the king with his clear and cold gaze.

For ten minutes, Turgon had almost forgotten why he had come. But all of a sudden, he felt like tapping this impudent young man's neck again.

"In your opinion, Ecthelion son of Korma."

"Is it because I didn't come to the Council?"

"Right on."

"Do we have to come every day?" Ecthelion asked with a dull voice.

"Of course we have to come every day! And you know it very well!"

There was a silence.

"You don't say anything? Glorfindel told me that you didn't intend to come, because you thought I didn't give you enough importance."

"It would surprise me if he told you that... since that's not what I told him."

"He said that you thought I didn't like you and that I discriminated against you because of your age. "

"Well, it's the truth anyway."

Turgon's mouth stayed open.

"That's what you're always saying... That I'm useless, that I'm bad... So I don't have to come, right?"

The king joined his hands.

"Ecthelion..." he began with a flowery voice. Then his voice changed abruptly, and he seemed to grow in stature, when he was already very tall. "I don't care what you think or how you feel ! You are the head of the House of the Fountain, so you obey orders and you shut up! Does Glorfindel allow himself to miss meetings? He didn't miss a single one! Even when he wasn't a constable and he was just a young beginner like you ! So that's the last time you'll ever do anything like that... do you hear me? Otherwise I'll have you disbarred, and the title of nobility that your parents won, you can go and get it back in the public latrines!"

Ecthelion's face had broke down.

"Okay," he says. "I didn't want to..."

Turgon took his glass and finished it.

"Very well. We agree then. I'll see you at the next council."

His eye swung quickly to the left. The break down of Ecthelion's face did not last long. He was again as smooth as a statue, but looked sad.

"By the way... your human..."

"Yes?"

"Wouldn't you like to lend it to me, once in a while?"

"Why?"

"Just like that, out of curiosity..."

"No. Anyway he doesn't lend itself."

"To make you forgive yourself... "

"No."

 

* * * * * *

 

It was late at night. Belin was lying on a carpet in front of the mechanical theatre. His beard had begun to grow back on his chin, and his long blond hair was falling down on either side of his stunned face.

Behind him, sitting on the bench, Ecthelion was eating pieces of roast chicken that he had taken out of a bag bought at the local butcher's shop.

"It's a terrible story, mylord..." Belin said.

On the stage of the theatre, a giant spider had just appeared, accompanied by a black knight, and it began to suck on the two luminous trees, draining them of their sap.

"She's goin' to kill them, if she keeps doin' that, isn't she?"

"I'm not going to tell you the end," said Ecthelion in a knowing tone.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 18: Dangerous liaisons

Read Chapter 18: Dangerous liaisons

 

Ecthelion almost never received personal mail. The last time he had received any was a letter of condolence written by Maedhros and Maglor, and that was decades ago.

So he was surprised when he was handed a letter bearing the seal of the House of Finarfin. He quickly imagined some martial and epic affair... but was soon disappointed.

 

Dear Ecthelion,

Ilúvatar! I don't know who else to tell my problems to but you, to whom I originally confided.

You remember Meril, that young lady of Barad-Eithel of whom I spoke to you in a certain tavern of Vinyamar, and to whom I so quickly gave my heart, though hers was only Distance, Ignorance and Ice towards me.

Well, well! There's something new! I have managed to chat with her from time to time, and as the days go by, I have become a bit of a confidant.

However, I can't say whether my feelings are mutual. She is certainly very friendly, but she does not show me the kind of tenderness that betrays Love.

What do you think? What would you do in my place? Should I declare myself? Help me!!!

Orodreth Son of Angrod

P.S.: Give my regards to your squire.

 

"But what do I care about his love stories!" Ecthelion exclaimed. "And then this abuse of punctuation marks, it makes me sick."

He called Belin.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Orodreth says hello. Do you remember him?"

"Of course I do! How is he? And the nice lady he likes?"

"Huh? Don't tell me you remember that detail?"

"Yes, I remember it very well."

"Frankly, I don't understand... How can he want to chase girls when where he is, he could be training with Prince Fingon?"

"It's not the same thing, milord."

"That's right... It's better!"

The next day he wrote a reply.

