The Crow and the Swan by SonOfMandos

Chapter 1

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They all believed the Adan would die.

He was famished, dirty and weakened by a desolate march. The Elf who had come with him, Voronwë, barely looked better. He was not as thin, but not by far. They offered no resistance when Elemmakil and his men held them captive. They trembled greatly—not from fear. The Adan—Tuor was his name—was delirious. What refrained Elemmakil from slaying the Mortal was the Valarin words this last one had mumbled. ‘Ullubōz,’ he had said repeatedly. Voronwë found enough strength to explain they carried Ulmo’s message. The two travellers were brought before Ecthelion who hosted them.

Voronwë was bedridden for a week. He slowly regained strength afterwards. Tuor had fever. Fever, for the Elves, announced an inevitable death. The healer shook her head. There was nothing to do beyond cool compresses and feed him soup. To everyone’s surprise, Tuor recovered a short while after his feverish days. He and Voronwë were still malnourished and stood on shaking legs.

It was Turgon who insisted on talking to the Man. Ecthelion found preferable to wait until the Adan had recovered fully, but the King had none of it. Ulmo never sent messengers to the Hidden City, Men even less. There was no time to waste.

It had caused a great stir to see the sovereign walk on the streets of the House of the Fountain district. Turgon, much to his dismay, hardly remained unnoticed. If his clothes were dull and simple (leather boots, black trousers, grey overcoat), his height was not so easy to camouflage. Ecthelion’s guards had to shoo away curious and nosy merchants and passersby when the King presented his tall self in front of the House of the Fountain.

He met a calm, clean, but drowsy Tuor. The Man was amicable despite his tiredness.

The meeting went more or less well. If the Adan was polite and had a charming smile, his Quenya was non-existent and his Edhellen differed too much from the one spoken in Gondolin. Turgon left the House of the Fountain empty-handed.

This was everything Rog had shared with Maeglin during a visit to the House of the Mole.

“I don’t see what it has to do with me,” said Maeglin. He and Rog were sitting in the dining room of Maeglin’s abode.

“Nothing beyond being concerned by the fate of the city,” replied Rog as he set a bowl of grapes on his lap. “And being Sindarin. His Majesty has a slight language barrier issue to deal with.”

“I refuse to believe I’m the only mixed child of the entire Gondolin,” scoffed the younger one. “I thought a few Grey Elves delved in Vinyamar and followed my uncle here. They can help.”

“That’s just it,” Rog pointed Maeglin with two fingers that were holding a raisin. “None of them are family.”

It was legitimate. Maeglin found nothing to refute.

“So you expect my uncle to knock at my door tomorrow?”

“Perhaps not tomorrow, otherwise, yes, he will soon.”

Maeglin raised his eyebrows. “Can’t Bronwë play the interpreter? Didn’t he travel with the Adan all along?”

“It’s no use. They’ve got good at using hand gestures and keep it basic.”

“Pity. Well, I suppose I can hardly say ‘no’ to my uncle, can’t I?”

“No,” agreed Rog with a grin.

Rog was right. Partially. Turgon didn’t come in the morrow, but a few days later. It was Maeglin’s valet who answered at the door and led the King to the salon. Maeglin was still asleep when his valet stormed in his room, shouting hysterically, ‘Your-uncle-the-King-is-here-wake-up-immediately-hurry-up-I’ll-go-make-some-tea!’

The smith met his uncle wearing his dressing gown and loose white breeches. His long black mane was brought up in a dishevelled bun on the top of his head.

“Good mornin’,” yawned Maeglin, rubbing his eyes.

“Morning?” repeated Turgon. “It’s noon! And you call this ‘morning’?”

“Erh, yes.”

“You said you had got rid of your habit to go to bed at down,” scolded Turgon.

“Usually,” replied Maeglin.

He sat down in front of his uncle, unashamed that his gown was open and gave quite the view on his torso, an offence to the Gondolidrim’s sensitivities. It was not his fault Golodhrim were prudish. Turgon scowled at the view.

His nephew pursued, “See, I finished this novel yesterday that I borrowed from the library. The ending was good, yet I was disappointed the story was over, so I started to write its sequel. Then, boom! It was the middle of the night already and I headed to bed. But you’ve not come here to talk about my stories. What can I do for you, this time?”

“I didn’t know you wrote,” said Turgon.

“We have schools in Nan Elmoth, you know,” Maeglin yawned another time.

“No, I meant,” groaned his uncle, “that you wrote fiction.”

“I do. Sometimes. Still, tell me what troubles you,” Maeglin pressed him. “The Adan, I presume?”

“How do you know?” asked Turgon. “Rumours run fast in Gondolin, they say…”

“Oh, no, Rog came over a few days ago and told me. It’s not that exciting.”

“Right. Tuor, that’s what he calls himself, speaks a dialect of Sindarin nobody understands. I need your help.”

Maeglin smirked. His uncle was not one to be fond of grand speeches and ‘proper’ court talk: he communicated things as they were. Turgon and Idril both favoured silence over speaking, and when speaking was required, directness was their weapon of choice.

The smith undid his bun and combed his hair with his fingers. “Any idea what dialect it could be? Are you sure it’s not Falathrin?”

“No,” Turgon shook his head. “I’ve spent enough time in the Swanhaven with my cousins to tell the different Sea-Elven accents apart. Or the most important of them.”

“What about Doriathrin? You used to struggle with my accent, you said it was thick, and the people of Nan Elmoth and Doriath mutually understand each other with sufficient concentration.”

“No. He doesn’t sound like Huor and Húrin either. He scripted his speech, but he used those strange Dwarvish letters…”

“Cirth?” suddenly, morning, or rather, early afternoon, fog left Maeglin. His mind was clear and alert. “Don’t the Edain use Tengwar?”

“You tell me,” retorted Turgon. “I thought they did. Get dressed, take a bite, and rejoin me at the Gate of the Fountain.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. I’m leaving.” Turgon stood up and went to fetch his cloak. Maeglin’s valet sprang from the corner of the room where he had stayed to help the monarch put his cloak on. Turgon nodded and left the House of the Mole.

