Ulmondil by mouse

Voronwë heard Tuor’s approaching footsteps and sat up, blinking. He knew it was early in the spring evening by the low sunbeams that splayed across the overgrown grass outside his cottage in the south of Gondolin. Tuor stopped just inside the courtyard when Voronwë popped out of the long grass, and the two stared at each other.

“Are you all right?” Voronwë asked.

“I’m well,” Tuor answered.

Tuor’s clothes were wet through, and his shoulders sagged under the grey wool cloak he wore. At the same time, the young man smelled distinctly of smoke, and on his right side there was a large hole in his cloak with blackened edges. He carried the remains of a harp that was also blackened, its bear-sinew strings broken and curled back upon themselves.

Tuor crossed the yard and set down his harp on the front porch of Voronwë’s cottage. “Just a misunderstanding with Lord Ecthelion,” he said as he unpinned his soggy cloak and draped it on the porch railing.

“Ecthelion?”

“When he entered the Place of the Well and saw me with my harp on fire, he thought I was in distress.”

“It looks like you caught fire as well.”

Tuor continued to remove his wet clothing piece by piece and lay it over the railing. “A little, but only because Ecthelion came leaping at me before I could throw down the burning harp. We grappled for a moment and then he pushed me into the well. To put out the fire.”

“I see.” Voronwë got to his feet, brushing spruce needles and bits of grass off himself. “Did you get a chance to say everything you wanted to?” he asked, wading through the thigh-high grass toward the front stoop of the cottage. “My coming is as the Steps of Doom and Now ye stand in peril of the Fires of Melkor and all that?”

“I was saving the Fires of Melkor part until the harp was burning, and I had some trouble getting it to catch at first. Then Ecthelion moved so quickly. I didn’t even see him coming. No. I don’t think I got the message across at all.”

Tuor, now clad only in a pair of short linen drawers, went inside the cottage and promptly returned, not with more clothing but with his axe in hand. Skipping down the steps past Voronwë and into the yard, he found his shadow and began to hack and slash the air with his axe. Voronwë seated himself on the steps of the columned front porch of his house and picked up the burnt harp for a closer look, feeling much more at ease with the Ulmondil’s oddities than he had a few weeks earlier.

Tuor’s years spent living a wild and solitary life showed in certain behaviours that Voronwë began to notice as soon as they were not fully occupied with surviving the dangerous journey to Gondolin. For one thing, Tuor talked out loud to himself often, without being aware of it. Because Voronwë hearing Tuor’s voice in another room would quite naturally assume the man was speaking to him, this led to several stupid conversations to the effect of:

“What?”

“What?”

“What did you say to me?”

“I said ‘What?’”

Tuor’s obliviousness — or evasiveness — caused Voronwë to wonder if he was interrupting long-distance confidences between Tuor and Ulmo. However, since Voronwë couldn’t help but overhear the one-sided conversations sometimes even if he tried not to, he soon grew to doubt the Lord of Waters would take such a close interest in his Messenger’s choice of attire, weather predictions, attempts to identify birds and opinions on Noldorin cuisine.

Notable among Tuor’s other peculiarities were his proclivity for walking around undressed, his preference for being out of doors even while undressed, and his daily performance of the activities that had kept him fit and occupied while he lived alone in the caves of Androth. One activity was the vigorous shadow-boxing/axe-fighting, and another was practicing hand balances.

Tuor doing a handstand was a compelling sight, Voronwë had to admit. Tuor was very tall for a man, nearly the height of an Elda, and while he was lean from hard living he was not exactly lissome. There was a clear promise of power in the breadth of his back and his limbs. This made it startling to see the grace with which he could fold in half, brace his hands, lift his hips and stack his legs above his head. It was like watching a strong young tree bend down with the sinuous ease of a snake and then spring rigidly upright again. Except upside-down.

The third thing Tuor liked to do every day was, of course, to play his harp and compose songs of varying quality. “I think your harp can be salvaged,” Voronwë said, looking up. “That is, if you aren’t planning to set it on fire again. I understand why you thought it made a fitting symbol for the Stone of Song, and the power of making that the Noldor must not put their trust in any longer. But still, I think it’s a pity to ruin something that brings you so much joy.”

Tuor switched his axe to his left hand and swung it over his head before lunging forward. "Do you have any large pieces of decorative pottery, like a vase, or a wine jar?"

"I think so. Why?"

"I’m looking for something I can drop from the top of the King's tower."

Voronwë considered how to answer this. "Tuor, I think it could kill someone if a piece of heavy pottery hit them from so great a height. Is this about the Doom again? Could you not make your point without breaking or burning anything?"

"Perhaps," Tuor replied politely but with doubt plain on his face. "I don’t think it will have the same effect." He spun in a circle, cutting through a few tall stands of thistle spiked with purple flowers. “The people of Gondolin need to understand what is coming, Voronwë, and it seems that words alone are not enough to move them. I need to do something — something Turgon cannot ignore. Were you not planning to spend today trimming back the overgrowth and pulling weeds?" Tuor's axe-strokes were taking on more of a scything motion through the long grass. "The courtyard looks much the same as it did this morning."

"Yes, I was.” Voronwë felt a tickle on his head, and felt around in his hair until he pulled out a leaf. “I suppose I got distracted.”

Tuor stopped mowing down the grass and gave Voronwë a look that was both knowing and compassionate. “Were you thinking of the Sea?” he asked, resting his axe against his shoulder.

“The Sea? No. Well, at times, perhaps. Mostly I was thinking about that white spruce tree behind you. It was only a seedling when I left Gondolin, and now there are grey jays nesting in it. And then I thought of the ruined trees we saw by the Ivrin, in the desolation made by the Worm. And then I started thinking about how birds eat worms, and could there ever be a bird big enough to eat one of the Great Worms, and would it even be a bird at that point or more of a flying drake itself… Anyway, that’s beside the point. You must bear in mind that Gondolin has been the safest and most secret place in Beleriand for centuries, while it is well known to Turgon that the Enemy’s forces ravage the land all about us. Perhaps you need to give the King and his counsellors more time to come to grips with Ulmo's message rather than ... finding new ways to deliver the message."

Tuor leaned his axe up against the porch. He settled on the step below where Voronwë sat and rested his folded arms on his knees. "How much time do you think I have?" he asked. "Before it's too late?"

The sun sank behind the Echoriath now, though light still clung to the horizon, and the long shadow of Gondolin’s south tower had overtaken the courtyard. A cold evening breeze was picking up strands of Tuor’s hair, and Voronwë looked at the whip scars on the young man’s back and the goosebumps on his bare arms and searched in his own grieving heart for words of comfort. “Tuor, you were tasked to bring Ulmo’s counsel to the King of Gondolin, and you have. If the counsel is refused, you are not to blame for that.”

“It’s not a question of blame, Voronwë.” Tuor stared at the ground, his shoulders rising and falling in a sigh. “Ulmo’s words didn’t leave me as soon as I spoke them and his cloak vanished. I still hear him. I still feel him inside my very bones. I don’t think I could ignore it if I wanted to.”

They sat in silence in the settling darkness, until a shiver from the cooling air roused Tuor from his thoughts. “I’m going to try something different,” he said with a voice of fresh determination, springing to his feet. “Will you help me?”

“You know I will, if I can. What do you mean to do?”

“A one-handed handstand.”

“Ai Elbereth."

Gazing at the young Mortal who stood before him, tall and proud but also shivering a little in his underwear, Voronwë remembered that the lives of Mortal Men were short, and the days of their youthful vigour must pass as swiftly as the snowdrops that bloomed and died long before the mountain ash flowered. Perhaps Tuor’s obsession with acrobatics in a time of Doom made more sense than was at first apparent to Voronwë. Besides, he was curious to see if Tuor could do it. “All right. How do I help you?”

“Could you stand close enough to catch my feet if it looks like I’m going to fall forward?”

Voronwë stood, coming to the bottom of the steps as Tuor folded forward. At this precise moment, Lord Ecthelion appeared at the entrance to their courtyard, carrying a lantern that threw a soft spotlight on the young Mortal in nothing but linen briefs bending over in front of a very attentive Voronwë with hands reaching toward him.

“Terribly sorry,” said Ecthelion as he turned right around. “I’ll come back another time.”

