Shore Beyond the Shadowy Sea by Quente

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Beacons bright in Gondobar

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After the tales had been told, and many toasts made, the evening ended in great peace and joy.

After the meal, Pengolodh pulled Fëanor directly toward the library (or perhaps Fëanor pulled Pengolodh). Elfwine turned to go back to his lodging in Ecthelion’s house, when Fingon plucked him into a side-corridor. “Come,” Fingon said.

Somewhere in the center of the house of the king, they found stairs leading upward, and began to climb them. “I told my uncle that you will be with us,” Fingon said as they climbed. “It is time that you and my brother and I had a bit of a chat.”

Elfwine was tired, from possession by the Ese, and from a long night of revelry, but he would not admit to it. He followed along gamely, and they wound their way up and up and up and up, and finally they entered a fair room that opened to a high balcony overlooking the city.

“Thank you for climbing all those steps,” Turgon said from where he stood leaning upon the balustrade with a cup of wine in his hand, gazing out at the marble spires painted by moonlight and starlight. “Why did I build it so high? I remember all too keenly how ill it felt when it came crashing around my head, and I cannot remember why I wanted to return.”

Turgon said softly, as if to himself, “Was it all simply a compulsion from Ulmo?”

“Surely not,” said Fingon.

“I have sent Elenwë to walk with Idril and Tuor through the city, telling her that I needed some time in meditation,” Turgon said. “But I find I want drink instead, and company. Join me! I have watered ale here for young children of Men, and more wine for you, my brother.”

Elfwine felt very young indeed as he sat on a bench near these two of the highest lords of the Noldor. He sipped the ale that Turgon gave him slowly, listening as he bore witness to a long-delayed conversation between brothers.

“Leaving aside that this is my very first visit to your kingdom, which is as glorious as songs tell, I would never question your wisdom, brother. Yet I wonder whether it was quite just to lance the boil right away,” said Fingon, taking the wine and joining Turgon.

“You mean, you do question my wisdom,” Turgon said. “But my thoughts went thus: might as well let everyone hear that Salgant repented of his deeds before they speak of it to him, as they are like to do, with the ghosts of our past around us. Our presence here feels like play compared to the hard years of secrecy in the face of the enemy’s wrath. Betrayal – death – violence – loss. And yet I am here again, and told to confront our ghosts and lay them to rest. So I will, or why bother coming at all!”

“All right,” Fingon said, laughing. “And I take great joy in being able to visit your fair realm, finally, brother. I hope when I return in a year or two, you will still be here, and the city will still feel quite alive.”

Turgon looked troubled, flinging an arm over Fingon’s shoulder. “There are many things I should have done better. You know that my mind moves slowly, and oft I take two days to think through a puzzle when you take but one. When I dwelt in Beleriand I felt I had barely any time to think – always, always, some issue arose that pushed me into a vile decision that, looking back, was against everyone’s best interest.”

Turgon sighed. “Had I been quicker to think through all the implications – had I been more given to questioning the wisdom of the Valar that I should keep my city entirely secret… Perhaps we might all still be here, instead of newly returned. But please finally be welcome to my city, brother! It is yours now too, if you want it. You can be regent when I am allowed to return to Tirion, if it pleases you.”

Fingon looked touched, and smiled, and Elfwine took a deep breath and let it out, smiling too.

But Turgon turned around then, and regarded Elfwine. “Here we are, keeping this young Edain away from his bedchamber, listening to us old kings talk about history that no longer matters to anyone, save ourselves.”

“Legends stand in front of me, and open their mouths to say surprising things,” Elfwine said. “Do not stop on my account, mighty kings!”

But Turgon and Fingon pulled up chairs on either side of him.

“Do not worry that I hold your prophecy against you, son of Éomer,” Turgon said then. “It speaks to your character that Ulmo chose you as messenger, of course, and I was something of a mind to scribe the stories of this city anyway, even before Ulmo laid his gease upon me.”

“But I am very interested in how you have come to look so strongly of our family,” Fingon said. “Tell us the tale of how this came to be!”

“It must be chance, and mingled elven blood from both sides of the family.” And so Elfwine found himself describing the lineage of his fæder’s mother, Théodwyn of the people of Númenor, who, after a terrifyingly long number of generations, was related to Elros.

There was a pause, in which Turgon gave Fingon a rather smug smile. “Perhaps if you’d had a child in the first age…”

Fingon turned pointedly away from his brother, eyes rolling. “How came you here, then? Is it not far for a Man to travel, beyond the bending of the world?”

Elfwine’s head was hazy by then with drink, but he was circumspect enough to omit whose hand provided the twist of fate. He focused his thoughts and told them of the building of Mithrellas, and how she came to fall apart in a storm.

“So how did you fall beyond the world? Was that Ulmo’s doing?” Fingon asked, refilling Elfwine’s cup.

Elfwine described that too, and then said, “When I awoke, I was in a deep wood, and I was beset by spiders, quite without a sword.”