Maeglin sighed. His uncle, when he had a plan in mind to execute, grew impatient all too easily.

“His Majesty should come more frequently,” said the valet.

Maeglin only huffed.

 

It was Egalmoth who welcomed him at the Gate of the Fountain. Maeglin’s felt tightness in his chest. Months ago, Egalmoth’s wife, Saerien, came to the House of the Mole as a customer. The birthday of a close friend was coming and she commissioned Maeglin a small set of Edhellen cutlery. She was short, wore a heavy dress with silver embroidery and her hair was separated in two fine, dark chestnut plaits. She had thin lips and vibrant blue eyes. She was chatty, but not loud, and had stayed far beyond the opening hours of the shop. The shop-owner promptly kicked the two of them out. Nothing Maeglin minded. It was precisely why he had hired and made Cîldaer owners.

Maeglin offered Saerin a glass of wine at his place. She graciously accepted the invitation. She had all the time in the world, she winked at him. Wine was served, and the conversation went on. Her defences lowered, Saerin confessed missing the White Lady of the kingdom. She admired Aredhel’s free spirit, her sense of adventure and kindness. The prince stared at his glass, unable to respond. He, too, missed his mother dearly. Saerin shifted and leaned in. He looked like what Aredhel would look had she been born a Wild One, as Grey Elves were called by the Golodhrim. Maeglin blushed before he realised how close Saerin was. He allowed her to, and closer she came.

They repeated their little courtship four or five times before Maeglin put an end to it. He didn’t know whose wrath he feared the most between Egalmoth’s, Turgon’s or Idril’s. It was best for the two of them to entertain a cordial friendship and to never speak of their short-lived affair to anyone. Guilt assaulted the smith every time he met Egalmoth.

“There you are!” grinned Egalmoth, clasping Maeglin’s shoulder. “His Majesty tried to create a new sign language, but the son of Hador isn’t understanding much of it. Let’s hope you’ll be of help.”

“The son of Hador?” repeated Maeglin.

Egalmoth raised an eyebrow. “Yes. The Adan, Tuor, is Hador’s son, didn’t His Lordship tell you?”

“He didn’t,” breathed Maeglin, incredulous. “All he said was ‘Come over, now.’”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” smirked the merchant. “His Majesty wishes to resolve the language barrier immediately, fond of Hador he was.”

“Is Tuor’s Sindarin as awful as my Quenya once was?”

“I wouldn’t say so,” replied Egalmoth. “He speaks with ease. Simply, the accent makes it difficult. His Majesty and Ecthelion said they understood half of his speech.”

“It could be the tongue of the Green Elves,” hummed Maeglin. “I don’t speak it, but I can try.”

They reached the House of the Fountain’s entrance door. A domestic escorted them to the library where, around a table, Turgon was gesturing animatedly to Ecthelion and who Maeglin deduced to be Tuor. The Adan had dark ashen hair that was cut short. His face was freshly shaven and appeared healthier than the half-dead Man he was when he arrived to Gondolin. His chestnut gaze followed Turgon’s grand gestures and his lips were pursed in an uncertain smile. Ecthelion, who noticed Egalmoth and Maeglin, tapped Turgon’s shoulder to redirect his attention to his guests.

“Lómion! Finally!” Turgon stood up from his chair and motioned Maeglin to sit on it. “This is my nephew,” he addressed Tuor in Edhellen, speaking deliberately slowly. “He will be your interpreter. Do you understand?”

Next to Maeglin, Ecthelion mumbled, “Don’t speak like he is dumb.”

Maeglin awkwardly glanced at Tuor. “Erh,” he started, “hello.”

Above his shoulder, Turgon and Egalmoth were watching the scene with unbearable, intense interest.

“Could you please leave us?” requested Maeglin, blushing and feeling irritation rise. “You’re not helping!”

“But-,” protested Turgon.

“No!” eructed his nephew. “I can’t do this if you’re looking at us like we’re forbidden biscuits or what-have-you!”

“Forbidden biscuits, I will remember that one,” snickered Egalmoth. His grin faltered when Maeglin glared. ‘Sharp glance’ suited him more than well.

“Alright,” sighed Ecthelion. “Let’s go.”

Turgon and Egalmoth half-heartedly followed Ecthelion who led them outside the library.

“Thank you,” said Tuor, offering Maeglin a small smile.

“It’s nothing,” sighed the smith. He noticed the pile of parchments next to the Man. “May I…?” Tuor nodded. Maeglin took a sheet. It was covered with a string of Tengwar letters next to its Cirth equivalents. “I’m sorry,” said Maeglin. “I didn’t introduce myself, you must think I lack manners. I’m Maeglin Eölion from Nan Elmoth. Lómion is my name in the language that is spoken here.”

“Maeglin,” repeated Tuor. He placed his left hand upon his heart. “I’m Tuor Annaelion.”

“Annaelion?”

“Annael was my father. I grew up in Mithrim.”

Maeglin almost asked about Huor but caught himself in time. He was there when Huor died heroically in battle. Instead, he replayed Tuor’s introduction in his head. The speech was odd. “North Edhellen…,” he mumbled when realisation hit him. If his calculation were exact, he would understand Tuor two times out of three, and vice versa. It explained the communication struggles Turgon suffered from. North Edhellen was remote enough from Sindarin it was considered its own language rather than a dialect, and the Edhellen spoken in Gondolin had many inflections from Quenya that made it difficult for outsiders to understand.

He told Tuor why he was summoned here. There was nothing for him to hide—who knew what his uncle planned next? When Tuor didn’t understand a word, Maeglin wrote it down with Cirth. The Man’s cautious gaze metamorphosed into genuine warmth and understanding.

Turgon stormed in the room.

“So?” he asked expectedly. “It’s been a while. I suppose you two are getting along?”

“Relatively well,” answered Maeglin. “We can understand each other, if this is what you’re asking.”

“His Majesty grows impatient too quickly,” chided Egalmoth who was behind him.

“My dear nephew,” said Turgon, ignoring his contemporary. Something told Maeglin his uncle was about to make a grand decision. “Our guest has recovered. It is safe to say he can move around. I have requested domestics to have a room prepared for him in the royal quarters of the palace.”

