Maeglin's Choice by chrissystriped

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Chapter Nine

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“King Turgon asks for your attendance, Prince Maeglin”, the messenger called out of breath when he stopped his horse beside him.

Maeglin had indeed made a habit of walking with his people. It felt good to be so close to them, to not command them from the proverbial high horse. He hadn’t known how much his people wished to be his friends. It was a little overwhelming, but out here, on the road, it somehow was less so. It made him happy, not frightened. It was as if his anxiety just evaporated into the open air and only left happiness behind. Calemir brought him his horse and Maeglin followed the messenger to the tip of the train where the king was riding.

“What is it?”, he asked the messenger.

“The scouts sighted a group of riders coming toward us – elves. The king wants you at his side when he meets them.”

Elves. That could only mean that they were close to their destination. The country had been eerily empty the whole time, they had encountered neither elves nor humans since they’d left Gondolin. It scared him how complete Morgoth’s victory after the Nirnaeth and Nargothrond’s fall was here, outside of the walls of Gondolin where they’d lived in safety and prosperity.

Turgon, Idril and Tuor had ridden a bit ahead and looked at him when he came up to them. Maeglin could already see the riders in the distance. It was a flat land, a salty smell was in the air. They’d told him it was the smell of the sea he’d never seen before.

“I’m going to meet them. Maeglin, I want you and Idril to come with me. Tuor has command as long as I’m gone", Turgon said.

“I’m honoured to accompany you, uncle.”

He’d have felt degraded in the past, because Turgon trusted Tuor with the command and not him. He’d have thought Turgon wanted to keep him close because he didn’t trust him. He still wasn’t sure if the more honourable place was on Turgon’s side or as commander, but he pushed that thought down. Turgon had called for him, because he wanted him at his side when he met the strangers, that felt good. He tried to concentrate more on the good things and not see insults everywhere.

Morgoth had tried to drive him into betraying Gondolin by playing on these feelings. It had frightened him how much of what he said to him had been an echo of what he’d often thought himself. He didn’t want to be that. He didn’t want to be someone who could betray his king and home because of jealousy.

Turgon and Idril mounted their horses and they rode with a small guard towards the approaching elves. There were ten of them, they rode on small horses with shaggy manes and wore light leather armour, their helmets bound to their saddles. Only their leader wore chainmail – Maeglin could see it was fine work, as they reined in their horses in speaking distance, khazâd-made or at least by someone who’d apprenticed under them.

“You entered the lands of Círdan, Lord of the Falathrim. Announce yourselves”, the leader called.

“Don’t you recognise the crest of the High King of the Noldor?”, Maerbaudh, Turgon’s herald answered. “You stand before King Turgon, Fingolfin’s son, his daughter Princess Idril Celebrindal and his nephew Prince Maeglin, Aredhel’s son, Lord of the House of the Mole.”

The elves stared at them.

“You are King Turgon?”, their leader asked.

“I am”, Turgon answered. “Will you tell me your name?”

“I...” The elf made a strangled sound. “I’m Prince Gil-galad Ereinion, Fingon’s son. It is an honour and joy to met you, my King Uncle.”

Maeglin’s muscles tensed. Here was a relative he’d never thought of meeting. Gil-galad had been too young to fight in the Nirnaeth and so he’d never met him before – like Turgon. Turgon dismounted and Gil-galad followed him, bowing to their uncle. Turgon held him by his shoulders.

“The joy is mine, nephew. I’m glad to see you well.”

“We didn’t know, if Gondolin is still standing! But you are here, now there’s hope again!” Gil-galad looked in the direction of the train. Maeglin could see the moment he realised it wasn’t only an army but the whole city. “Forgive me, uncle, but are you on the run?”

“Who isn’t in these dark days?”, Turgon answered. “Morgoth found out the location of Gondolin, we had to give up the city. But that doesn’t mean we gave up.” Turgon squeezed Gil-galad’s shoulders. “We have to regroup. My son-in-law is Tuor, Huor’s son, a human. He thinks that it might be possible to make the enslaved people of Hithlum revolt against the easterlings. We can win back Hithlum and Nevrast has been abandoned for many years, but Vinyamar is still standing. Ulmo made a prophecy. Morgoth can be defeated if elves and humans work together. But let’s talk about this in quiet. Will Círdan allow us to settle in his lands, do you think?”

“The Sindar who fled from Doriath don’t like us Noldor very much, they won’t be happy. But Círdan has decided that all of us have to stick together and all refugees are welcome.”

“We had nothing to do with the attack on Doriath.” Maeglin could hear the suppressed anger in Turgon’s voice and wondered if Gil-galad heard it too.

“Of course.” Gil-galad bowed his head. “I didn’t want to imply that. It is not far to the camp. The people there might get nervous if such a huge group of people suddenly shows up. May I be so rude to ask you to let your people camp here while you come with me to the Island to speak to Círdan?”

Turgon nodded. “Maerbaudh, ride back and tell Tuor and the other Lords to make camp. We will go with my nephew. Tell them not to worry, if we don’t come back today.”

Maerbaudh bowed and rode back. Gil-galad gave one of his men the order to ride head to announce them.