By the time Voronwë convinced Ecthelion he was not interrupting, and persuaded Tuor to put on some clothes, it was full dark. Ecthelion was using his lantern to examine Tuor’s harp when Tuor came back out of the house, fully clad and carrying chairs.

"I must apologize for what happened earlier, Tuor. Please know I meant no disrespect to you or to the Lord of Waters,” Ecthelion said as they pushed the chairs into place around a small table on the porch. “Between the fire and the water I fear your harp is quite ruined. Until today I did not even know that you were a fellow musician.”

“Yes, I play as often as I can.”

“I would be grateful if you would teach me the songs of your people,” Ecthelion said. “Other than the brief time your father and uncle spent in Gondolin, I’ve had little opportunity to learn from the Atani.”

“I was fostered by the Sindar, lord,” Tuor replied. “I’m afraid I know no songs of the House of Hador.” He was quiet a moment before offering, “The thralls of the Easterlings make music. I learned a few of their songs when I was myself a thrall. They had no instruments but their voices, and the songs are full of repetition and grief, as were their lives. No doubt the compositions would be simple by the standards of the Eldar, but …”

“Simplicity is not at odds with beauty,” Ecthelion said.

“They call it — well, it would translate as Blue Music. I would be glad to sing for you all that I remember. And perhaps you would teach me something in return?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“I have only recently seen the Sea for the first time.” At the introduction of his favourite subject, Tuor’s face lit up, and he leaned forward in his chair. “Have you seen it? Oh, but of course — you must have dwelt at Vinyamar for many years.”

“And before that, at Alqualondë.” Ecthelion smiled, clearly charmed by the young Mortal’s enthusiasm. “The Teleri are my mother’s people.”

“Ah, just like Voronwë.” Tuor reached to clap Voronwë on the shoulder a few times. “Lord Ecthelion, it would please me greatly, and I believe it would help to ease my Sea-longing, if I were to learn the Sea-songs of the Teleri. Voronwë started to teach me one after we arrived in Gondolin, but a darkness came over his mind, and he soon forgot all the words. I fear that the terrors he faced on the Great Sea still lie heavy upon him.”

“The Great Sea hates the Noldor,” Voronwë murmured, uneasy with this turn in the conversation.

Ecthelion looked at Voronwë with grave sympathy. “It is said that Osse and Uinen are servants of the Doom, and have drowned many ships of the Noldor. I do not doubt that what you faced was harrowing. But what could be more healing for a grieved spirit than music?”

“Yes, that is my thought also,” Tuor exclaimed. “Tell me, lord, do you know all the verses to ‘What Shall We Do With a Drunk Mariner’?”

“All of them? Ai, there must be hundreds of verses, perhaps thousands. The Falathrim began making that song not long after the first rising of Anar. I learned but a part of it from Cirdan’s mariners when they sailed to Nevrast.”

“Voronwë could only recall twenty verses before his darkness fell upon him.”

“What shall we do with a drunk mariner…” Ecthelion stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Did you serve 'em a pudding of soggy lembas?”

“Yes, and made 'em dance a jig at the top of the foremast.”

“Tossed 'em in the sea with prayers to Uinen?”

“Yes, and locked 'em in a room with a cross loremaster.”

“Sent 'em on a quest to the Firth of Drengist?”

Tuor was delighted. “No, that one is new to me.”

“Shall we take it from the beginning?”

“I shall go inside and light a fire,” Voronwë said, the legs of his chair scraping the wooden porch as he stood abruptly. “I find it too cold out here of a sudden. Oh, please, no, don’t come in on my account. It’s a beautiful night, and I’m sure I shall hear you well enough from in the house. I might sit down and … and do some breathing exercises.”

“We’ll try to be quiet,” Tuor said, looking after him with concern.

They were not quiet, but they gave up torturing the drunk mariner after only 47 verses, and parted with mutual promises to meet again that were also not very quiet. Voronwë was seated in an armchair by the hearth, meditating on its glowing embers with handkerchiefs stuffed in his ears when Tuor came inside. Voronwë pulled the cloths from his ears, and Tuor, in passing, stooped to kiss the top of Voronwë’s head.

“Your Sea-heart will return to you one day, my friend,” Tuor said. “I’m sure of it.”

“I’m sorry I cannot share your delight in the mariners’ songs,” Voronwë replied, feeling a touch of guilt. “But it does gladden me that you have found someone else to teach you all the verses.”

“That’s not what Ulmo spake to me,” Tuor said as he walked toward his bedroom.

“What?” said Voronwë.

“What?” said Tuor.

“The Doom of the Noldor draws near to you, O inhabitants of Gondolin! The time has come. The day is near, a day of tumult and not of joyful singing in the mountains. A day of lamentation and mourning and woe!”

Voronwë was lying on a bench in the Way of Running Waters. He had been watching clouds with light airy crowns and dark voluptuous bellies pile up in the sky, and listening to the sweet whispers of nearby fountains, when Tuor’s voice rose in the distance.

“Behold, the day! Behold, it comes! Pride has blossomed and violence buds — violence, and destruction! Every heart will know fear, and hands will be feeble. Every spirit will faint, and knees will quiver like weeds in the water. Behold, your Doom is coming!”

Voronwë sighed and sat up. It wasn’t that Tuor’s voice was unpleasant to listen to. He had a nice enough voice, and he certainly was good at projecting it. But each time he shouted “Doom” the dark clouds overhead seemed to take on a more dismal aspect. Now they reminded Voronwë of elephant seals he had seen moulting on the beach at the Havens, huge and still and miserable, with pale old skin hanging in scraps over a swelling dark undercoat.

Plus hearing Tuor shout “destruction” reminded Voronwë he had brought Tuor’s harp with him, to see if it could be fixed at the Great Market. Voronwë thought he had better stop at the Place of the Gods on his way to market and make sure Ulmo’s Chosen wasn’t starting any fires.

The Place of the Gods was a wide open square framed by oak and poplar trees, with its northern side occupied by a tiered platform of white stone. As he approached the square from the Way of Running Waters, Voronwë could see Tuor standing at the foot of the stairs that led up the platform. A single-beam ox yoke sat on the Mortal’s shoulders with its curved wooden bow fixed under his neck, and Tuor wore rugged clothes from his outlaw days: a sleeveless tunic made of weather-beaten bearskin and short, coarsely-woven trousers that were wide and loose across the crotch but fitted on the legs. Voronwë suspected the trousers had been gleaned from a slain Orc or Easterling, but Tuor always looked so comfortable when he wore them that Voronwë had refrained from asking him.

A dozen curious Gondolindrim were gathered around the yoked Mortal, with more passersby steadily drawn in by his spirited speech, or perhaps by the sight of his beard, which had grown quite long and had interesting variations of light and dark gold in it. Before Voronwë could get close, he heard his name called, and then a startling clatter of hooves and cart-wheels rushed up to him. He hastily stepped sideways to avoid being run down by a team of snorting horses, and looked up to find Lord Salgant looming over him from a two-wheeled chariot driven by his young squire.

The chariots had become a fashion in Gondolin just before Voronwë left for the Havens. Generally the Gondolindrim used them in sporting races or other forms of showing off, such as running along the ridgepole between the chariot and the horses and hurling javelins at targets while the horses ran at a gallop. Only Lord Salgant seemed to be using a chariot for daily transportation.

"Well met, Voronwë," hailed Salgant, leaning on the side guard of his chariot until the vehicle wobbled and his squire looked back in alarm. “How is the Ulmondil? Is that his harp? Let me look at it. Give it here.” Salgant leaned down to wrest the harp away from Voronwë. “I heard what happened in the Place of the Well yesterday. Such a pity. Though this is a primitive instrument. What are these strings made of?”

“Bear sinew, lord,” Voronwë answered.

“How — er — resourceful. Does he kill another bear any time a string breaks, or … I suppose other sinews will do as well?” Salgant looked with some apprehension at the Mortal in his Orc-pants. “I would be glad to gift a new harp to Huor’s son. Tell him I shall have one sent to your house.” Salgant lowered his voice. “I must say it is tragic how the boy’s sufferings have deranged him. You know, you ought to take him to Loremaster Pengolodh and the healers, Voronwë, for examination. I know we all have questions about the Mortal body, even if you have satisfied your curiosity already. When Hurin and Huor were here— Oh, my prince! How pleasing it is to see you!”

