Table Manners. by hennethgalad

table manners

bingo...

Table Manners.

Hard To Swallow.

On the morning following the first removal of his beard, Tuor awoke and looked into the mirror. He was dismayed at the rapid growth on his face, fine gold hairs had sprouted overnight, and though to mortal eyes the pale fuzz could barely be seen, to the keen eyes of the elves around him he would appear grotesque. He frowned, bathed hastily and hurried back to the house of Glorfindel and Ecthelion.

 
  He was led to where they were taking breakfast in their garden, they invited him to join them and he took a seat at the petal-strewn table, smiling at his petal-strewn friends. Even as they exchanged greetings, a gust of warm air lifted the branches of the trees and scattered another flurry of petals; Tuor smiled, he was already blending in.
But Ecthelion looked closely at him and said 'May I ?' and touched his chin 'Alas, I feared it would be so.' he said to Glorfindel 'Are you certain ?'

  Glorfindel, his eyes fixed on Tuor, nodded. 'We began this thing, we must hold to our purpose. Furthermore, I feel that showing the world this hidden beauty may be the only artistic accomplishment of which I am capable, and we have... we have time.'
There was a moment of silence, once again Tuor felt himself to be a mere phantasm, a transient, a meteor, burning brightly for a moment among these steadily shining stars. But Glorfindel was smiling warmly at him

   'Tuor, son of Huor, we should like to extend our hospitality to you, our house is large, we would enjoy your company, especially I, and Ecthelion is happy with anything that keeps me from disturbing his work. Will you join us here, for as long as you wish ? Besides, you will surely be delighted to leave that cold, drab, official residence that Turgon has left you in. '

 
  Tuor found it hard to swallow, the generosity of the offer overwhelmed him, and the eager, half-hopeful expression on Glorfindel's face wrung his heart. His eyes stung, for the first time since his capture long years before, he was afraid he would weep. Glorfindel smiled at him 'A mere nod will suffice. You have endured hardship and torment that even we who crossed the ice can barely imagine. I hope you will feel comfortable here, and able to dance or weep as your mood requires, for if not, we shall feel inadequate as hosts. You may reserve your fine manners for the feast tonight at the Table of Turgon, we here are less formal, for I am merely a soldier, and Ecthelion, though also a soldier, is an engineer and an artist, who barely has time to be polite to me, let alone bother about courtly ritual. '
 

 Ecthelion laughed indulgently and threw a flower at Glorfindel, who plucked it from the air and handed it to Tuor with a smile. Ecthelion turned to Tuor and spoke seriously
'Glorfindel is not so foolish as he would have you believe, ignore his jesting way. Our offer is sincere; we both like you, we admire your courage and enjoy your company. And I would help you maintain your smooth face, simply as an artist, regardless of my friendship for you.'

 
 b Hearing the word 'friendship' from Ecthelion removed the last of Tuor's hesitation. He had been so long alone, in so many different ways, as an orphan, as a mortal among elves, in his thralldom, after his escape, and even now, surrounded by charming elves, offered everything but friendship, he had been alone. Hope was almost painful, like the sting of frozen fingers suddenly bathed in warm water. He was no longer in danger, and no longer lonely. He smiled at them both, and to his shame found that tears had spilled from his eyes. Glorfindel leaped lightly to his feet and folded Tuor into a friendly hug
'You are with friends now, Tuor, you are safe, we will be here for you for as long as you have need of us.'

  Tuor wrapped his arms around Glorfindel and laid his head upon his chest, and Glorfindel felt a little of the tension ease from the rigidly taut muscles of Tuor. He looked at Ecthelion over the pale gold hair by his chin, and understanding passed between them. The hairs of Tuor's face might grow rapidly, but the scars inflicted upon him by the Enemy would take time and patience to heal again.

Under the fading sky of evening they led Tuor up the broad steps to dine at the Table of Turgon. Ecthelion had smoothed Tuor's face, then Glorfindel had arrayed him in the colours of the sea, worthy of a messenger of Ulmo. He strode up the stairs between them, tall and strong, the most beautiful of mortals, lovelier than any elf in Gondolin, even, drawing the gaze of every eye, a silence seemed to follow them. But they did not turn.

  Within the hall the silence preceded them, the musicians faltered and paused, conversations stuttered out, until the room was still. Turgon rose to his feet, and the rest of the elves followed suit. Glorfindel led Tuor to the dais and presented him to the wide-eyed Turgon

   'The craft of Ecthelion has enabled Tuor to appear as one of us. Indeed, we have taken Tuor into our household; he is now truly one of us.'
Turgon gazed at Tuor, smiled and inclined his head to Glorfindel, then spoke to Ecthelion

  'It seems you are able to discover hidden beauty as well as create your own. My admiration of your mind and hand grows daily. You have my congratulations, and my gratitude for your hospitality. Thank you Ecthelion.'