 

Gil-galad rode beside the High King – Turgon! His uncle! – and didn’t know what to say. His hands were sweaty with excitement inside his riding gloves. The Hidden King had shown up at the head of an army. Sure, many of the elves of the city wouldn’t be trained soldiers but they weren’t a desperate flow of refugees like the Sindar who’d escapted the attack of Feanor’s sons or the people of Nargothrond whose belongings had fallen victim to the dragon.

It was an ordered retread, well thought through and Turgon seemed to have plans. That made Gil-galad hope. And he couldn’t deny that he was relieved that Turgon had shown up for another reason. Some of his people had urged him to declare himself High King to give people hope (and also, he thought, because they were afraid Celebrimbor could try to seize the title), he didn’t know how much longer he could have denied them. Turgon’s presence meant that these voices would quiet. He didn’t want the crown, he felt much too young and inexperienced for that – and he’d have felt uncomfortable to act up like that to Círdan. Círdan was the Lord of the Falathrim and Gil-galad was not so proud as to feel above him.

He’d have liked to ask Turgon about the composition of the population of Gondolin, how many soldiers they had, how many supplies they’d brought – if they had live stock with them – but he didn’t dare. His uncle rode on a horse that was so large that his own, shaggy island horse looked like a pony beside it and Gil-galad knew that Turgon was considered the tallest of the Noldor. He felt like a child beside him. Turgon was the High King, he couldn’t ask him such questions.

He turned his head to his other side, where his cousin – the son of an aunt he’d never met – rode. He knew that Aredhel was dead and the circumstances under which she had died. Turgon had sent his father a message after it had happened. Maeglin looked like a Noldo, except for his eyes. They were brown not grey or blue like it was usual for the Noldor.

“Have you ever seen the sea, cousin?”, he asked and Maeglin turned to him, surprise in his eyes. Surprise because he’d talked to him?

“No”, Maeglin answered. “We were oriented eastward in my childhood and afterwards I lived in Gondolin.”

“You can already hear it”, Gil-galad said. The sound of the surf on the high coast was so normal to him that he usually didn't even notice it anymore. He could see Maeglin listening.

“It sounds... mighty”, he said slowly.

“It is. We are lucky to be in Osse’s favour.” Gil-galad knew that Círdan had a special relationship with the Maia and that he harnessed his fury at the Noldor for his sake. “Though his favour only extends so far.” Gil-galad looked up at his uncle. “I’m afraid the ships you sent west didn’t arrive.”

Turgon sighed. “That was to be expected. But at least we tried.”

Gil-galad pointed forward. “You can already see the camp there.”

It was enclosed by a palisade to give the inhabitants at least a little protection – although everyone with a little military understanding knew that it wouldn’t stop Morgoth’s army for long if he decided to attack them. They’d started to build a wall of stone, but that would take a lot more time.

“And the sea?” Maeglin craned his neck eagerly.

“We have to travel a while longer. It’s a high coast and we are actually a little deeper then the rim right now.”

“It’s the cape of Balar, isn’t it?”

Gil-galad nodded in answer to Turgon’s question.

“I don’t want to criticise you, but is it wise to build at a place where you can’t retreat?”

“We thought of that. There are stairs that lead down to the beach and there are enough boats to bring everyone to the island should we be attacked. The island is too rocky and barren to sustain the revugees, but in the event of an attack, Círdan pledged to take them in.”

“I see it’s well thought through.”

Gil-galad blushed. “Círdan is wise and I have a good council.”

“I think very highly of Círdan”, Turgon answered. “He knows more about the coast and the sea than any other elf. And he is a level-headed leader. How is he going to react to us, what do you think?”

Gil-galad thought about it for a while. “Your arrival will cause a stir, but Círdan won’t turn you away.”

They’d reached the camp and left the horses at the stables. Gil-galad lead the newcomers down the stairs to the beach. The boats were moored at a little, natural harbour that was formed by a promontory.

 

Maeglin’s hand hurt from gripping the side of the boat. It was bucking on the waves like a wild horse, the saltwater burned in his eyes. Who’d chose to live here voluntarily? He’d felt fear already when they’d descended the stairs from the cliff down to the harbour. He’d looked west and only seen water, endless grey water. He almost couldn’t believe that there was land on the other side – that there was a other side. The motions of the boat made him feel queasy. Was he the only one feeling that? He couldn’t look up to see how he others were faring, it cost all his self-command not to throw up.

He stumbled on land as soon as the boat reached the island and was safely moored – and had to lean against a pole because the land seemed to move. He threw a quick glance at his relatives, but they didn’t seem to have noticed that he was having trouble – good. Gil-galad was pointing at something and Maeglin slowly turned his head, trying to keep the queasiness in check. They were on a dock that led to the island that was flat and green. Círdan’s palace, at least Maeglin supposed that was the building Gil-galad had pointed out to Turgon, was a large hall built of grey, uneven stones. Shells and pears lined the windows. It wasn’t Gondolin and it didn’t look like Maeglin imagined a palace, but it wasn’t a humble dwelling.