Voronwë was only slightly less uncomfortable with the discovery that Prince Maeglin had come up on his other side than he had been with the direction of Salgant’s conversation. Maeglin, at least, was on foot and at eye level, though he was not looking at either Voronwë or Salgant. The black-haired, black-clad Lord of Moles took in the scene at the centre of the square with an impassive face.

“Did someone find a use for the Mortal?” Maeglin said. “Good.”

Salgant laughed in nervous excess. Voronwë found it impossible to tell if Maeglin were joking. Salgant ordered his chariot-driver to bring him alongside Maeglin, but the eager horses overshot, and could not be persuaded to reverse, so they ended up doing a rather wide turn about the square to bring Salgant back around. Just when Salgant got into his desired position by Maeglin, Maeglin walked away. He strode purposefully into the gathered crowd, who gave way for the King’s sister-son, whereas Voronwë, following in his wake, got stopped at the edge of the crowd with a curt, “No budging.”

“Thus says the Lord of Waters,” Tuor declared in a loud voice. “Love not too well the works of thy hands and the devices of thy heart. All the works of the Noldor will perish, and every hope which they build will crumble.” He clasped the ends of the yoke around his neck, causing a rush of admiring murmurs as the muscles in his shoulders sprang to life. “This yoke represents the Doom upon the Noldor, which they cannot lift, neither by valour nor by secrecy. They carry it with them, even into the Hidden City."

"Ulmondil, what does the Lord of Waters advise us to do?” asked a dark-haired Elf-maid standing to Tuor’s right.

“The counsel of Ulmo is to retreat down Sirion, and dwell at its mouths near the Sea.”

“Is there no Doom at the mouths of Sirion?”

Tuor adjusted his yoke a little. “Well, no. The Doom will be there too.”

“But it will be a better Doom?” she persisted. “Perhaps with less violence and woe?”

“That I cannot say,” Tuor replied.

“What about this retreat down Sirion?” asked an Elf from the other side of the crowd. “Sounds a bit dangerous. The Sea is leagues away. Will Lord Ulmo provide us with invisibility cloaks, like the one you wore into Gondolin?”

“I think you dwell too far from Ulmo’s power for him to aid you directly,” Tuor responded. “The springs of Beleriand have been poisoned, and his power is withdrawing from the land. But perhaps when we get closer to the Sea…”

“When you say ‘all’ the works of the Noldor will perish,” Lord Salgant called from his chariot, “do you mean mostly our kingdoms and cities, or does that include works of art? I mean, if one has written songs and operas of wide renown, surely these could never perish entirely?”

“Your walls, your gates, your armies, none of these will stand against the forces of Morgoth the accursed. But hearken to me, people of Gondolin! Ulmo spoke of a last hope, a hope that you have not prepared — a hope that will come unlooked for and unforeseen.”

A chorus of clear Elven voices rang out. “Does he mean the Valar?” “Is it the Vanyar?” “Will King Fingolfin return in our hour of need?” “Will we discover a new invincible metal?” “More eagles?” “Bigger eagles?” “Tell us, Ulmondil!”

“The hope will come unforeseen,” Tuor repeated, with the slightest crease in his brow. He looked from face to face, pausing when he met Voronwë’s eyes in the back of the crowd. “I cannot tell you what it is. I do not know.”

The silence that followed grew awkwardly long. Then Maeglin spoke up.

"The people of Gondolin obey the will of the King and abide by his laws. To incite them to do otherwise is sedition. This is a poor way to repay the grace the King has shown to both your father and yourself, Tuor son of Huor."

Though Maeglin kept his attention on Tuor, the prince's words of reproof caused the other onlookers to draw back. Salgant's chariot flew down the Road of Pomps soon after Maeglin said “sedition”. The rest of the crowd began to disperse, and murmuring Elves brushed past Voronwë as he alone pressed closer to Maeglin and Tuor. Maeglin, who had stood with hands clasped behind him in a studious pose, now held out his hand to Tuor and asked, "Might I have a look at your Doom? I think I see a crack in it."

Tuor lifted the yoke over his head. It was an antiquated piece of equipment, long out of use, and Voronwë saw there was indeed a crack in the beam. Maeglin took the yoke and tilted it this way and that. Then, with hands that routinely hammered rock and metal into submission, he twisted the ends of the beam in opposite directions and broke the wood apart as easily as if it were a bit of kindling. He passed two splintered pieces back to Tuor.

As Maeglin turned from him, Tuor spoke in a voice that was too quiet for anyone other than Maeglin and Voronwë to hear, but was as deep and cold as the water in an underground cavern. "You have broken a wooden yoke, but in its place you will get a yoke of iron."

Maeglin said nothing and strode away in the direction of the palace.

The heavy clouds burst while Tuor and Voronwë were walking together down the Road of Pomps. At first Voronwë didn’t mind the rain, and Tuor appeared to hardly notice it, being quieter than usual with his head bowed in thought. But then a wind blew out of the north fierce enough to break off tree branches and send them whipping face-high through the air. Voronwë and Tuor took shelter in a small pillared arbour that was walled in with thick ivy they had to push aside to enter.

Tuor immediately pulled off his wet bearskin and threw it down with a sigh of relief. Voronwë sat down on a wrought-iron bench and squeezed some of the rain out of his hair, watching without much surprise as Tuor crouched in front of him. With hands planted on the ground, Tuor rested his knees against the back of his arms, shifted his weight forward and lifted his feet one by one to point behind him.

“I don’t think I told you before,” Tuor said, looking up at Voronwë as he balanced on his hands. “I had a dream in Vinyamar, of an island in the uttermost West with a mountain, and a single brilliant light above it. It looked like a star, but bigger and brighter than any star I have seen before. Do you know of this star in the West?”

“Aman lies under the same stars as Beleriand,” Voronwë replied.

“What do you think I saw?”

Space drake? was Voronwë’s first thought, but aloud he said, “What do you think it means, Ulmondil?”

“I don’t know. But I wanted to share it with you.” Tuor, still balanced, now brought his legs over his arms and began to carefully extend them straight in front of him. “Some days I wonder how long I will go on speaking this Doom, hearing it, seeing it, waiting for it. I feel weary and I wonder why did Ulmo choose me for this. I think you must have wondered the same, when you were grieving for all those you lost in the shipwreck and yet you guided me here, to a place you had no wish to return to and now may not leave. You are an Ulmondil too, Voronwë. And it comforts me that our fate is shared.”

“If it offers more comfort,” Voronwë said, “I can tell you that I do not wonder why Ulmo chose you, Tuor son of Huor. You—”

Tuor lost his balance and fell forward. Voronwë quickly caught his head to stop him from smacking it against the iron bench, while Tuor braced his hands on Voronwë’s legs to push himself onto his knees.

At about this moment the ivy curtain was pushed aside by another wet Elf in need of shelter: the dark-haired maid who questioned Tuor earlier, whom Voronwë now recognized as Idril’s handmaid Meleth. She took one wide-eyed look at Tuor on his knees leaning over Voronwë’s lap and Voronwë with both hands on Tuor’s golden head, cried “Ai Elbereth” and disappeared again.

“Oh, Voronwë, the size of it! I don’t think I’ve ever seen one so big before.”

Salgant’s gift was carried into Voronwë’s cottage by four Elves in livery blazoned with a silver harp. The gift itself was a floor harp only a little shorter than Tuor, carved of amber-coloured maple wood. “What a brute the bear must have been,” Tuor said in admiration.

Voronwë could see the strings were made of very fine wire, not sinew, but before he could point this out a messenger walked in through the open front door and handed him an envelope sealed with scarlet wax in the shape of a heart.

“Manwë and Varda,” Voronwë uttered at the sight of the royal seal. He ushered out the curious delivery-Elves and shut the door behind them, wondering if he was about to read charges of sedition. He quickly broke the seal and read the message. “The king has invited— commanded us to appear before him on the day after tomorrow.”

The harp had been deposited in the centre of their front sitting room, and Tuor stood there plucking experimentally at its strings. “That is well! Perhaps now Turgon will heed the warning.” His face changed and he stopped playing. “Do you think that … all the king’s household will be there?”

“Probably,” Voronwë answered, feeling a little seasick with Maeglin’s deadpan face and freakish strength still fresh in his mind’s eye.