“That’s kind of you?” replied Maeglin.

“He will benefit from a language tutor. How about you move back to the castle until Tuor no longer requires your help?”

Maeglin stared at his uncle in disbelief. “You have planned this all along.”

“Yes. Since yesterday, in fact.”

“’Suppose I can’t really say ‘no’…”

Turgon grinned victoriously. “Excellent. It’s all settled, then!”

Before he made the announcement to Tuor, he added, “You should thank your cousin. She’s the one who suggested it.”

Chapter 2

Ulu : Ulmo
Araw : Oromë

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Maeglin left the work he had to finish in the hands of his coworkers. Cîldaer, the shopowners; Gwennien, his housekeeper; and Narthor, his valet, scolded him on the importance of organisation and backup plans. None of them appreciated changes of mind at the last minute. They, however, could not argue the King’s demand. Maeglin nevertheless came every morning at the House of the Mole until noon; otherwise, he stayed at the palace.

Tuor was a fast learner. It took him under a month to understand the Edhellen that was spoken in Gondolin. He was to study Quenya under Penlodh’s tutelage, who had a better mastery of the language than Maeglin. This last one envied the bright spirit of the Man, which he attributed to his mortality.

He grew fond of the Adan. Tuor was restless and was good with a sword. He was therefore seen training with Glorfindel, Duilin and their men. His Man-ness attracted the curiosity of many. Only the Grey Elves of Gondolin knew Tuor had the mannerism of someone who was brought up by one of their kin; the High Elves believed he behaved like the Secondborns.

The one who took great interest in Tuor was Idril. Her calm endeavour and her distant façade melted under a cascade of laughter whenever she was conversing with the newcomer.

Maeglin stayed around without imposing his presence. He knew what it was like to be an outsider in a secluded city in which most citizens had endured together the hardship of the crossing of the Helcaraxë and had built strong ties together. The very few Grey Elves had been following Turgon’s rule since the early days of Vinyamar. Maeglin, Tuor and Voronwë were the only foreigners.

Tuor often found his way to Maeglin’s home. The door was always open.

“What would you like to do after leaving the city?” asked Tuor one day. He was building a castle with cards on Maeglin’s office desk.

“What?” said Maeglin.

“Well,” replied Tuor, his gaze glued on his card castle, “you are from Nan Elmoth and have friends in Doriath, correct? You told me your family loved to travel. Surely you don’t intend to stay here forever…”

“I wish,” sighed Maeglin. “Simply, there is no departure.”

Tuor scoffed. Realising Maeglin responded nothing, he raised his head. “What do you mean, ‘there is no departure’? You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” Maeglin crossed his arms. His handsome face was pained. “An order of my uncle. This city is protected by Ulu’s magic. Those who enter Gondolin never leave.”

Tuor blinked. He took a moment to consider what had just been said. “Ar-Feiniel-”

“My mother was different,” the smith cut him short. “My uncle wouldn’t let her, but he knew he couldn’t restrain her. She was a skilled huntress and received Araw’s teachings when she was in the Undying Lands. It was not as risky to let her go. She was not alone either.”

“We can’t stay.” Tuor’s voice was firm and resolute.

“Pardon me?”

“We can’t,” he repeated. “It’s because… Look, I can’t tell you Ulu’s words now. I will reveal them tomorrow at the Round Table.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done,” murmured Maeglin. “I wish I could leave too. Maybe with Ulu’s message, we can…”

Tuor shook his head and with a jerk of the hand, destructed his card castle.

 

***

Turgon gave his final word a week later. ‘We stay in the city,’ he had ordered. There was no point in telling him otherwise, unless one desired to face rebuttal. Maeglin had given up.

Tuor’s demeanour darkened. The charming and joyful Man he used to be transformed into a Man full of smirks, snark and cynicism. He was sombre and defeated. Maeglin kept him under his watch. He couldn’t let the signs fly under silence.

“I will talk to Idril,” promised Maeglin.

Tuor swung his legs on Maeglin’s bed—where he was sitting. Maeglin poured two cups of wine and handed one to the Adan. He sat on the edge of the mattress.

“It’s no use,” huffed the Man. “I’ve tried to convince her, she didn’t give me much. In fact, she only listened.”

“She will listen to me,” countered Maeglin.

Tuor considered him. “You’re right, she does listen to you,” he grinned darkly. “Ah, what would I give to have family here.”

Maeglin winced under the cut of his words. “I don’t have many left. I’ve never had many, either.”

Tuor frowned and sipped his wine. He had stepped too far. “Right…,” he mumbled. “It wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

Maeglin shrugged and stared at his cup. He understood Tuor’s frustration. He felt similarly, sometimes.

Silence hung heavily between them.

“Morgoth can attack the city at any moment. We can’t defeat him. I-… I don’t want to die,” Tuor admitted at last.

“Me neither,” whispered the smith.

“You are immortal. The doom of the God of the Dead doesn’t weigh on you.” The Adan took another sip. “They don’t resurrect Men. No one knows what happens after.” He shifted and lay his back against the wall. “I hate it.”

“Araw told my mother the Gift brought Men closer to Ilúvatar after death,” said Maeglin.

“It must be true, then,” Tuor scoffed, his voice sharp and icy again. “I guess I’ll see for myself.”

Tuor’s coldness stung Maeglin like a dagger. The smith clutched on his cup before putting it on his drawer. He couldn’t drown his sorrow in wine. He passed a hand in his hair to mask his discomfort and stared at the foyer, avoiding Tuor’s scrutinising gaze. If his voice was frozen, his eyes burned. His moods carried the unpredictability of a river’s torrent.

Fingers wandered on Maeglin’s cheek, almost the touch of a ghost. The smith held his breath.

“Do you really think you can convince her?” Tuor asked.

Maeglin sighed. “Possibly.”

“Mh.”

The Elf heard the sound of a cup clashing with the other.

A rough hand seized his jaw and gently turned him around. The air shifted again.

