Ulmondil by mouse

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Fire

Tuor tries some creative tactics to convince the people of Gondolin that The End Is Near.

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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.