Tuor left his harp to gaze at a looking glass that hung on the wall opposite the front picture-window. He scratched his head and stroked his beard thoughtfully before saying, “Perhaps I ought to get a haircut. Oh, that reminds me. I saw Lord Glorfindel this morning.”

“Why does getting a haircut remind you of Lord Glorfindel?” Voronwë asked.

“I’m not sure. Anyway, he told me the opening chariot races are tomorrow and that you and I are welcome to watch them from his private viewing area. Ecthelion will be there, and perhaps some of the other lords. He also asked if he could paint me. Is this a Noldorin custom? Will the paint come off easily afterward?”

“He means to paint your portrait, on canvas,” Voronwë replied. “Yes, you’d better get a haircut. Or at least a beardcut.”

Chapter End Notes

1. Tuor’s act is inspired by, but does not accurately portray, the prophet Jeremiah and his parable of the yoke in Jeremiah 27—28. Tuor’s speeches draw on both the Book of Ezekiel and the words of Ulmo in “Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin”.

2. According to Unfinished Tales, J.R.R.’s notes indicate Tuor delivered Ulmo’s warning either ‘in the hearing of all’ or ‘in the council-chamber’. I am writing with the assumption that the official message was delivered in council but that Tuor’s arrival is well known to the general populace.

“I thought you were going to have your hair cut,” Voronwë said after the third time the wind blew Tuor’s hair into his face. Usually Tuor wore it tied back at the nape of his neck, but that day his elbow-length locks were flying freely.

“I will,” Tuor replied.

“We won’t pass any barbers now before we leave the city. And why have you brought the sword from your Nevrast livery?”

It was midday and the two of them were approaching the main city gates, on their way to the chariot racetrack. Half of Gondolin appeared to be streaming in the same direction, the crowds in the street gradually pressing Voronwë closer to Tuor until he became overly familiar with the smell of his hair.

Tuor strained to peer over the crowd. “Elemmakil is at the gate, on the left. Is he on duty? Maybe we should go out the other side. He might start asking questions and going over protocol... I don’t want to miss the opening parade.”

Tuor wasn’t exactly budging ahead of people, but perhaps some of Ulmo’s majesty still clung to him, because Elves seemed to move aside wherever he walked. Soon he and Voronwë passed through the gates and descended the steps of Amon Gwareth into the vale of Tumladen, where the grass was pert and green from the previous day’s rain. A long semi-oval track of finely crushed gravel was laid out northwest of the city, with tiered benches rising on either side and large open-sided pavilions set up at the rounded end of the track.

Outside the track vendors were wheeling carts loaded with handcrafted goods and a pair of minstrels were tuning their lutes. Tuor stopped to watch a young Elf in dramatic face paint who walked slowly past him, rolling glass juggling balls over her hands and arms. Voronwë scanned the pavilions. “There,” he said, pointing at a canopy broidered with golden celandine flowers that glinted as the sun broke through the clouds overhead. “That must be Lord Glorfindel’s.”

Voronwë had nearly reached the pavilion before he realized Tuor was not beside him. Voronwë stopped, and was turning in circles to look for the man, when three rowdy Elves dressed in green surrounded him, shouting “Victory to the Tree!” One blew a small horn in Voronwë’s face while a second wrapped a green scarf around his neck and the third offered him a drink from a studded leather flask. Then they ran off, whooping.

Whatever the flask contained was smokey and pleasantly bracing for Voronwë, who now spied Tuor just outside the entrance to the main seating area. Tuor, with his unsheathed sword in one hand, was climbing to the top of a three-tiered winners’ podium. At least, Voronwë reflected as he hurried over, Tuor was wearing his good clothes today.

“The voice of the Lord of Waters came to me,” Tuor called out, holding his sword high to catch the sun on its blade. A passing Elf scowled at him when he accidentally directed the light into her eyes. Tuor hastily lowered the sword and continued, “Lord Ulmo said to me, ‘Out of the north disaster will be let loose upon all the inhabitants of the land. For behold, all the forces of Melkor will set themselves at the gates of Gondolin, against its walls all around.’”

Elves began to collect in front of him, pointing at the sword and whispering to one another. With his free hand, Tuor drew half his hair over his left shoulder and held it taut. The crowd gasped when a short stroke from his sword cut the hair off up to his shoulder. Tuor held up his handful of hair long enough for everyone to get a good look, then threw it down at his feet and dragged the point of his sword across it again. “When the days of the siege come,” he said, “a third part of you will fall by the sword.”

He grasped the hair on the other side of his head and swept the sword edge through this too, then threw it into the grass. “A third part of you will burn in the fire in the midst of the city!” he cried. Pulling a glass juggling ball from his pocket, he raised it up until a white spot of focused sunlight appeared on the hair and grass below him. He held it there. And held it there a little longer. Someone coughed. Finally smoke appeared, and a flame sprang up, and the audience wrinkled their noses at the unpleasant smell of burning hair.

Tuor pocketed the juggling ball. “And a third part of you will be scattered to the winds, with the sword unsheathed behind you!” Tuor gripped his long beard, and Voronwë couldn’t help but wince seeing him bring the sword’s edge so close to his throat. But Tuor made a neat cut a little below his chin and flung the length of beard up in the air. The wind caught the strands and sent them flying away like leaves.

“None shall remain in Gondolin,” Tuor said, sweeping his gaze over the assembled Elves with a solemn expression framed by slightly asymmetrical hair. “Nor anything of your abundance and wealth.”

The crowd held their silence, waiting, while the grass fire smoked and died out. When Tuor sheathed his sword, a few Elves started a round of uncertain applause and the rest politely joined in. A child in the front row thrust a toy sword in the air and shrieked “By the power of Ulmo” until his mother shushed him.

“Easy, Glorfindel. I’m sure his hair will grow back,” Egalmoth said.

Voronwë turned his head at the voice, and found that Lord Glorfindel, Lord Egalmoth and Lord Duilin were all standing next to him. The Lord of the Golden Flower was gazing at Tuor with a stricken expression.

“Yes, I know,” Glorfindel said faintly. “I was just … moved.”

As Tuor hopped down from the podium and walked toward them, Duilin said aside to Voronwë, “He ought to have used a proper magnifying lens to start the fire. Much quicker. Or he should have built a small fire in advance.”

“I don’t believe he fully planned it out ahead of time, lord,” Voronwë replied. “I think he had a moment of inspiration.”

“Ah, of course.” Duilin tapped the side of his nose with a knowing look and murmured, “Ulmo is watching.”

“Well met, my lords. I thank you for inviting us.” With a bright and eager expression that hardly recalled the gravity of his prophecy made only moments earlier, Tuor clasped hands with each of the three captains in turn. All of them did their best not to stare at his hair.

“We are pleased that you and Voronwë could join us,” Duilin said. “And Lord Ulmo as well,” he added quickly. “Now, should we take our seats? The races will begin soon, and we’ve left my wife alone with Ecthelion far too long.”

Delighted feminine laughter greeted the small party of Elves and Man who filed under a canopy diapered with celandine. Ecthelion was whistling and dancing a spirited jig around the benches with an elegant Elf-woman who had long feathers bobbing in her dark hair. Ecthelion danced her into Duilin’s waiting arms, then turned to greet Tuor.

“Will you come to Glorfindel’s house after the races?” Ecthelion asked after he and Tuor had embraced, pounded each other on the shoulder, straightened each other’s tunics and possibly engaged in a secret handshake. “I thought we could try writing some Blue verses, and perhaps incorporate instruments? I can also teach you the mariners’ hornpipe dance— forgive me, Voronwë. Ah … Allow me to teach you an ancient dance from Valinor that has absolutely nothing to do with the Sea.”

“Gentle Estë! Ulmondil, what happened to your hair and your face-hair?” Lady Meril exclaimed.

“Please do come to my house this evening,” Glorfindel said to Voronwë as the two of them moved to the front of the pavilion and stood at the high barrier of the racetrack. The fair-haired lord rested his hand on Voronwë’s shoulder and gazed deep into his eyes, with wisdom on his brow and strength in his hand. “Ecthelion told me how your sufferings on the Great Sea still trouble you. Have you tried painting?”

“Painting what, lord?”

“Pictures. Whatever is in your heart. What you have seen, or what you wish to see. You might find it healing. I will provide you with paints and canvas tonight, when you join us.”

Since it didn’t seem to be up for discussion, Voronwë said only, “Thank you, lord.”