“You’re a beautiful one,” purred Tuor. The prince shivered. The Man’s breath came in uneven bursts.

“You are drunk,” was all Maeglin found to retort.

“Tipsy,” Tuor corrected him. They stared at each other. The Adan leaned in deliberately slowly, offering Maeglin a chance to withdraw. “If you don’t back up, I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” rasped Maeglin. Deep down, the smith knew the answer.

“This.”

Tuor captured his lips. His fingers tightened around the Elf’s jaw and he groaned when his teeth crashed against Maeglin’s. Maeglin grabbed Tuor’s collar. His fingers hooked on the fabric and tightened so much his nails almost pierced through the thin linen collar. Teeth nibbled his bottom lip with fierce gentleness.

The Man parted first. They panted and stared at each other in disbelief.

“I-, I-, oh Lord, what have I done?” stuttered Tuor. “I didn’t-”

“I think…,” started Maeglin, “we should not discuss this with anyone.”

“No, you’re right.” Tuor jerked up from the bed. “I should go.”

He walked through the room with quick steps. He stopped under the doorframe. “Until next time?”

Maeglin nodded faintly but didn’t look at him. “Yes. Goodnight.”

He stayed in his room for what seemed to be an eternity. Finally, he stood up, emptied the cups in the foyer and went downstairs to the kitchen where Narthor was reading a book on the little wooden table.

“Are you not at home?” said Maeglin.

“Gwennien forgot her book. It’s rather good, for a mythological novel,” replied his valet. “Your guest left in a hurry, has something happened?”

Maeglin turned his back on Narthor, putting down the cups on the counter. He chose his words carefully. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

“Ah.”

“Nothing to worry about, I assure you,” the smith added.

He could imagine his valet raise an eyebrow. “If you say so, sir.”

 

***

Dear Celebrimbor,

 

I hope this letter reaches you shortly. The Eagles are eager to travel with their young (that are now full-grown birds). Let’s cross fingers they will keep under silence their whereabouts and our correspondence.

Times have changed. I resolved myself to stay in the Hidden City as long as necessary, but I can’t handle it anymore. I miss the freedom of Nan Elmoth, their foul days and their magical nights. My uncle rightfully calls me a nocturnal owl. After all, sleeping during the day, being awake during nighttime was how things were done in Nan Elmoth.

Moreover, Tuor, son of Hador, brought a message from Ulu. The city is in danger and we must leave. Uncle Turgon made the decision to fortify Gondolin. He is determined to protect it no matter what—he believes it is even more dangerous to leave, should we be attacked by Mannish raiders or an army of Orcs. This is foolish.

I will not lie to you, I plan to seek refuge in Doriath, then join my friend Thranduil and Lord Oropher to their party and move east if they haven’t left already. Or go to Eregion if my heart guides me there.

Araw once told my mother, ‘šarratum šarrī iprus’. I don’t know what it means. She said that when the time will come, these words shall find Celegorm. I’m afraid this is no longer possible. If, by chance, your paths meet again, please tell him.

I wish you the best to come.

Yours kindly,

Maeglin

 

***

“Giant Eagles. Seriously. What was Mahal thinking?” pestered Narvi, gesturing briskly.

The arrival of the Eagles of Manwë stirred the curiosity of many, fear for others. Some believed Aulë sent messengers to announce the end of the world—Narvi was one of them. His pride refused to admit it was an unfounded and ridiculous scare, but Celebrimbor saw through him.

“’Brought me news from a distant cousin,” grinned Celebrimbor.

Narvi loudly grumbled and made unintelligible sounds that likely translated to ‘Hmph, Elves, nowadays.’

“He even wrote in Khuzdul,” added Celebrimbor. He shook the envelope in the air as if to punctuate his point.

“Oh, really?” Narvi’s demeanour shifted from disapproval to interest with the speed of a blink of the eye. “We don’t teach our language to outsiders…”

“No, but my cousin’s father, just like me, was called ‘Dwarf-friend,’” Celebrimbor’s smile widened. “He was renowned as the best smith of the Grey Elves, if not of all the Elves of Beleriand, thanks to the teachings of the Dwarves.”

Narvi smiled back. “Then I suppose those stupid birds can come to disturb us with your mail.”

---

Chapter End Notes

'šarratum šarrī iprus’ : The queen divided kings.
It's a sentence in Akkadian. There is unfortunately not a lot on Valarin in HoME XI: The War of the Jewels (which sits on my drawer), because darn these Elves not learning and recording the language! I remember seeing somewhere that Valarin was conjectured to be inspired from Akkadian, so I went looking for Akkadian sentences to make this fic look mystical and yada yada.

Btw, on Celebrimbor and Maeglin's friendship: our good friend Elbereth/Varda aligned the stars, and Celebrimbor happened to be at a Dwarven mine exactly when Eöl came with Maeglin. Yeepee. And Eöl went to Doriath often, hence Maeglin knowing Thrandy and Leggo's grandpa.

Chapter 3

Read Chapter 3

“Lady, if we don’t move now, we increase the risk to be attacked by Morgoth and his minions,” said Tuor. “Trolls, Orcs, balrogs, dragons…”

“I know this,” replied Idril.

She, Tuor and Maeglin were sitting around a table on the balcony of her personal quarters. Tuor always called her ‘Lady’. If it were usually cocky, flirty, almost affectionate, this day, it carried the colours of arrogance.

“Then why aren’t you doing anything? As a princess, you hold power, do you not?” countered Tuor.

“I simply cannot request hundreds of thousands to pack their bags and march through the mountains,” said Idril. Her tone was even. “I need to make a plan.”

Tuor crossed his arms and sighed loudly. He tapped his foot on the ground with impatience. “A plan? Really? The world is unstable. Improvisation is what will get out of the situation. If there were to be a plan, the Lord of the Seas would have provided one.”

“Improvisation isn’t always the answer,” said Idril. “Last my people improvised, we lost many. Too many.”

Tuor rolled his eyes. He addressed Maeglin, who was playing with the sleeves of his robe, shifting uneasily under the tension of the argument. “And you? What do you say?”

