King Turgon was called the Wise. He may have been stubborn and proud as well, but this name he had earned. For a reason and he knew the moment he laid eyes upon Maeglin that one evening. In the years Turgon had known Maeglin, his nephew had grown and hardened.
Ecthelion had once questioned if Maeglin had ever been an innocent child at all. At that point Turgon had said nothing. Today, after they had fought great battles against Morgoth in Angband, he knew better.
He should have seen Maeglin's youth, when he built the last gate of Gondolin. How scared he was to lose his home and how desperately he wished to protect his people.
But now it's too late.
Turgon wonders if he should say something. If he can say anything.
Maeglin had been gone for weeks and now he returned, with bleeding wounds, old scratches and a mad look in his eyes.
The last time he had seen such eyes, he had stood at the shores of Aman, when Teleri blood had stained the white sand.
Feanor had held his gaze for a moment and all Turgon had seen was lust, madness and aggression.
A determination not to die.
On the shores of Aman Turgon had looked away and had been cautious with his decisions every since.
His people came to call him to the Wise.
Now he looks away again, but only feeling like a coward.
He should rise, take Maeglin in his arms until his nephew knows that everything will be alright again.
But Turgon had failed Maeglin before.
He failed Maeglin, when his mother died in Turgon's city, when he ordered his father's death and he failed him, when he let him believe he loved Tuor more.
Turgon is called the Wise and he knows his life is ending.
It is draining away every minute he stays in Gondolin, but he cannot leave. His beloved nephew clawed his way out of Morgoth grasp, knowing what he would find. But Turgon does not care. He is aware that Gondolin will fall and he is aware that Maeglin is less than sane now.
But at least he will not die alone. He will not die in a cold dark prison, broken under torture. It may be just a few days until Morgoth's army will reach them, but in these few days he will allow Maeglin to rest. He will sit at his bed and sooth the fever, soften his troubled dreams and cleanse his wounds.
It's not much.
Certainly not enough to compensate the years Maeglin has spend alone in city full of people, who never truly welcomed him.
Who never truly understood and condemned him.
For been seen as the cause of Aredhel's death.
For having a Sindar as sire.
For having a self-appointed mentor, who never provided him with the guidance he needed.
Maeglin, Turgon thought, when Gondolin started to burn and the tower fell. My son.
I love you.