Tuor’s eyes sought Voronwë’s from where he was standing very still while Lady Meril evened out his hair and beard with swift strokes of a small knife. “How does he look?” she asked her husband, stepping back with one hand on her hip.

Duilin lounged on the bench behind them. “Like a freshly fletched arrow, my love.”

“About this prophecy of yours, Ulmondil,” said Egalmoth, whose bejewelled rings were glittering as he passed a coin back and forth over the fingers of one hand. “Do you happen to know which of us among the lords will be — you know — stabbed, burnt, scattered to the winds?”

“Lord, I pray the King will heed Ulmo’s counsel, and none of that need come to pass,” Tuor answered, sitting down beside Egalmoth.

“Come now, Egalmoth,” said Duilin. “If Gondolin is besieged, I would wager that all of us must fall by the sword.”

“Should we place wagers?” Egalmoth’s voice stayed casual, but it seemed to Voronwë that the coin dancing on his hand moved at a more frantic pace. “If Tuor provides probabilities, I can calculate the odds. We’ll pay the stakes upfront and pay out winnings once everyone is out of the Halls of Mandos–”

“Ai Valar, Egalmoth, have you not wagered enough today?” Ecthelion said.

“I hope you didn’t stake it all on Galdor, like Voronwë here,” Duilin added, pointing at Voronwë’s green scarf. “You know it will only feed his vanity.”

A blaring of trumpets announced the opening of ceremonies. Tuor jumped to his feet and ran to stand beside Voronwë at the edge of the track. The musical fanfare continued as statues of the Valar were led around the track on chariots, followed by the competing charioteers, who waved and blew kisses to the cheering crowds of Gondolindrim. Lord Galdor walked among the charioteers, and when he passed Glorfindel’s pavilion he saluted the other lords and shouted, “Great is the victory of the Noldoli!”

When the competitors were all back behind the gates at the far end of the track, mounted in their chariots with the horses shifting and stamping, the parade music petered out and a moment of silence hung in the air. Then the spring-loaded gates flew open, and in the same instant a horn sounded, and the race began.

Voronwë thought the chariot races exceedingly dangerous. Judging by the iron grip Tuor had on his arm, the Mortal Man was also a bit tense. The horses and vehicles flew down the gravel track. Some of the charioteers had reins wrapped around their middles, and steered the horses by leaning their bodies. More of them guided the horses with only their voice. They raced seven abreast and Voronwë’s arm was slowly crushed by Tuor as the racers neared what now seemed frighteningly sharp bends at the midway point of the track.

Galdor was a madman, Voronwë decided. Urging his horses on constantly, the Lord of the Tree veered so close to the other chariots that several of them went off track voluntarily in obvious fear that he would collide with them and overturn their vehicle. Galdor took the last bend on one wheel, threw his weight to level out, and sped to the finish line yards ahead of his remaining competitors.

Green-clad Elves in the crowds whooped and screamed. Egalmoth let out a triumphant shout and slapped his hand against the back of Duilin, who looked less than thrilled. Tuor released Voronwë’s arm to join in the applause. They watched Lord Galdor drive his team back out into the racetrack and run across the ridgepole of his chariot to stand on the backs of his horses.

“MOST VALIANT!” Galdor shouted with his fists raised over his head.

“Well, I think we know one of us who won’t be scattering to the winds if Gondolin is besieged,” Egalmoth remarked.

“Yes. Poor Penlod,” Tuor said.

“What?”

“What?”

Chapter End Notes

1. Tuor’s haircut and prophecy are loosely based on the Book of Ezekiel, Chapter 5.

2. Thank you tehta for the beta and the juggling balls.

Glorfindel’s house was full of windows and greenery, with trailing plants draped around supporting columns and walls given over to mosses and succulents. Other walls were devoted to art, Voronwë found when the Lord of the Golden Flower walked him down a corridor entirely covered with paintings.

“I often go through phases of fixing on one subject for a time,” Glorfindel said, gesturing at a row of paintings that showed a birch tree passing through many seasons, followed by a very long series of nude portraits of Ecthelion. “I find that while I’m painting, my disordered thoughts, fears and doubts seem to take new forms, and find new ways of connecting with one another. And little by little they become less intrusive, and less troubling to me. I hope you will find the same.”

With a welcoming smile, Glorfindel held open a door at the end of the corridor to allow Voronwë to enter a sort of atrium, spacious and sparingly furnished, with large skylights that opened the room up to the bright evening. Glorfindel led Voronwë to a corner where one easel was set up with stretched canvas and another with paper. Tuor and Ecthelion sat nearby, facing each other from a pair of low couches. Ecthelion was strumming idly at a long-necked lute and Tuor held a small triangular harp.

“The problem is your voice is too fair,” Tuor was saying. “Truly I have never heard a voice more pleasing and musical than yours. It won’t do. You must imagine the inside of your mouth is coated in dust from breaking rock or digging earth. You are never given enough water. Your feet ache, your hands are blistered and the skin on your back is laid open from the lash. Now bring this into your voice.”

Ecthelion, who initially smiled at Tuor’s compliments, now looked pained. He cleared his throat a few times, then said, “Perhaps a drink of whiskey would help?”

“It might.”

Glorfindel gave Voronwë a wooden palette and began to line its edge with smidges of paint in a rainbow of colours. “If it gets too noisy in here, we can always move your easel outside. I tend to find the atmosphere of a party inspiring.” Glorfindel turned a thoughtful look on Tuor and Ecthelion, who were coughing and blinking back tears after quickly swallowing down glassfuls of dark brown spirits.

Ecthelion, in a voice still rough and half-choked with the burn of whiskey, sang:

“The ships are gone, the ships are gone away,
Fëanor done me wrong, and he’ll be sorry someday…”

Inspiring, thought Voronwë, and he began to paint.

Music, singing, laughter and the occasional clink of glasses created a cocoon of sound around Voronwë as he lost himself in strokes, dabs and swishes of paint. Every now and then he glanced at Glorfindel’s easel beside him, where a portrait of Tuor with head bowed to his harp was emerging in soft watercolours. Voronwë was hardly aware of the rest of the room until Duilin leapt on top of a low table nearby. With one hand holding a silver chalice against his chest and the other resting at the small of his back, the Lord of the Swallow began to speak, loudly enough that the others quieted their music-making to listen.

“Galdor, be not proud, though some have called thee
Valiant and brave, for thou art not so;
When thou seest another's skill with the bow
Exceeds thine, in fear wilt thou disagree.
With trembling and denial dost thou see
Not foes, but thy friend's swordmastery show
That not all valour belongs to the Tree.”

Duilin dropped down from the table amidst the approving calls and whistles of the listeners, save for Galdor. The Lord of the Tree waved a dismissive hand and drained the rest of his drink before climbing onto the table in his turn. He lifted his empty glass with one hand, clasped the lapel of his tunic with the other, and addressed himself to Duilin.

“Duilin, thy envy colours all thy words
As if they wore my household livery.
Without trees, where would swallows quivery
Find strength to stay the flight of frightened birds?”

The audience let out a long “ooh” as Galdor stepped down, but Egalmoth made a scoffing noise and declared:

“Birds and trees, though lofty, thou must agree
Heavenly arches soar o’er both of thee.”

Ecthelion whistled, while Tuor and Meril applauded. Duilin beckoned at them. “Tuor! Join us. We know you have a gift for performing. Come, let’s hear some verses.”

Voronwë, blending colours on his palette, watched Tuor take his place on the table they were using for a stage, then turn his back on his audience. Duilin, Galdor and Egalmoth shrugged at each other and topped up their drinks from a glass bottle. Voronwë’s ears could just catch the sound of Tuor talking quietly. He seemed to be giving himself a pep talk.

“Look, if you have one chance or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted in one moment, will you capture it, or just let it slip?”

Tuor turned back to face everyone. Voronwë was reminded of when he first saw Ulmo’s Messenger standing above him on the terrace at Vinyamar, a tall figure cloaked in shadow, gleaming with mail, lordly as a King of Men. Tuor took a breath, nodded, and began.