 

Dear Orodreth,

Although we know little of each other, if you ask my opinion, I must give it to you, by Tulkas.

Abandon these marivals unworthy of a king's grandson and train for war.

Sincerely,

Ecthelion Kormaion of the Fountain

 

 

* * * *

 

Meril Limwen was a young elf-lady, not much older than Orodreth – she was only 49. Pretty and slim, she was always adorned and perfumed, and her long, wavy brown hair was carefully styled.

"Orodreth, how pleased I am that we have become friends," she said, looking into his blue eyes with her green ones. "I have always had friends only among other barons' daughters, never among barons' sons, and even less among princes' sons."

"My sweet friend! It is an honour to be your first friend."

After this witty introduction, they went out into the hanging gardens overlooking the Sirion. There, the son of Angrod could not help but gaze at his young comrade in the winter light. In her dark dress trimmed with a white fur collar, she was truly splendid.

"You are so beautiful," he dared.

"Alas! Not enough!" she sighed.

"What do you mean?"

She sat down on a bench topped by an arbour. Orodreth followed her.

"I love someone above my condition," she confessed.

"Let's see, if he loves you, he won't care about your rank. And you're a lord's daughter after all!"

"I don't know if he loves me at all," she moaned. "I'm probably not beautiful enough for him."

"What are you talking about? You are wonderful!"

Meril blushed. So did Orodreth.

"Dare I..." she whispered.

"Dare, my friend! You can tell me anything!"

"I don't know..."

She lowered her long black lashes, which seemed damp.

"He is a very noble elf..."

"Is he from a great family?"

"Yes. From a family of kings. "

Unconsciously, Orodreth puffed up his chest.

"How well do you know him?"

"Well, I sometimes chat with him... He understands women's hearts so well!"

A big smile appeared on the naive face of the young blond prince.

"And he is so kind and gentle..." she continued. "But he is a prince..."

"That's all right!" Orodreth exclaimed. "I'm sure that as soon as he knows how you feel, he'll want to marry you!"

"You think so?" she said, redder than ever.

"Yes, I do  But I'm thinking about it... Is he handsome at least?"

"Oh yes ! He has such beautiful clear eyes..."

Orodreth was close to ecstasy.

"And such long hair, which shows his strength !"

Orodreth's face broke down. He had always worn his hair bowl cut, in the Nargothrond fashion.

"I've never seen a man with such long, thick hair," Meril added, blushing. "And he's so brave... And strong..."

Orodreth said nothing more, he had no strength left... His heart had just broken.

"My God, it's Him!" she suddenly whispered in a terrified voice.

Accompanied by some lieutenants and squires, Prince Fingon had just entered the gardens. And despite the coolness of the day, he was shirtless and drying himself with a towel. Orodreth would have given a lot to have such abdominal muscles and biceps, and golden braided hair beating his knees. He suddenly felt ugly, incredibly young, incredibly bald, and incredibly miserable.

The group walked down the cobbled path that passed by the arbour and the bench where they were sitting.

"Oh," Fingon commented when he reached Meril's level, "nice little top."

Meril blushed and when Fingon was out of sight, she exploded into Orodreth's ear, "He paid me a compliment!"

"I want to die," thought Orodreth.

That evening, he took up his quill.

 

Ilúvatar!

Dear Ecthelion, if you only knew! I should have listened to your advice, and not meddled in matters of love. Meril Limwen, whom I love and almost mistakenly thought I was loved in return, has eyes and feelings only for the son of the High King, Prince Fingon!

How can I compete with him? I am no match for him!!

Orodreth, the most unhappy of the elves, who thinks of taking his own life in despair.

 

Two weeks later he received this reply:

 

Dear Orodreth,

You are right. You are no match for him. And if you really wanted to take your own life, you would have done so already.

Sincerely,

Ecthelion Kormaion of the Fountain.

 

Chapter 19: Epic poetry II.

Read Chapter 19: Epic poetry II.

The eleven heads of the twelve Houses of Gondolin were gathered around the Round Table in one of the rooms of the King's Tower.

Turgon spoke first: "Gentlemen, before we get down to business... It seems that the reputation of the members of this cenacle has improved considerably. We all now have an epithet."

