Ulmondil by mouse

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A Third Part

Tuor gets a haircut and an invitation to a party. Also featuring: more prophecy, more lords, and chariot races.

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“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?”

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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.