“His gait slows, knees shake, hands are froze
There’s vomit on the grey tones of his robes, dad’s potatoes
He’s nervous but on the surface composure grows
He’s not ready but inside himself he knows
The words of Ulmo pound in his heart so loud
He opens his mouth and prophecy comes out
Mist-mantled now, everybody asking, ‘how?’
The Doom’s caught up, Gondolin is over, blaow!
Snap back to reality, oh! it’s mortality
Oh! Hador’s family…”

There was a startling noise as a lute string snapped but Ecthelion was too engrossed in Tuor’s lyrics to do more than utter an apology under his breath. Meril and the lords seemed equally transfixed. Even Glorfindel stood still with his paintbrush slowly dripping.

“Is that a word, ‘blaow’?” Galdor muttered to Egalmoth, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

“Are you going to argue with the Lord of Waters?”

The blues gave way to more lively music when Ecthelion brought out his fiddle. A great deal of laughter and occasional leaping over furniture accompanied the music as the Elves took to dancing. Despite the noise Voronwë was aware of the sound of breathing behind him and knew that others were peering over his shoulder while he painted.

“This is terrifying, Voronwë,” Galdor said. “Is that a baby Orc sitting on your dead body?”

“My sleeping body,” Voronwë said. “It’s not an Orc. Just an imaginary creature that represents a nightmare.”

“I like how you’ve painted the Sea at the top of the picture and the night sky at the bottom,” Glorfindel said. “It’s interesting to challenge our perceptions with an inversion like that.”

“No, it’s all the Sea,” Voronwë said. “It’s just very dark in places.”

Tuor pointed at a small figure in the upper left corner of the painting. “Is that me?”

“No.”

“It looks like me. Am I feeding that giant black dragon?”

“No! You— I mean, the golden figure is driving back the figure of darkness with his or her primeval goodness, expressed as a glowing jewel. It’s symbolic.”

“This part reminds me of Nevrast.”

“Yes. That’s meant to be the shore where Ulmo’s wave left me. Where you found me.”

“You captured it well.”

Hearing the change in Tuor’s voice, Voronwë stopped painting and turned his head to look at him. Tuor was standing close by his shoulder, gazing at the painted shoreline with a wistful expression. He touched it, picking up a bit of ultramarine paint on his finger, and said, “Maybe you could add a little boat there, with the two of us in it.”

“I’ll think about it,” Voronwë said. “Shouldn’t you be dancing?”

“Will you join us?”

“Maybe in a little while.” Voronwë was mixing colours again. “I’m not quite finished.”

“Voronwë? Voronwë …”

Eventually Tuor’s voice broke through his concentration, and Voronwë stepped back from his easel, right into Tuor. “Sorry,” he said. “What is it?”

“You’ve been painting the entire night.” Tuor’s eyes were drowsy, and though he was obviously trying to keep them focused on Voronwë’s face they seemed ever drawn back to his painting. “Everyone else has gone to the balcony to watch the sunrise.”

Voronwë blinked and looked around. The room was bathed in a soft grey pre-dawn light, and it appeared empty but for him and Tuor.

“How do you feel?” Tuor asked.

Voronwë considered this as he put down his paintbrush and palette. He felt … light. Almost buoyant. He felt spent, and relaxed. He felt what was surely a foolish smile spreading across his mouth as he watched Tuor’s face shift from a concerned frown to an answering smile.

“I’ve never seen you look so at peace.” Tuor clasped Voronwë’s upper arms and squeezed, his smile softening to an expression that was almost shy. “Voronwë, there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time, but I suppose I have been waiting until … well, until I felt that your heart was lightened, and ready to hear it.”

Voronwë clasped Tuor’s arms in return and sighed. He could see exactly where this was going. He had long known it was only a matter of time until Tuor suggested they attempt partner acrobatics. “Tuor, look. We both know how this is going to end.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re going to get me into some kind of compromising position and then someone will walk in on us. Can this wait until we’re at home alone?”

“Of course. Are you saying that you’re willing…?”

“Well, perhaps you’d better tell me exactly what you want of me.”

“I will,” Tuor answered, squeezing Voronwë’s arms again in excitement. “I want you to lie down on your back, but with your knees up.”

“All right.”

“I’ll be between your legs, holding your ankles. Does this sound all right so far?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“I’m going to lean down, and you’ll put your hands on my shoulders—”

There was a loud throat-clearing noise and Duilin sat up from where he had been lying on a high-backed sofa that faced away from them. Without making eye contact with either Tuor or Voronwë, he got to his feet and walked out of the room.

In Voronwë’s cottage, Tuor’s giant harp was pushed into one corner of the front sitting room and Voronwë’s painting leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the room. Tuor and Voronwë lay in the middle of the floor and panted like tired foxes.

“We should sleep,” Voronwë said. “It’s light out already, and we go to see the King this evening.”

Tuor groaned a little and laid his arm over his eyes. “I won’t be able to sleep. I am filled with dread.”

Alarmed, Voronwë sat up. “Why? Will we be imprisoned? Sent to the mines? Thrown from the Caragdur?”

“No, nothing like that. At least, I don’t think so. But if the King tells me he will refuse Ulmo’s counsel, what shall I do? How can I change his mind? I don’t want to burn Salgant’s harp and Maeglin broke my yoke and it will take months for my hair to grow long again.”

Voronwë lay back down. “I’m sure Lord Ulmo will speak to you, if it is needed."

“Ulmo said that after I had fulfilled my task, I should do as my heart and valour lead me. What if my heart and valour don’t know what to do?”

“I think you’re just tired. You’ll feel better after sleeping. Close your eyes and count to ten. In Quenya.”

“I can only count to seven in Quenya.”

“Count to seven and then count down to one and then back to seven. In your head,” Voronwë added as Tuor started to chant in his ear. Voronwë watched the young Mortal’s face relax into sleep, then looked again at the small golden figure in the top corner of his painting.

Doesn’t look a thing like him, Voronwë thought, and fell asleep.

Chapter End Notes

1. The spoof is strong with this one. Ecthelion’s blues are a spin on B.B. King’s “The Thrill is Gone”, the Elf-lords’ sonnet is inspired by John Donne’s “Death, Be Not Proud”, Tuor’s rap is based off the first verse of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” and Voronwe’s painting drew a bit of inspo from Henry Fuseli’s “The Nightmare.”

2. The partner acro move Tuor wants to try would end with him in a shoulder stand on Voronwe’s hands. See here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H1Ld3S7RtcY

3. Voronwe’s art therapy came out of a beta comment from tehta on chapter 2, plus reading her fic “The (He)art Recalls”. Thank you, tehta, for being a source of inspiration and helpful critique. I hope Prophet Tuor is awakening something in you.

“On a scale of Dor-Lómin to Nan Dungortheb, how filled with dread are you?” Voronwë asked Tuor. They were standing in the Palace Square, looking up the wide marble stairway that led to where Glingal and Belthil stood guard over the front doors.

Tuor scratched his beard as he considered. “It doesn’t feel too serious. Not like Eyes-of-Morgoth level dread. More like … running into a warband of Orcs alone, or thereabouts.”

Voronwë didn’t think Turgon kept Orcs on hand to rid himself of dissenting subjects, but who knew what Maeglin might advise the King to do, if his counsel were sought. After Voronwë brought Ulmo’s Messenger into the Hidden City, he was questioned closely by both the King and his sister-son. Turgon, though stern, had been gracious enough, but an interview with the Mole Lord had left Voronwë so rattled he walked out half convinced that he must be a deluded thrall working Morgoth’s will, as Maeglin had repeatedly implied, suggested, and flat-out stated.

Voronwë wasn’t even going to ask why Tuor was carrying a small scale and a set of measuring spoons with him. He didn’t want to know. “Maybe it is only the everyday dread of Gondolin’s imminent Doom that you feel, and it’s not even related to this audience with the King.”

“Maybe.” Tuor reached up to pat his hair, the top part of which had been pulled back into a small knot behind his head. “Do I look all right?”

Voronwë was surprised to be asked this question by someone who only days ago walked around wearing musty bearskins and a beard long enough for mice to nest in. Were Tuor’s aesthetic sensibilities changing under the influence of the Eldar? Or was he worried about how his recent prophetic acts might be perceived by the King? “I don’t think you look insane, or like a servant of Morgoth,” Voronwë offered. “The birds are an especially nice touch.”

Tuor was fond of birds and often fed them with seed and suet. While the white birds who dwelt in the city squares expressed gratitude by singing from a dignified distance, the grey jays trailed Tuor like hungry orphans. One of the dark-hooded birds now landed on his hand, while two more flitted around his feet, their tiny black eyes peering up bright with hope. Tuor tried to lift the first jay to his shoulder but it fluttered away to a nearby tree.