“I,” Maeglin cleared his throat. “I think we should go, but…”

“See?” Tuor gestured at Maeglin, victorious. “Finally, someone with good sense!”

“I will not send my people to a certain death,” retorted Idril. “We can’t go on like this. This is not how things work.”

“’This is not how things work,’” repeated Tuor, his voice raising with each word. “’This is not how things work’? Elves say this all the time, as if they knew better than everyone else. Who in Middle Earth do you believe you are to know how things work?” Angry, he stood up. “What do you know of the way things are, you who spent your life between those white walls?”

“Shut your mouth immediately or it’s my fist that will hit it.”

Maeglin stood and grabbed Tuor by the collar. Behind him, his chair fell.

“Maeglin,” said Idril.

“Whose uncle was slain by Gothmog? Hers. Whose grandfather was crushed by the Dark Lord himself? Hers. Who, do you think, crossed the Ice and witnessed her people and her mother die before her eyes? Her,” snapped Maeglin. His tone was murderous.

“Maeglin,” warned Idril.

“Didn’t it occur to you that her skin glow? And you know why? Because she’s seen the Light of the Trees. She’s older than you and me, older than the fucking sun and the fucking moon.”

Tuor gulped.

“If there’s someone who knows what the world is like, it’s her.” Maeglin leaned in, his breath coming in short bursts against Tuor’s lips. “When you die, you will reach the Creator. There’s nothing for you to fear. She is doomed by the God of Death, she can’t-”

“Lómion, that’s enough.”

Maeglin froze. Idril’s cold fingers tightened around his wrist. Her voice left no place for rebuttal.

Shame washed over Tuor. He had overlooked who Idril truly was and entertained the idea she was a beautiful, naïve, golden Elven princess, sequestered in her white tower, like in the tales of the people of Marach. He had heard of the deeds of evil in the Undying Lands and the coming of the High Elves. It never came to his realisation that Idril was one of the rare Light Elves that had marched through the Ice. In his mind, she was born in Beleriand.

“I’m sorry,” the Man whispered. “I’m really sorry, I never wanted-…” He lowered his head and turned around. “I shall go.”

“We’ll talk later,” replied Idril.

The door closed with a hollow sound.

“You let him go,” Maeglin said with disbelief.

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t right.”

“What?”

Maeglin jerked his wrist away from Idril’s grip. “What he said was wrong, and you let him go? Without him apologising?”

Idril sighed. “He was angry.”

“He insulted you! He was wrong, and I won’t let anybody lack you respect!”

Idril sat on her chair, sighing again, a shallow breath of defeat. “He feels trapped.”

“That’s no excuse for-”

“Use your head and try to understand!”

“But it’s wrong! What is there to understand, anyway? He insulted you!”

“Maeglin,” Idril countered, firm. “He is disallowed to go beyond the mountains. He likes working on the farms because it gives him a sense of freedom. Think about it: he is a Mortal and a messenger of Ulu who cannot leave. It’s no better than being sentenced to jail. He expressed his frustration.”

Maeglin stared. “So that’s how you see it.”

“I do.” She shrugged. “The situation has been on my mind for a while.You want to go too.”

“Yes, I’ve made my position clear,” replied Maeglin. “But that’s not-”

“You wanted to leave before Tuor delivered Ulu’s message,” Idril cut him short.

Maeglin’s eyes widened. “How…?”

Idril motioned for him to sit back on his chair. Her cousin stood still. “Gondolin welcomed you with a tragedy. You were alone and now you have us, but…,” her gaze wandered. She sighed again. “It was only a matter of time. When you can hunt in the woods, you go; when you can explore the mountains to gather minerals, you go. Just like Tuor, you move around and change places.”

“That’s my job,” he retorted. “That’s hardly a proof.”

“Look,” Idril said, her fingers tapping her forearm. “We left Valinor to come here in Middle Earth. We wanted our independence. Your mother left the city to meet her cousins, but mostly, she couldn’t handle to stay in the same place forever. She came back for your sake, but it’s clear you both belong to the woods.” She smirked. “Sacrificing our freedom isn’t who we are. It’s in our blood to do what we believe is right, should we cross the world on foot.”

“Why doesn’t Uncle want to leave if freedom is so important?”

Idril closed her eyes as if she were searching for the very last remnants of patience she had left. “Sit,” she said. Maeglin obeyed. She started, “My father is aware of the dangers that await us once we cross the mountains and Ulu’s circle of protection. He doesn’t want to risk it for his people. He wants to offer his citizens a good life until we can’t escape our curse anymore. People are tired and ready to enjoy the calm before the storm. Our end is inevitable.”

Idril’s face was unreadable. Maeglin waited. Something at the back of his mind told him if he kept silent, she would reveal her deepest thoughts.

He was right. She spoke after a few moments of stillness.

“However, I believe we must try.” She stared at him with the eyes of a hawk. “I will need your help to execute my plan, and then, I will set you free.”

“Your plan?”

Idril raised her hand. “One thing at a time, I’m not finished. I will cover for you when you go. If the Eagles deliver your letters outside the mountains, they can carry you too.”

Maeglin was speechless. His cousin was more observant than he gave her credit for. She always wore an absent expression, an expression of someone lost in their rêverie. Her clumsiness and lack of awareness of the world around her turned to be a deception.

“You aren’t the only one who entertains a correspondence with our Fëanorian cousin,” Idril’s lips pursed into a mischievous grin. “I requested him not to tell you about it, and I can see that he respected his word.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Maeglin breathed out.

“What for? Writing to Tyelpë?”

“No. For doing me a favour and helping me to go when it’ll be time.”

Idril became serious again. “It’s not a favour. I’m simply redeeming my deeds. One day, you will leave the city and I will free your way.”

“Deeds? What deeds have you done? You’ve always be good—to me, to your people.”

“I’m no longer the kind and innocent child I used to be.” She shook her head. “You will hate me after my confession. I will never blame you for it, I would do the same.”

“If it’s this horrible, then don’t tell me,” exclaimed Maeglin. “I’d rather not know than to hate you.”

“I’d rather you know the truth than not,” she retorted. Idril considered him. “Will you let me?”

