The Water. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

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   Turgon summoned to council the friends of his daughter, while she, unaware, rode laughing with the wretched mortal, again.
   They listened gravely to the concerns of Turgon, and murmured their agreement; she must be kept at a distance from the handsome Man, until his glorious youth faded into the drabness of the withered mortal. But Gondolin, for all its beauty and majesty, was small, and in a days hard riding could be crossed from end to end. There was nowhere to go.

  After a time of silent thought, Rossiel, the daughter of Duilin spoke. 'Sire, I am with child. What if I should utter my wish, which is in part truth, that my child be born in the House of my father ? I could beg the lady Idril to come with me, and she, in her kindness, will indulge me. And do you, sire, share our greatest treasures of wisdom and culture with Tuor the mortal, and bring him to a deeper understanding of our lives. In this way he may be distracted and not follow her on the instant.'

   There was a long silence. Finally Turgon sighed 'Ah, the wisdom of Maeglin ! He was ever opposed to my friendship with Tuor. But the boy, well, the man ! He is so like his father that I begin to see how these creatures have won so many elven hearts ! My poor father...
   Yes. We shall send Idril to the country, for friendship's sake, and dazzle the mortal with our finest song, and art, and thought. He will scarcely notice her absence in the bewilderment.'

 

   

   Several streams cascading down the steep sides of the Crissaegrim poured their waters into a small lake, that overflowed at a fair fall, two fathoms high, then wound away down to the rich green valley. The House of the Swallow stood tall on the shore of the lake, towers reflected flickering in the busy waters. It was a place of birds, who gathered in great singing droves, to settle and drink, and rise again. And all along the edges of the roof, the swallows added to the labours of the elves, building their cups and rearing their young, year after year, until the air trembled to the sound of their wings, and quavered with their song.
   But the tillers of earth delighted in the birds, else all their labours would have been vain, devoured by the myriad myriad flying, crawling and creeping beasts which gathered to feast. So they praised the birds, and Duilin, whose understanding was as swift as his motion, took the symbol of the swallow and made it his own.

   For two long years Idril dwelt in peace in the House of the Swallow, joyful with the child of Rossiel, her dearest friend. She had seen nothing of Tuor, nor received any message or gift. Those who had travelled to the City scarcely spoke his name; for a time she wondered if he had gone, and was at length forced to ask.
   The messenger she questioned, who was under the impression that it was the novelty of Tuor that had drawn Idril to him, spoke eagerly of the progress of his studies.
    'My lady, you would no longer recognise in him the wild youth in the armour of Ulmo. Glorfindel has had a hand in his appearance, his chin is as smooth as any elf, (save Círdan !) and in dress and bearing, aye, and beauty, he is as one of us indeed. People seem almost to forget who he is, child of the mortal House of Hador, not elf of Gondolin as we are. But most of all, now that he has studied with the wise, and heard the great songs, and the little ! And read more widely than, well, than even I... Truly my lady, the wild-eyed youth is gone.'
   Idril looked at the messenger; he was transparent to her mind, she could read his intent, and glimpse the tall, golden-haired Tuor striding gravely through his thought. But it had not been the novelty that drew her eyes, nor his great beauty, but something in his eyes, something that, when their eyes met, something that fit, as the fingers of hands interlock together. She wondered how many other elf maidens felt as she did, for there were songs of his beauty, even in the House of Duilin, and she knew that hearts would be broken, for such is the toll that beauty exacts.

   The messenger's words left her restless. She sat long by the lake, watching the brief lives of the birds unfold, wielding charcoal with reckless pace, to capture the twists and turns of their flight. But her heart dwelt ever the more on the thought of Tuor, polished as a gem, awaiting her in Gondolin, though nothing had been spoken between them, save in the deep blue of his eyes.

   

 

   The day was hot, the charcoal would do nothing for her, she laid it in its case with a sigh, then looked about her. There were none in sight, the trees hid her little cove from the House, and with all her senses stretched, she could find none near. She smiled gleefully, threw off all her clothes and dived neatly into the rippling churn of the water. It was shockingly cold, after the still heat of the day, she came up shrieking, and shook the hair from her eyes, and laughed, then frowned, thinking of her poor mother, slain by the indifferent ice, who had truly known cold. Idril sighed, and swam back to the tiny beach, and dried herself on her underdress. She stood for a moment, eyes closed, facing the hot summer sun, feeling the warming of her bare skin before she dressed, when on an instant, though there was no sound, she knew she was no longer alone. She looked swiftly around the clearing, and there in the shadow, his arm holding the trunk of a young alder tree, stood Tuor son of Huor, of the House of Hador.

   They both were struck still, their eyes had met, their fingers seemed interlocked, though they were fathoms apart, and there was nothing, nothing else in all the world save the deep blue of his eyes. Idril thought of Vinyamar, and the colours of Belegaer, and knew that Ulmo was with this mortal, within his very eyes, and here by the waters he, they, the Music itself, had found her.
   It seemed futile to cover herself, he had seen, and she knew that she fitted him, as the armour had done. Her heart pounded, the Music seemed all about them in the singing waters and the harmonies of the clouds of birds, and in her very veins, which quivered like harpstrings in play. No words came to her, only a great surge of love, greater than herself, it seemed, that filled the clearing, and spilled out across the lake, a fountain of Music, or Light.

   Still he had neither moved, nor blinked, gazing at her as though turned to stone. The breath returned to her body, she sucked in a great gust of air, and tried to remember the lessons of childhood, of breathing, and Meditation, and calm. But the Music held her in its spell, she could do nothing, and as she began to frown, Tuor at last released his hold upon the alder and took a tentative step forwards.
   Idril found the Music rising within her, the water seemed to surge towards her, roiling eagerly, as though urging her on, but she could not move, she could not turn her eyes from his, but stood, bare as the Awakened, by another lake, in another age. But his eyes saddened slowly, as she stood still, and she read his thought, with the little power that remained to her; he would turn away, he would be lost, they would all be lost, darkness would fall...

   With all her strength she raised her arm, against the weight of the world, it seemed, for she trembled with the effort. Her fingers wide, she held out her hand to him.
   Moving with elven speed he took it in his, and their fingers interlocked, and she wept, her tears a part of the lake, or of Ulmo, or of the Music itself.