"Fantastic!" exclaimed Glorfindel.

"It remains to be seen which one..." opined Salgant.

The king took the wax tablet from the Intendant's corner.

"So these are epithets that come from various troubadours in Beleriand, but also from the people... You can thank Penlodh's informants by the way."

"May he die," Egalmoth muttered.

"So... Let's start with me. This one hasn't changed. Turgon the Wise. "

"You can tell they don't know him like we do," Egalmoth chuckled to his tablemate, Galdor.

"Then... Duilin of the Piercing Eyes."

All nodded. Ecthelion, on the lookout, seemed eager to know his.

"Egalmoth the Fortunate. Galdor the Agile. Salgant the Ungainly. Penlodh the High..."

"Is that a reference to his height or the poker up his arse?" Egalmoth whispered to an annoyed Galdor.

"Glorfindel Goldenhead. Enerdhil the Skillful. Ecthelion... "

Ecthelion had straightened up.

"...The Bold? The Brave?" he added.

Turgon frowned.

"The Fair..."

"What?!"

"Wait, there's a sequel... Ecthelion, Fairest of all the Noldoli."

"Is this a joke? I don't care about being fair!" cried Ecthelion.

"Oh gosh," said Egalmoth, "I thought Fëanor was the fairest of all the Noldor?"

"But since he is dead, the place is available," said Glorfindel.

All eyes turned to Ecthelion, scrutinizing him from head to toe. The knight's face turned red.

"Yeah, he's pretty good..."

"You can't argue with that. "

"How does he get cheekbones like that?"

"And his hair... It looks like it has blue highlights..."

"But stop that right now!" exclaimed the young elf.

"There is another lord whose nickname is The Fair... Who is he again?" Galdor asked.

"It's Celegorm, one of Fëanor's sons."

"I'll stop you right there," said Turgon. "His epithet means the Blond, not the Beautiful."

"Technically," opposed Glorfindel, "the Fair may as well mean the Handsome. "

"And the Just," added Penlodh.

"So that's it," said Ecthelion. "There has been a mistake in translation. It is Ecthelion the Blond."

"Are you kidding me? You're the elf with the darkest hair in the room."

"Then it's Ecthelion the Just. "

Everyone laughed.

"But how is it that these three characteristics are expressed by the same word?" Turgon suddenly wondered aloud.

"Don't look it up," said Egalmoth, "it's a word of Vanyarin origin. "

Penlodh pouted.

"I think it's more a figurative use of the idea of clarity."

"Can someone translate what he's saying?"

"I never found Celegorm very bright," said Duilin.

"Anyway, Celegorm isn't just, and he's not handsome either," says Turgon. "So he's blond."

"He's not really blond," said Glorfindel.

"Sure, compared to you... But he's not dark-haired either..."

"He is brown-haired," said Enerdhil. "I knew him well in Valinor."

"Brown in winter, blond in summer, case closed," says Turgon. "Frankly, there's nothing exceptional about his look. As for Ecthelion, if you have Maedhros' tendencies..."

Ecthelion frowned.

"As for Celegorm..." he continued. "He's not even the most handsome of the seven brothers."

"I demand that this epithet be taken away from me," declared the Lord of the Fountain. "What does it matter to a knight to be handsome? In any case, I have taken a vow of chastity."

"Huh?"

"What?"

"Oh, you idiot!"

This interjection had escaped Egalmoth. Everyone was looking at him.

"Well, yes..." the merchant explained. "If I were his age and had a body like his... I can tell you that I would already have a dozen half-Avarin children... And I'm not even talking about all those Noldorin girls whose thighs I would have worn out!"

Penlodh's eyebrows rose high.

"Lord Egalmoth... I must confess that I have often wondered whether your vulgarity was a strategy to conceal your intelligence, or a natural trait of your personality."

 

Ecthelion had finished the day practicing his wooden target dagger throwing in the courtyard of his House barracks. He stopped after five minutes.

"Belin, why are you staring at me?" he asked his squire. "It's distracting me."

"Excuse me, milord," replied the human. "It's just that you're so pretty today. I can't stop looking at you. It's like a precious stone that shines."