Círdan waited for them in the hall. The windows were paned with coloured glass, green and blue tones that made Maeglin feel like he was under water. He shuddered at the thought. There was a high chair, but Círdan came towards them and greeted Turgon by laying his hands on his shoulders.

“It is so good to see you!”, he exclaimed. “We already lost hope of getting any news from you.”

Maeglin had never seen a bearded elf and he tried not to stare. Círdan wore it short – different from the Khazâd – so it only covered his skin. Maeglin wondered, how old he was, if not even Rog... he thought of Rog’s scarred cheeks , maybe he couldn’t grow a beard anymore, he decided not to ask him. He bowed when Turgon introduced him and forced himself to listen to the conversation.

“I hoped you’d come sooner, King Turgon”, Círdan said. “Ulmo’s message that it is time and that he sent you a messenger, arrived years ago.”

“Maybe I should have left sooner.” Maeglin was surprised that his uncle admitted that to the Teler. He hadn’t heard it say it so openly to anyone. “I thought our city secure, now I know it isn’t.”

“Are you being hunted?”, Círdan asked with worry in his voice. “You have to realise that we only have poor fortifications and few soldiers on the mainland.”

“Our scouts haven’t found any signs of pursuit. Maybe the news haven’t reached Morgoth yet. Or maybe he thinks it unnecessary to pursue us, now that he’s expelled us from his doorstep. The Noldor are down.” Turgon’s eyes flashed. “But I intend to show him that we still have the will to fight.”

Círdan knit his brows. “You are welcome here, King Turgon, but if you want to attack Morgoth, you’ll have to do it without my support. I have a responsibility to my people. We won’t go to a war that is already lost.”

“I won’t force you, of course.” Turgon bowed his head in respect. Maeglin realised that while Círdan didn’t wear the title of King, Turgon thought of him as his peer. “Will you allow us to settle on the mainland?”

“Of course. You should know that the population of the camp consists to a large part of Sindar who fled from Doriath, the refugees from Nargothrond are a minority. Princess Elwing and her advisors are not well-disposed towards the Noldor, as you can imagine.”

“We are not the Feanorians”, Turgon said with a dark look.

Círdan shrugged. “I don’t think that they draw a distinction.”

“It’s about Celebrimbor”, Gil-galad said.

“He is here?” Turgon looked surprised.

“He came with the fugitives from Nargothrond. He assured me that he raises no claim to the crown and Círdan and I have decided to let him stay. The Nargothrondrim hold him in high esteem for what he did in the fight for Nargothrond and after. He is a born leader, but he tries to keep a low profile, because of his father and uncles' deeds. Galadhon, Elwings first advisor, let us know that as long as we tolerate a Feanorian among us, they consider us all guilty for what happened in Doriath. There’s a fence between the camp of the Iathrim and the Nargothrondrim, it’s more a symbol than it holds off exchange – there are Sindar among the people of Nargothrond and not all Iathrim think like their leaders – but it is there.”

Turgon rubbed his forehead. “Does she have the Silmaril?”

“Yes. She wears it, if she appears in an official function.”

Gil-galad didn’t sound happy and Maeglin shuddered when he was reminded of the terrible light that had come from Morgoth’s crown. Was it Morgoth’s influence that made him think of the Silmarils as something dark despite their light? Or was it the Oath?

“Have Feanor’s sons contacted them?”

Círdan shook his head. “Not as far as I know. I don’t approve of everything the Iathrim do, but you have to know that I’ll fight on their side if it should come to it.”

“I hope it won’t.” Turgon looked pale. “I have littel affection for the sons of Feanor, but a fight with them can only play into the hands of Morgoth. Gil-galad, are you ruling the Nargothrondrim?”

“Yes. I travel a lot between the island, where most of the elves live who came here with me or found their way here after the Nirnaeth, and the mainland.”

“Good. Círdan, can you facilitate a conversation with Elwing or her advisors? I’d like to have good relations to them.”

“I’ll see what I can do”, Círdan promised. “Come, I have let a meal prepared. You have a long journey behind you.”

Only now did Maeglin realise how hungry he was. The smell of fried fish that came from the dining room, made his stomach growl and his mouth water. There had been large, artificial ponds in Gondolin where fish were bred, he wondered if fish from the sea would taste differently.

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Chapter End Notes

I'm using the Lost Tales-version of the story here, where Ulmo's message for Turgon is at first: Then spake Tuor, and Ulmo set power in his heart and majestiy in his voice. "[...]Therefore have I been brought by a secret way to bid you number your hosts and prepare for battle, for the time is ripe. [...] If thou dost not now dare greatly then will the Orcs dwell for ever and possess in the end ost of the mountains of the Earth, and cease not to trouble both Elves and Men, even though by other means the Valar contrive hereafter to release the Noldoli; but if thou trust now to the Valar, though terrible the encoutner, then shall the Orcs fall, and Melko's power be minished to a little thing." (BoLT II, p. 161)

I also moved the camp of the refugees from the Mouths of Sirion to the Cape of Balar because I wanted there to be a cliff for Elwing to jump into the sea from (though the way it looks right now that won't happen in this fic).