 
  Ecthelion bowed 'It is not I who should be thanked, Glorfindel became aware of the problem and proposed the solution. I merely dealt with the trivial practical problems.'

A pale blue cloth covered the long table, around it, richly-clad elves dined and drank. Tuor felt their eyes upon him, his jaw clenched, he was still troubled by stares, after his torment in captivity. But his eyes were held by the princess Idril, whom he had admired from afar, as one who might wish to sail the path of the moon. Now her eyes were fixed on his, she seemed to be searching, questioning him. He gazed steadily at her, she was as lovely as a flower, delicate and fair, her golden hair flowed loose over her shoulders, her long gown of deep, shimmering, blue was hemmed with fine embroidery, studded with sparkling gems. Tuor wondered if he would ever be permitted, or even dare, to speak with her. But Turgon was gesturing Glorfindel and Ecthelion to their seats on the dais, while he held up a hand slightly to Tuor, to wait. Turgon looked around the room, but every elf at every table was already silent and raptly attentive.

   'My friends, my family, you all know who this is, Tuor, son of the brave and much lamented Huor, to whom I owe my life. Now that we see him as if he were one of us, I realize how ungracious and inhospitable I have been, and I am grateful to Glorfindel for his help. I, and many of you here, owe my life to Huor, and in his honour, and in honour of the courage and spirit of his son, I name Tuor foster-son to me, and take him under my personal protection. Let all here bear witness !'
There was cheering from the assembled elves, Glorfindel blushed with pride as Tuor was led to sit at Turgon's side, while Maeglin was moved to the other side of Idril. Glorfindel noted Maeglin's gritted teeth and pale skin, but smiled to himself, Tuor was a mortal, and would soon vanish into death, like all mortals. How could it matter where Turgon seated him ? So brief was his existence that he could do little to alter the world.

 Idril was trying to control the beating of her heart, sipping wine to conceal her face. The whirlwind of image and thought engulfing her mind seemed to move at frenetic mortal pace, rather than the gentler airs of the elves. Already she felt as though a great chord of The Music of the Ainur had sounded, and unfurled her heart like the sun on a frond of fern. Already she knew that Tuor was her love, that they would marry, and that she would have to endure the rest of time alone when he died. She knew the pain that lay ahead of her, but as her eyes rested on his perfect features, and felt the fascination of his eyes on hers, she knew that she would love him, and he would love her, and all other purposes or concerns were as nothing to the great towering tree of their love.

  She blinked, mere moments had passed, her father was still settling into his chair, she had not even spoken with the mortal. With Tuor... She thought his name and smiled, she knew she would always remember this moment, whatever befell them, the first time she had thought his name. She looked past her father, and found the pale blue eyes of Tuor staring into her own. She smiled, Glorfindel had dressed him to emphasize the colours of the sea, and Tuor's pale eyes were as holes in a canopy through which the sky could be seen, she had the strangest sensation that they were aboard a ship, she thought with joy of all the time they would spend together, watching the world in each others eyes.

 Turgon came between them like a falling tree, leaning forward to pick up his goblet, and Idril collected herself and turned to the laden table to dine. She restrained herself as long as she could, but soon her eyes were drawn to the mortal, and his eyes were there, waiting. He smiled happily at her, causing her heart to fill with joy, it was not like a meeting, it was like a homecoming, the return of one thought lost.

  But Turgon was addressing Tuor, and reluctantly his gaze was torn away. Idril returned to pick at the delicacies on her plate, the thought of eating seemed baffling and strange; she sipped at her wine. Tuor ate swiftly and heartily, hunched over his plate, listening to Turgon and nodding occasionally, scarcely pausing between mouthfuls.

 Beside her, Maeglin cleared his throat 'By the Valar, he may be beautiful, but what atrocious table manners !' he said. Idril blinked in disbelief, then turned to look at him in astonishment
   'Table manners ? Is that the weight in the scales of your mind ? Table manners ? ' She looked coldly at Maeglin, feeling for the first time an active distrust, almost a dislike of him. 'You are familiar with his story, he has lived in caves, or as a slave, all his life. How could he have learned table manners ? Besides, you are being surprisingly parochial for one who was raised in a house in the woods of Nan Elmoth. Table manners, as you well know, vary from place to place, and even a guest who wishes to adopt the customs of their host may take time to adjust. But most of all, I would expect that you, who were once a stranger here yourself, would have more sympathy and understanding of the plight of a newcomer. Table manners !' she snorted derisively, and turned away.