Bloody silmarils, book I by Dilly

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Chapter 1 : The miller of Gondolin

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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."

 

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"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.

 

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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.