The elf lord's eyes widened and for the second time that day his face turned completely red. Then a great cry echoed through the southern quarter of the Hidden City.

"I AM NOT PRETTY!"
 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Nb: "I'm not fair!" is a wink to Obelix "I'm not fat!" in Asterix the Gaul. In french: "Je ne suis pas gros !"/"Je ne suis pas beau !"

Chapter 20: Fear

Read Chapter 20: Fear

Glorfindel and Rog were having a drink at the Palace Inn, the most exclusive tavern in town. Rog was dressed in red, Glorfindel in green and gold.

"Rog, you know me well," said Glorfindel, drinking his third glass of mead. "You know that I am not a coward, and that on the battlefield there are few who can compete with me for the palm of courage."

Rog nodded.

"However, there are two things in life that terrify me."

The blacksmith frowned.

"The first one, well, that's... philosophy. Eru knows I've never understood anything about it. And when Penlodh and the King start talking about it, I don't know where to stand, I feel like the last of the idiots. The worst thing is when they start asking my opinion. But how can you give your opinion when you haven't even understood the question? I've started to get stomach aches, and I'm not even talking about the cold sweats I feel during their endless discussions, because I'm so afraid they'll question me."

Rog nodded again.

"I see, I don't understand all this intellectual stuff either. But I'm lucky that they don't often invite me to their table, let alone ask my opinion. But what's the second thing you're afraid of, if philosophy is the first?"

Glorfindel looked down.

"I dare not... It's so embarrassing."

"You can tell me anything. It will never get past my ears, you have my word."

"Well... I have a particular phobia... Since Valinor... It's quite old... And quite ridiculous, for someone of my status."

"Tell me."

"I'm afraid of big beasts."

"Big beasts? What do you mean by that?"

Glorfindel's handsome face twisted into an anguished grimace.

"Big monsters, with pincers, hairy legs, membranous wings, horns... Oh Varda, I can't even look them in the face!"

"You mean... you're afraid of balrogs?"

Glorfindel shook his head piteously.

"And of giant spiders?"

"Alas, yes. Just the thought of it can give me a panic attack."

"What about giant squids?"

"Don't bring back bad memories!"

"Vampires?"

"...Yes."

"Is that why you agreed to let Ecthelion go and rescue Orodreth?"

"I admit it. It's despicable of me, isn't it? I'm just a coward. Yet I am not afraid to die, nor to suffer. But when it comes to big, monstrous beasts, it's like I lose control of myself."

 

 

---

 

Two centuries and a few decades earlier.

 

The tentacles had suddenly emerged from the frozen water, as if looking for a Noldo in an Inuit outfit to consume for their dessert.

Glorfindel, pale as a sheet, had managed to get behind Penlodh, who was taller than him and wore a polar bear skin earmuff.

"I'll take care of it, Father!" Fingon the Valiant suddenly shouted.

Wearing furry boots and a hood, the Prince stepped forward. He began by releasing a few arrows at the submerged part of the beast that he could make out, then drew his sword and began to strike the tentacles. Blood clouded the transparency of the water, and the Monster returned to the depths.

"Bravo my son!" exclaimed the wise Fingolfin, raising his pilgrim's staff. He turned to the crowd and shouted: "And now, my People, let us continue our Great March!"

The column of thousands elves moved and set off again on its Exodus.

 

 

---

 

 

"Milord, is there anythin' you're afraid of?" Belin the Blond asked the Lord of the Fountain one day, while polishing his shield.

"No. Are you?"

"I confess I'm a little afraid of snakes."

"You are very brave, you know, for someone who had never left his mill."

"Thank you, my lord," the human replied, his cheeks flushed.

"Oh, but I'm thinking about it... Yes, there is something that scares me."

"What, my lord?"

But Ecthelion did not answer.

 

 

---

 

 

"My son Fingon is not afraid of anything, except one," said an unusually cheerful Fingolfin at a banquet in his capital of Barad Eithel.

"Which one, Father?" Fingon asked with a look of both amusement and scepticism.

"Marriage!" Fingolfin replied, looking daggers at him.