The Crow and the Swan by SonOfMandos

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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.”