“You’ve got paint in your hair,” was Tuor’s response to Voronwë as they began their ascent to the palace doors. “It matches your tunic, though.”

“Tuor. Voronwë. Rise. Be seated.”

The King of Gondolin was very tall. It wasn’t that Voronwë ever forgot this, but every time he knelt before Turgon he was impressed anew by how far he had to crane his neck to look up at his lord’s face. Turgon did not look angry, he was relieved to see, only wise and aloof. Voronwë wondered at the cause of Tuor’s unease, for he had sensed the man’s nervousness growing as they entered the palace and were shown to the audience chamber. Voronwë found himself grateful that Tuor was carrying his measuring implements. Otherwise he wouldn’t have put it past the Mortal to go straight into a handstand or cartwheel or some other nonsensical feat of strength in order to calm his nerves.

They rose. After the King was seated, they sat, in comfortable chairs spaced around a low, oblong table that held platters of bread, cheese and dried fruit, and pitchers of cider and water. Idril was there too, on Turgon’s left, and Maeglin on his right, but Voronwë found it hard to pay them attention because Turgon occupied so much of it. The Elven-king seemed to be the length of Sirion, from the gold-and-garnet circlet that bound back his dark hair to the pointed toes of his gold-embossed boots. Turgon sat with his legs casually crossed to one side, his elbow leaned on the armrest at his other side, and his hands folded together in his lap. The white fabric of his long tunic draped him like a waterfall pouring over stone. His breeches were tight and a lurid shade of crimson.

“It is good to see you again, Tuor,” Turgon said, with an enigmatic smile. “You look changed already from when you first arrived here. You remind me a great deal of your uncle. Your father too, of course.”

“I am glad to hear it, lord,” Tuor replied. “Though I never knew either of them, I know of their valour in the Nirnaeth. I hope I will have a chance to remind you of the strength found in Men.”

“I have not forgotten it,” Turgon said. “To me it seems a short time since Húrin and Huor were my guests, and no time at all since I parted from them on the battlefield.” Sorrow crossed his face, and Idril reached out to lay her hand on his arm, which he covered with his other hand. The emotion fled as swiftly as it had appeared, and Turgon turned his gaze on Voronwë. “Voronwë Aranwion. I thank you for welcoming Tuor into your home. Your service to Gondolin, past and present, does not escape my notice.”

Voronwë would have taken the statement at face value if it weren’t for Maeglin’s cold eyes watching him from beside Turgon. Voronwë swallowed, wondering if the King had just delivered a veiled warning. “Thank you, sire,” he managed faintly. “I have always tried to act in the best interests of Gondolin.” Other than daydreaming for months in Nan-tathren, he supposed, but surely Turgon didn’t know about that. Unless … the Eagles …

“Please, help yourselves to refreshment.” Turgon gestured at the food and drink before them. Maeglin had picked up a knife and was sawing into the loaf of bread in a way that Voronwë found menacing. “I have summoned you here,” Turgon continued, “to discuss the message you brought from Lord Ulmo, and other reports that trouble my heart.”

Voronwë didn’t feel like eating, but he took some fruit to avoid seeming discourteous. Tuor picked up the scale he had set down by his feet, and put it on the table. Taking the smallest pieces of bread and cheese he could find on the platters, he weighed each carefully before laying them onto his plate. Then he brought out his measuring spoons, and with great care he doled out two meager spoonfuls of water from the pitcher into his cup.

Turgon, Maeglin and Idril were all staring at Tuor, their own plates and cups forgotten. But Voronwë did not see or sense nervousness in Tuor now, and knew that Ulmo must be with his prophet. Tuor returned the gaze of each royal Fingolfinion in turn, and Voronwë noted, not for the first time, what a vibrant shade of blue Tuor’s eyes were, rather like the ultramarine paint that had made its way into Voronwë’s hair.

Tuor spoke. “In the days to come, those who live through the siege of Gondolin will be scattered and lost. They will eat bread by weight and with anxiety, and they will drink water by measure and in dismay, for food and water will be scarce for them. The people will wander, and will look at one another in despair and waste away, because of the Doom that is on them.”

There was a pause. Maeglin said “Uncle--” But he stopped when Turgon lifted a hand. Voronwë dared a glance at the dark prince, expecting to see wrath in his face, but Maeglin was as expressionless as ever.

“Tuor, know that I, too, fear for the future of Gondolin,” Turgon said, his gaze lifting from Tuor’s face to stare into the distance, or perhaps the misty future. “Particularly since I received tidings of the fall of Nargothrond, and the devastation the Great Worms of Angband wreak upon the land. I know you would counsel me to abandon the city, but the fate you have just described to me does not require a siege to come to pass. The marching of so many cannot stay concealed, and during the long journey down Sirion we would be subject to attack after attack, and would be hard pressed to carry enough supplies with us, or to replenish them once spoiled or abandoned.”

Turgon straightened up in his chair and looked at Idril, taking her right hand in his left. “The need to take action weighs heavily on my mind, and I have pondered the Counsel of Ulmo many long nights now, alone and with my counsellors.” He looked to his other side, resting his right hand briefly on Maeglin’s shoulder, before returning his attention to Tuor, with eyes piercingly bright under finely arched black brows.

“I cannot,” Turgon said, “repeat the folly of Nargothrond by abandoning secrecy, and allowing hosts of my people once more to issue forth into danger. We will not leave Gondolin. But I agree that we must take every precaution against a siege. Therefore I have commanded my sister-son to see that the Hidden Way in the Echoriath is completely filled with rock, so there will be no way through the mountains. Henceforth no one shall go forth from the city, or enter here, whether on an errand of peace or of war. This is the will of the King of Gondolin.”

The silence after he spoke was the ear-ringing silence that followed thunder. Voronwë felt just as he had when he stood at the prow of his ship and watched the storm that would be their ruin grow in the sky. It was not shock, or fear and doubt, but a dreadful certainty, as if he had watched this unfold before, perhaps in a dream. He grieved for the young Mortal Man, whose hopes had always exceeded his own, and almost with reluctance turned his eyes to see Tuor.

Tuor was looking at Turgon, his mouth set and grim. Turgon was looking at Maeglin. Maeglin was looking at Idril. Idril was looking at Voronwë. Voronwë did a double-take. Yes, Idril was looking at him, steadily, unblinking. Voronwë didn’t know if it was more rude to stare back at the princess or to look away from her, so he shut his eyes, hoping it would pass for dismay at the king’s words.

“Voronwë Aranwion, come with me,” Idril’s voice said. “I’m sure the Ulmondil has much to say to the King and his counsellor.”

When Voronwë opened his eyes, Idril was waiting for him by a side door. The last thing Voronwë saw before he followed her out of the chamber was the startled faces of both Tuor and Maeglin as they leaned back in their chairs to watch him leave.

Once out of the room, Idril took Voronwë’s arm and sighed. “My father spends too much time with the Eagles. He has started to think like one.”

“Like an Eagle?” Voronwë supposed the top of the King’s mighty tower could provide a bird-like perspective. He wondered if Turgon stood up there and imagined himself soaring through the air, seizing Orcs in his mighty talons and throwing them to their deaths. It did sound appealing.

“You know what Lord Thorondor is like,” Idril said, as if everyone did. “No one could be more faithful or valiant, but he is also proud and solitary and knows no fear. My father too has grown proud, and he trusts too much in his own strength and wisdom. If he appears to listen to Maeglin, it is only because my cousin’s counsel agrees with what he already decided. This way.”

Idril led Voronwë into a sort of alcove, where ornate shelves built into the wall held a variety of small sculptures and huge geodes of raw crystal. On the topmost shelf was a figure of a beautiful Elf-woman Voronwë had never seen, save in statue form. Idril stood on tip-toes and pulled on the statue as if it were a lever. A panel in the wall beside them slid back, and Idril beckoned Voronwë to enter a passageway that had been hidden behind it.

The panel shut behind them with a quiet grinding noise and Voronwë might have felt panic, shut closely in the dark as if it were the hold of a ship, if Idril had not taken his arm and led him onward. They walked past a sword and mail shirt hanging on the wall, and then past a nook filled with books and scrolls. Voronwë glimpsed two of the titles — The Secret Lives of the Nargothrondrim and I Was a Feanorian Love-Slave — before he climbed up a rope ladder into another passageway. Idril again pulled a lever, and they exited into a windowless chamber softly lit by Feanorian lamps.