Maeglin pondered. “Is it really this awful?”

“It is.”

“Then go,” said the smith. “I’m listening.”

“Alright…,” she inhaled sharply. “My father didn’t want to execute him. He said he wasn’t himself, but possessed by dark magic, and that my aunt perished because she succumbed to the Doom. I disagreed with him. I was angry that he had stolen my aunt and had taken her away from me forever.” Idril closed her eyes. “It was me who sentenced your father to death.”

When she opened her eyes, there was nothing but the vast horizon and the soft breeze against her cheeks.

 

***

Maeglin didn’t speak to Idril for a week. He escaped to his small cabin in the woods to recover from the shock. He thought of bringing Tuor with him so he wouldn’t be alone, but he decided against it. He couldn’t imagine himself cry in front of his friend and reveal everything that had happened, not that Tuor was never made aware of the history of the city.

When he came back, he held Idril in his arms, much to her surprise—and to his. She was the sister he had always wished to have. He had not fully forgiven her, but could not erase her from his life either. It did not matter to Idril who never expected forgiveness from anyone, save from perhaps Eru. Maeglin had agreed to stay as long as it took to complete his cousin’s secret project, a tunnel through the mountains.

One day, he was skimming through a book in Turgon’s library, and his uncle asked him, “Did she tell you?”

“How do you know?” responded Maeglin, startled.

“I simply do.” Turgon offered nothing further than a smile.

He and Galadriel, Aredhel used to complain, were more akin to each other despite sharing no parents. It made the smith wonder what else his uncle knew.

 

***

“I’m sleeping here. Goodnight!”

“This is my bed.”

“Yes, and?”

“Tuor,” groaned Maeglin.

Tuor had showed up at his door, uninvited, had rushed to his room without preamble, had taken his short off and had crushed heavily on the bed. At least he removed his boots, Maeglin thought gingerly.

“What do you want?” said Maeglin.

“I came to end this little thing we have going on,” confessed Tuor. “It won’t change anything, all things considered, since we, hm, sucked each other off, just once and that was last summer.”

Maeglin frowned. For a reason he could not tell, he felt annoyance irradiate in his chest. “Care to give a reason?”

“I’m going to marry Idril.”

“You what?” Maeglin yelled.

“I knew you would react like that,” said Tuor. He propped himself on his elbows. “Let me explain.”

“You’re sure I will-” Maeglin burst.

“She’s pregnant.”

“She’s-” He stopped abruptly, his fist raised in the air. It fell against his thigh like a lifeless body.

“It was an accident, we didn’t know it would happen.”

The Sinda blinked. “An accident,” he repeated with a dark voice. “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not!” protested Tuor. “It happens among the Edain when we don’t use contraception. Idril being an Elf, we assumed it would be safe without, but we were wrong.”

“So you’re telling me this wasn’t premeditated?”

“It was not.”

Maeglin rubbed his forehead, knowing he would end the evening with a headache. “Sweet Araw…,” he muttered. “What did my uncle say?”

Tuor shifted and rolled on his side to face the wall. “He wasn’t too impressed about it, and I’m being generous. Mentioned certain plants used for abortion, but also said he would make sure the baby never lacks anything if we keep it.”

Despite being greatly annoyed by the news, Maeglin sat on the edge of the mattress and patted Tuor’s thigh. “Whatever happens, I will support your decision…”

The Adan lifted his head to glance at the smith over his shoulder. “I sense a ‘but’.”

“But,” Maeglin nodded, “don’t touch my cousin! Hurt her and I’ll skin you alive! Don’t smile, I’m really mad!” He slapped Tuor’s thigh to prove his point.

 

***

Months passed, Idril’s stomach shyly took a round shape, and the wedding ceremony, if festive, was nothing to the coronation ceremony that took place shortly after. Gondolin had a new prince. Turgon regretted the circumstances of their isolation—he wished nothing but to rub in his cousins’ faces that he had officialised friendship between Elves and Men.

Eärendil was born, and the city was festive again. Idril and Tuor were, however, too tired by the new responsibilities of parenthood that came with sleepless nights to celebrate. A crying and stubborn baby that demanded all of their energy was enough.

The baby grew quickly. Not as fast as Mannish babies, but quicker than Elvish babies. He had the qualities of both races and, to Turgon’s amusement, the flaws too.

Maeglin stayed until the secret passage through the mountains was finished. Eärendil was four, then.

It was night and he had gathered his most precious belongings and farewell letters to his staff and family. Thorondor was waiting for him in the woods.

He heard muffled sounds. He was certain he had closed the gate at the entrance of his house. He paid attention to the noise. The door burst open.

“Maeglin!”

“Tuor?”

“Idril told me you were leaving. Like this, no goodbye’s. Why?”

“I’m sorry,” said Maeglin softly. “I have no time to explain but I left you a letter.”

“Maeglin,” Tuor walked up to him. “What do you think you’re doing? Have you lost your mind?”

“No, it was planned. I’m really sorry.”

Tuor grabbed his forearm. “We said we would go together.”

“I never agreed to such a thing.”

“Why? Tell me it’s not true. It’s a joke, isn’t it?”

Maeglin gulped. He heard the bell of despair ring underneath the anger of his friend’s voice.

“You can’t leave,” Tuor continued. “You can’t leave.” He took Maeglin’s other arm. “Please, wait. I know we should leave before Morgoth attacks us, but all these years have passed and nothing happened. Wait another year. I know I used to urge you to leave, but…”

“No,” the Sinda countered. “Now is better precisely because there’s peace in the outside world. Ulu always delivers his messages before wartime.”

Tuor breathed deeply, fighting back the tears that threatened to escape his eyes. “Does your uncle know?”

“No. He’d refuse.”

“It’ll hurt him.”

“I know,” said Maeglin.

“Eärendil too. He’s a child, he won’t understand.”

“Don’t bring Eärendil into this.”

Tuor’s grip on Maeglin’s arms tightened. “What will I tell him if you don’t say goodbye? He’ll cry your name.” Seeing that Maeglin hesitated, he pursued, “That’s why I’m asking you to stay one more year, just a year.”

