The Crow and the Swan by SonOfMandos

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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.”

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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.