“Maeglin would have tried to follow us and eavesdrop, and I wanted to speak privately,” Idril explained matter-of-factly. “Do you remember what I said to you, the day you left Gondolin for the Havens?”

“I think so,” Voronwë hedged, though in truth he remembered very clearly. Idril had embraced all the mariners being sent forth from the city, speaking soft words of gratitude and encouragement to them, with tears shivering on her long lashes. Until she got to Voronwë. Then she had only clasped his hand, looked in his eyes and said, “Don’t tarry too long, and keep your lembas dry.”

Voronwë had agonized over the encounter for weeks afterward, wondering how he had managed to make such a poor impression on the princess. Now, however, it made sense. “You knew I was the only one who would return,” he said.

Idril nodded. “I have dreamed of you. And of the Ulmondil. Sometimes the both of you together, at the same time.”

Voronwë was taken aback to see her face turn very pink before she turned quickly away from him and stooped to open a wooden trunk on the floor. A glitter of light on the rounded ceiling overhead caught his eye, and Voronwë looked up, but the ceiling was low and hard to see well at that angle. He sank to the floor to sit cross-legged, and leaned back on his arms, and in the lamplight he saw there was a tapestry of dark fabric fixed overhead on which were sewn tiny white gems in the patterns of the stars. Not all of them, of course, but the brightest ones that the mariners used to navigate were all captured there.

Idril had brought a piece of fabric out of the trunk and unrolled it on the floor in front of Voronwë. It was a map drawn in ink on silk, a detailed picture of the coastline of Beleriand, with a great deal of empty space to the West.

“You are the only mariner who has come back to us,” Idril said, kneeling beside Voronwë. “But I believe you will not be the last to sail West. Will you help me fill in the map with everything you saw and learned of Belegaer?”

Voronwë wanted to avoid her eyes, and say it was all a darkness in his mind and he could not help her. Instead he met her eyes and heard himself say “Yes”, as if another spoke with his mouth. He was rewarded by her smile, a smile of such sweet and earnest gratitude that he thought the memory of it might make reliving his nightmares bearable.

As Voronwë followed Idril back to the King’s audience chamber, he started to wonder with unease what had occured after their departure. Tuor no longer had the cloak of Ulmo to make him look taller and more imposing. Would he dare to oppose the will of Turgon the Mighty? What if Ulmo possessed his Messenger with a voice from the uttermost depths, and spoke in wrath to the King who had scorned his counsel? And then if Turgon continued to defy the Lord of Waters, would they duel? Tuor didn’t have a sword with him. Wrestle, then, perhaps? Would Ulmo lend Tuor divine strength? If Tuor bested the King, would the guard slay him, and if they did, would all the springs and fountains in Gondolin flood the city and drown everyone to avenge Ulmo’s prophet and punish Turgon’s overweening pride?

Loud music met Voronwë in the hall outside the chamber. Oh no, he thought, a battle of songs? It wasn’t Tuor’s strong suit. Voronwë hastened ahead of Idril and burst into the room. The King sat at a large organ by the far wall, his hands roaming its keys with elegant abandon. Tuor stood beside the instrument, facing him. Turgon was singing.

“He was born in the summer of his seventh century
Coming home to place he’d never been before
He left yesterday behind him, you might say it set him free
You might say he found the cure to every war.

When he first came to the mountains, his heart was far away
On the Ice and hanging by a song
With his fate already woven by a spirit fell and fey
And a yearning for the land where he belongs.

But the Ondolindë Eryd Echor high
Where eagles rise like smoke into the sky
The starlight in the Crissaegrim is softer than a lover’s sigh
Eryd Echor high…”

“High in Ondolindë,” Tuor sang back at him.

Voronwë turned to Idril, but her eyes were on Tuor, with a startled expression he thought must mirror his own. Clearly neither of them expected to return to a musical duet. And Turgon had a magnificent voice.

“Now he walks in quiet solitude by mallorns and by streams
Knowing peace in the Flower of the Vale
His sight has turned inside himself to try and understand
The serenity of a clear green mountain dale…”

Tuor took a turn at singing the chorus:

“The Ondolindë Eryd Echor high
I’ve seen it rainin’ fire in the sky
Talked to Ulmo, listened to the thunderous reply
Eryd Echor high…”

“High in Ondolindë,” Turgon sang.

It seemed to Voronwë that he saw a new understanding and acceptance in the look the King and the Prophet shared while they sang together. He supposed it was only natural that Tuor’s lonely heart, dispossessed of home and kin, and filled with a longing he didn’t understand, should feel sympathy for an Exile and for the power that a place of belonging must hold over him. Voronwë looked around the room for Maeglin, wondering what he would make of this, but the prince was nowhere to be seen.

Idril walked Voronwë and Tuor out, leading them through a garden where trembling aspen trees with slender white trunks formed a colonnade with the evening light filtered through their branches. Brilliant daffodils everywhere nodded in the wind. Idril picked flowers as they walked, weaving daffodils into her braided hair, and then into Voronwë’s. For Tuor she found some white primroses and tucked the blooms into his beard. Tuor stood frozen still as he had when Meril trimmed his hair, his startled deer eyes again seeking out Voronwë’s.

When they came to the gate that would let them out, Idril stood between Tuor and Voronwë and clasped the hand of each. “Take each other’s hand,” she said, and they complied so hastily they smacked their knuckles together hard before settling into a proper handgrip.

Idril looked from one to the other. “We may be the only ones in Gondolin who still listen for the Lord of Waters, and his voice grows quiet here. Let’s all agree that we will not forget his counsel, even though the King has refused it. Nor will we ignore any of the messages that come into our hearts and our dreams in the days ahead, but must always share them with one another. Ulmondili?”

“Ulmondili,” said Tuor.

“Ulmondili,” said Voronwë.

When they released hands, a movement caught his eye, far back in the shadow of the trees behind Idril. It was gone almost before he knew it was there, like a snake starting into the bush. Voronwë wasn’t sure, but he thought it might have been the tail end of a black braid.

Tuor turned several cartwheels in the street as they exited the Palace Square. Some of the primroses fell out of his flower-beard, all of which he diligently collected and cradled in his hands like precious gems until Voronwë had restored them to his beard.

“There is something about Idril,” he said to Voronwë, “that reminds me of your story about Nan-tathren, and the spell that fell on you there.”

“Yes,” Voronwë answered. He had just been thinking about how her soft voice reminded him of the rustling of willows, and that her eyes looked like grey-green slate under a sunlit river. “I know what you mean.”

Tuor slung his arm over Voronwë’s shoulders while they walked and gazed at the sky with a contented smile. “I feel like there is something I am supposed to be worried about, but I just can’t remember what it is.”

“Whatever it is,” said Voronwë, “I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Do you want to go home, close the curtains and do that thing we were doing this morning?”

“Can you make sure there’s no paint on your hands this time?” Voronwë was trying to pick the blue paint off his hair.

Tuor took his arm off Voronwë to examine his hands. “They’re clean. Say, do you think Idril would ever want to join us? For partner acrobatics I mean.”

Voronwë thought about that. “Would that work, with three people? It sounds complicated.” The evening seemed to have gotten uncomfortably warm for spring. He tugged his collar open a little more, trying to cool his skin.

“I think it can work. At least, I have a few ideas.” Tuor glanced sidelong at Voronwë. He looked a bit flushed himself. “Let’s talk about it when we’re at home. Race you.”

Chapter End Notes

1. Tuor’s prophecy is inspired by the Book of Ezekiel chapter 4.

2. Turgon and Tuor are singing a filk of John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High.” If you are not familiar with this song, listening is recommended for the good of your soul. tehta contributed to the lyrics. If you, unlike Lindir of Rivendell, can tell the difference between two Mortals, guess which parts are mine and which are hers.

3. Turgon’s large organ (the musical instrument, not his other one) was borrowed from Zhie. Thank you to everyone in the SWG Discord who made suggestions for Turgon’s instrument. It was difficult to choose and my choice was mainly based on getting to make jokes about his huge organ. (Those breeches are VERY tight.) I'm quite sure he plays several instruments.

4. Thank you for reading.