“Thorondor’s waiting…,” the smith whispered.

Tuor, lost, let him go. Maeglin hugged him. “It’s not forever. We’ll meet again, I promise.”

He kissed the Man on the cheek and left his home.

 

Maeglin never saw Tuor once more.

Epilogue

Itarillë: Idril
Moringotto: Morgoth
Angamando: Angband

Read Epilogue

The herald of Gil-galad appeared exhausted from the journey from Lindon and the hubbub that echoed in the main hall of Celebrimbor’s domain. Seeing that Oropher and Celeborn took care of Gil-galad and his subjects, Thranduil seized the opportunity to drag the young man away. Nobody minded him. In fact, no one noticed.

“Thank you,” the Elf said.

“It’s nothing,” replied Thranduil. “Let me show you where the guest rooms are.”

“Thank you again,” the herald said.

“As I said: it’s nothing. I didn’t want to be in the hall and chitchat. You and I have to work behind the scenes at all times to keep our lands well and alive.”

The Elf blinked with surprise. “How would you know? We haven’t introduced each other.”

“You’re Elrond, aren’t you? I recognised you,” grinned Thranduil. “You corresponded with my father in the past. I often wrote you letters under his name when he was too lazy to think of a proper response. He argued it was for educative purposes in my case to learn how to write like a king.”

“Your father,” repeated Elrond. “You cannot be Prince Thranduil, can you?”

Thranduil’s grin widened. “The one and only.” He quickened his pace. “I have no idea where our host is. In the meantime, you’re under my care.”

Celebrimbor held a big reception in his castle in Eregion for rulers from other Elvish kingdoms. He wished to celebrate the beginning of a new Age—the Second—and times of peace. For once, the world enjoyed a period of respite. It was, according to Celebrimbor, the best moment to feast. The calm before the tempest, he said, ever the optimist.

Celebrimbor was nowhere to be found. So it was Oropher and Thranduil who took care of guests, with Celeborn’s help. Galadriel had hidden, too. Just like Elrond, she wasn’t fond of incessant noise.

Thranduil pushed heavy doors open. “That’s the dining room. Come on in.”

Elrond’s eyes roamed around, appreciative. “The statues carved in the walls are quite unique,” he commented.

“The statues themselves were sculpted in honour of Celebrimbor’s grandmother. She was a master of her craft. I suppose she still is, but she stayed behind in the West a long time ago. The idea of embedding them to the walls is purely Dwarvish.”

“Celebrimbor is a schoolbook High Elf,” chuckled Elrond. “Of course, he’d do such a thing.”

“That’s what happens when one’s the only remaining High Elf born in the Undying Lands. Perhaps there are Exiles who wander freely out there, but I wouldn’t know of them.”

Elrond hummed.

Intrigued, he approached the dining table. He carefully took a knife to inspect it.

“I’ve never seen such cutlery before,” he breathed out. “Did Celebrimbor craft it? It’s beautiful.”

“No,” said Thranduil. “My friend made it. You’ll meet him soon enough. I call him ‘Ló-ya’. It infuriates him.”

“Ló-ya?” said Elrond.

“A nickname. He’s half-Golodh and claims it’s not how nicknames work. He says it sounds stupid. I think it sounds both stupid and endearing, that’s why I call him so.”

Elrond raised his eyebrows. “I’m not foolish enough to call him that. I’m not as fluent as I used to be, but it does sound childish.”

“It shows you are wise,” a voice came from the dark.

“Ló-ya!” Thranduil exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Hiding in the corner, obviously,” scoffed Maeglin. “I was polishing a set of spoons. I thought you’d see me sooner.” He stood from his chair and walked up to the two Elves. “Hello there,” he greeted them. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought him here,” Thranduil answered, pointing at Elrond with his fingers. “He looked rather overwhelmed.”

“Understandable,” Maeglin nodded. “Still, I don’t see why you’d be in the dining room over your guest room.”

“It was in the way.”

“Right,” replied the smith. “Are you going to skip introductions, or?”

“I was getting there,” huffed Thranduil. “Don’t be impatient. Ló-ya, this is Elrond, herald of Gil-galad; Elrond, this is Ló-ya, royal smith of Greenwood-the-Great.”

Elrond brought his right hand to his heart and bowed his head. Maeglin did the same.

“You can call me ‘Lómion’ or ‘Maeglin’—whichever you wish to use for me. Don’t listen to that pickle of a Grey-Elf.”

Elrond smirked. “Understood.”

Thranduil muttered something along the lines of ‘pickle of a hybrid Elf yourself’. Suddenly, he clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Did I tell you Elrond is part-Mannish? He’s a hybrid Elf just like you!”

“Is that true?” inquired Maeglin. He tilted his head and inspected Elrond from head to toe. “Before we have a misunderstanding, I don’t have Mannish blood. My mother was an Exile from the West, and my father was born at Cuiviénen. He was a Grey-Elf.”

“Come on,” said Thranduil. “I was testing you to see if you’d recognise him. How can you play dumb? I understand you’re troubled to meet Gil-galad today, the cousin you’ve never met, but you should know who Elrond is.”

“It is true Elrond reminds me of someone I used to know,” Maeglin frowned. “I doubt they are both related.”

Thranduil stared as if Maeglin were the greatest cretin Arda had known after Morgoth. “Don’t you know his patronymic?”

“No,” retorted Maeglin. “You’re the one who corresponds with other kings and lords, not me.”

“Can’t you be stupider than you already are?!” Thranduil yelled. “The two of you are related!”

“Related?” exclaimed Elrond. His eyes opened wide.

“What? How?” said Maeglin, stunned.

Thranduil groaned. “You thick head of a Golodh! He’s Elrond Eärendilion.”

Maeglin blanched. “No…”

Elrond blushed and looked at his feet. “Yes,” he said with a small voice.

“Thranduil,” Maeglin’s tone was cold. “Go find Celebrimbor. Immediately.”

“But-”

“Now!”

Thranduil opened his mouth to object, but after a quick glance at Elrond, thought otherwise and left the room.