Turgon spoke then, his eyes gleaming beneath his brows. “And that is when you fell in with Fëanor?”

“They were out hunting, and must have heard my cries. It takes a lot longer to bludgeon a spider to death than it does to slice one, and I was sorely confused at being in a wood and not dead in the sea, all of a sudden! I thought myself in Greenwood the Great. They rode in to my rescue, Celegorm and Maedhros, and their father with them.”

“Hmm,” said Fingon. “So it was simply chance that led Ulmo to drop you near my uncle Fëanor? I find that interesting.”

Elfwine felt then a strange pressure from the two lords who looked upon him, as if his mind was assailed by a deep and insightful power. But, recalling the teachings of Elrohir, he brought foremost to his thoughts what was in front of him – the great city, the Elves who had returned to dwell therein, the might and majesty of the lords – upon these things he let his thoughts linger.

“My purpose here in Beleriand is complete, I deem, and for that I beg your pardon, King Turgon! But…” Elfwine let his emotion hold sway, and smiled at them both, meeting the pressure on his mind with the honest wash of his joy. “I feel more blessed than I ever should have been, as an apprentice mariner, and an heir who ran from his duty and his father’s seat at Meduseld.”

Elfwine held the thought of Gondolin in his mind. “Happy was the hour in which Ulmo saw fit to use me for his purposes, for it brought me here to your city, which I find I love more the longer I dwell in it.”

The pressure eased, although Turgon’s eyes still held his. “Our pardon, young Edain. I’d forgotten what it must be like to meet the Eldar for the first time – it has been a long Age since I have seen any Man aside from my son-in-law.”

“Tuor!” Elfwine’s eyes lit again. “He is a hero to us Men, you know. When I was younger, I dreamed of becoming like Tuor – of winning the hand of the Elvenking’s daughter in his secret kingdom, and sailing into the uttermost west. And here I sit with the very same Elvenking – do you happen to have any more daughters?”

Turgon chuckled. “Nay, child! But is that how Men tell the tale? Idril would not have enjoyed being couched as anyone’s prize. If anything, she won the ‘prize’ of Tuor.”

“If I ever return home, I will amend the tale,” Elfwine said, and drank again.

Turgon’s eyes narrowed at the words “return home,” and he exchanged a look with Fingon, who nodded.

Oh no, Elfwine thought, seeing the glance and knowing that he’d let an important detail, the reason for Fëanor’s presence in Gondolin, perhaps, slip. But for some reason, Fingon changed the subject.

“So I have heard much of King Aragorn of the House of Telcontar,” said Fingon, sitting forward, “What can you tell us of him?”

“As a boy, I often wished King Aragorn was a little less war-like, for I rarely saw fæder – Éomer King is often away with him, on some debate or other. They let me come along, once, but back then, I much preferred lingering on the shores of my grandfather’s kingdom to warfare.” Elfwine wondered if the wine was making his tongue loose – was this of interest to these great kings, neither of whom had ever shied away from war or kingship, nor brooked avoidance of duty?

“It is not,” Elfwine hastily amended, “that I do not wish to do my part, for the safety of my people and my realm. I simply felt the calling of the sea more.”

“So they are still much in battle,” Turgon said thoughtfully. “I never enjoyed it either, to be honest. My tactic was always to make a safe place and hide in it.”

“I preferred fighting to hiding,” Fingon said. “And still do, which is likely why I am here in Beleriand and you remained in Aman, brother.”

“And that reminds me to find Master Pengolodh to establish a schedule so that I can return to Aman someday,” Turgon said. “Although he is sequestered with Fëanor at present. I am sure that given an opportunity to ask a few pertinent questions about history, he will monopolize Fëanor for days. I hope you did the research you needed before we arrived.” He glanced probingly at Elfwine. “I assume the research is somehow related to your journey?”

Indeed, they’d caught his slip. “Fëanor found my tale interesting, and pledged his assistance in my quest to return home,” Elfwine admitted, very carefully not thinking about paths between worlds.

“Your purview and not mine,” Turgon said to Fingon, letting out a breath.

“I am not his keeper!”

“And look where that got us.”

Not understanding, Elfwine looked between the two as they strove in thought for a long moment. “Is it not proper for me to desire to return home?”

“Oh…” Fingon laughed, turning away. “It is! We just fear what power Fëanor might have, if he invents a way back to Middle-earth…”

Elfwine thought very hard about something else, for a moment. About how fair Elenwë was beside Turgon that evening, with her golden hair glowing in the lanterns and starlight, laughing with her husband.

“I know not, lords,” Elfwine said, and then, despite himself, he yawned.

Fingon’s expression turned gentle, then. “It is not for you to solve this. I shall watch Fëanor, a while, and make sure he does no harm in his quest to aid you. But watch him, I shall.”

“And now, I think, we should let this one go to his bed! We have kept you up late, young one,” Turgon said, smiling. “And I shall go to my lady wife, and Fingon shall go to the library and sit very obviously in front of the books that might assist in breaking the veil between the worlds.”