Maeglin drew a chair and fell heavily on it. He rubbed his forehead. For the first time of his life, he felt old. He realised what it meant to be from another Age. “Sit,” he told Elrond. “You and I have a lot to discuss.”

Elrond complied. Nervous, he clenched his hands. He waited, not daring to speak. He silenced the thousand questions that burnt at the edge of his lips.

After a moment, Maeglin’s voice was heard again: “Your grandfather was a dear friend of mine. So was Idril, my cousin and your grandmother. You look so much like Tuor I must have been an idiot for not connecting the dots together.” His mouth twitched in a cynical smile. “I held your father when he was a newborn, and watched him grow until I flee from Gondolin.”

 

***

Celebrimbor was pleased with himself. He neglected his duty as host in favour of enjoying Galadriel’s company in his salon. Tired of the festive energy of the guests, she had escaped the ground floor to find refuge on the third, where Celebrimbor had found her.

On the drawer next to the divan sat a box. In this particular box was the elessar he had crafted for her. He would gift it to her. Then, Galadriel would admit her secret love for him, and they would elope in the mountains to find refuge among the Dwarves. Celebrimbor’s plan was immaculate, nevermind that Galadriel loved her husband and never fancied Celebrimbor the way he wished her to.

Their lovesick escape had to wait, for Celebrimbor was prattling about his wristbands, forged by Narvi a long time ago. The Dwarf had passed away centuries back, and Celebrimbor missed him dearly.

As Galadriel made a comment on the relationship between Dwarves and Elves, and the tragedy of Beleriand, the door burst open.

“Ancalagon’s testicles!” Thranduil roared. “There you are! Come with me!”

“Hello, Thranduil,” said Galadriel. Celebrimbor swore under his breath. The moment was ruined.

“You’re here, too?” Thranduil narrowed his eyes. “Why? Oh, don’t answer me, I don’t care. It’s a good thing I found you. The two of you, come with me. Quick!”

“What in the world is going on?” grunted Celebrimbor.

“I’ll explain as soon as you remove your Western bottom from your couch,” snapped Thranduil. “It’s urgent.”

“I concur: why are you agitated?” asked Galadriel.

Thranduil closed his eyes. “I introduced Elrond to Maeglin.”

“It’s nice,” said Galadriel, “to meet his family. It must feel reassuring to Lómion to know he’s no longer alone. Nothing to worry about.”

“That’s the issue, you see: Maeglin and Elrond had no idea. Maeglin sent me to find Celebrimbor, I’m not sure precisely why. If you walked quicker, I’d truly appreciate.”

“None of them knew?” repeated Celebrimbor.

“Not at all.”

Celebrimbor and Galadriel exchanged a quick glance.

“Well, shit.”

It was a rare occurrence to hear Galadriel swear. Celebrimbor found he was strangely blessed in this moment.

 

***

There was quite a commotion in the dining room when Thranduil came back. Glorfindel had previously decided he wished to explore Celebrimbor’s abode, and as all things that were manipulated by fate’s bad humour, he found his way in the dining room. What he saw shook him to the core.

“I thought you dead!” he shouted in Quenya. He threw his arm in the air. Elrond, fearing he’d struck Maeglin, grabbed his wrist. “We all did! I was there in Mandos, and you weren’t! I looked for you, searched for you in the Halls. Itarillë spread all those horrible rumours about you: that you loved her like a man loves a woman, that you were heartbroken, went to Angamando and sold us to Moringotto! That you came one night, and Tuor slayed you! She said he pushed you off a cliff! Tuor never denied anything.”

“None of this was-,” started Maeglin.

“It was all lies! I couldn’t believe it. The citizens did. I couldn’t believe it because despite your refusal to conform to social rules you deemed unworthy, you never lacked integrity,” Glorfindel went on, out of himself. “Yet you weren’t there. Suddenly, boom! Gone without a trace. Turukáno was heartbroken. I’ve never seen your uncle this devastated! You betrayed him by leaving. You betrayed us. Why? Why have you done this? Why did Itarillë fabricate those stories? What was all this about?”

Elrond sighed of relief when he saw Celebrimbor, followed by Galadriel. He couldn’t follow Glorfindel’s speech clearly. Celebrimbor made a stiff gesture of the hand. Elrond let go of Glorfindel’s wrist.

Galadriel walked up to Maeglin and put her hand on his shoulder. He trembled slightly. He pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes. Something buried deep beneath was shattered to pieces.

“She said she’d cover me,” he whispered. “It was a deal we made. She promised to do everything in her power to mask my tracks. I assume that’s the purpose these rumours served.”

“But you left us,” Glorfindel repeated, accusatory. “You left us, and-”

“Yes, I did!” snarled Maeglin. “I could never sacrifice myself! There was no future for me in the city.” He swallowed and added, his voice low, “The curse of the Exiles does not concern me. I was born among stars and trees, not stone. I had to go. Years passed between the Fall and the news coming to me. I was in Rhovanion when I learnt of it. There was nothing I could do. It was too late.”

“That’s all very well,” Thranduil interrupted them in Sindarin. “But you folks are speaking this odd tongue that nobody understands. Care to summarise what the Void that was?”

Maeglin, despite the anger that was built in his chest, chuffed. Celebrimbor managed an amused smirk.

“Familial tragedy,” said Galadriel.

Thranduil hissed. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know. Ló-ya was right: that branch of the family is quite the spectacle.” He shook his head.

“I’m not a relative,” protested Glorfindel.

Thranduil cast him an unimpressed look.

“Let’s finish this conversation elsewhere,” demanded Celebrimbor. “Unless you want others to hear.”

“Oh, believe me, it’d be a miracle if they didn’t. I bet the neighbouring Dwarves heard as well,” commented Thranduil. He gracefully ignored Glorfindel’s poisonous glare.

Elrond attempted to ease the tense atmosphere: “At least I have a new cousin?”

“More like a great-uncle figure, but yes,” said Celebrimbor.

Thranduil grimaced. “I didn’t know you were that old,” he told Maeglin.

“I’m not,” this last one replied.

Elrond smiled.