The Council of Turgon
"Doom comes to Gondolin. The Dark One sees all as Twilight falls in the North. Fountains rain blood upon the Noldor. The ground opens; the earth trembles. The flames devour. The banners shroud the ruin. Doom comes to Gondolin."
The walls reverberated with the force of Tuor's voice reciting Ulmo's prophecy. Grimly, Turgon translated the prophecy to the company, first in Sindarin, then in the Common Tongue.
The Council were seated upon engraved chairs draped in blue. A great circular slab of marble rising from the ground formed the central table.
Turgon sat farthest from the door, Idril at his right hand. Maeglin sat to his left, representing also the house he led, the House of the Mole. The heads of the other eleven Houses of Gondolin were present also: Glorfindel, of the House of the Golden flower; Ecthelion, of the House of the Fountain. Duilin, Salgant, Galdor, Egalmoth, Penlod and Rog were the names of the rest. Voronwë, present also, sat next to Tuor.
A storm of murmuring followed the silence in the wake of the prophecy's utterance. The lords looked around at each other uncertainly, repeating parts of the prophecy and musing over what their significance might be.
Ecthelion was the first to address the Council.
"Ulmo's warning is quite clear," he said, "The whereabouts of Gondolin will be found by Morgoth, and the city will fall at his hands."
"But when, and by what means?" asked Duilin, Lord of the House of the Swallow, "'When Twilight falls in the North.' Does not twilight fall each day?"
"Prophecies are ever nonsensical," huffed Salgant, of the House of the Harp, "'Twilight' could mean a particularly dark year, or some sort of event we haven't the means to foresee. There is no telling when the Fall shall actually come to pass."
"Regardless, it is surely imminent," said gray-eyed Voronwë. Somehow each of his words was sorrowful, even in his regular speech, "For no other reason would Ulmo seek to warn us with such urgency."
Lord Rog slammed his hand on the table. It rang impressively despite being made of solid stone.
"Let them come then," he said, "Let the filth of Morgoth come. Our watch is kept all hours, night and day. From all directions we observe each pass through the Encircling Mountains. We will shoot them down from our towers before they so much as near the Gates."
Turgon inclined his head.
"Indeed. It shall not be so easy to bring Gondolin to its knees."
"No city is indestructible, Papa," said Idril, "Did Nargothrond not fall last year? Mighty Nargothrond, the subterranean fortress of Finrod Felagund and his brother Orodreth. Rent apart in mere days by the dragon Glaurung and the orcs that went with him."
When Idril spoke Glaurung's name, a bitter chill swept through the room. Each of the men present today, excepting Tuor, had witnessed firsthand the terrible might of Morgoth's red dragon at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad as he consumed entire fields with his scorching breath, leveled towers with a stroke of his iron tail.
"Orodreth was a fool to wage war openly on Morgoth," said Turgon, "None among the Noldor shall betray the whereabouts of Gondolin so."
"What proof have you that you speak the word of Ulmo?" came a voice from next to Turgon.
All turned to see Maeglin's eyes gleaming at Tuor with mistrust.
"He came bearing King Turgon's arms from Nevrast!" Ecthelion retorted, in his friend Tuor's defense, "He spoke in the tongue of the Ainur. Few among the Eldar understand it, let alone a mortal man!"
"And yet some do understand it, Lord Ecthelion," said Maeglin, "Or we would not be sitting here discussing its meaning. An old shield from Nevrast and a few choice words in a high tongue do not constitute ironclad truth in my estimation. Are you prepared to gamble our centuries-long peace on the back of this so-called 'prophecy'?"
Idril glared at her cousin as another storm of dissent rippled across the room.
"What reason have I to deceive you?" asked Tuor, his anger rising in spite of himself, "For what reason would I travel all winter to Gondolin's gates, risking death in the ravine Orfalch Echor, to deliver a falsehood?"
"For instance," replied Maeglin, malice now rampant in his voice, "For instance, one loyal to Morgoth might seek to draw the elves out of Gondolin into the open, where our hosts would be vulnerable to assault. Furthermore, conceivably Morgoth in his unfathomable power and endless devices could succeed in deceiving a mortal man into believing he spoke to Ulmo, for the same purpose."
"Maeglin!" said Turgon sharply, "You have gone too far. I trust Tuor absolutely, and I owe to his father my own life. You will apologize at once."
Maeglin bowed his head reluctantly.
"Forgive me."
But his words had cast fear and doubt into the hearts of the Council. The question of how to respond to such a prophecy became all the more troublesome.
"What have you to say, Lord Glorfindel?" asked Turgon, turning toward our friend, the golden-haired lord who had remained silent thus far. Glorfindel sat forward calmly and rested his elbows on the tabletop, entwining his long fingers.
"Prophecy or no," said Glorfindel, "I believe, for the time being, it is safest for the Gondolindrim to remain in Gondolin. We have our homes here, and there is no place for us to go. Nargothrond is no more. Would we flee to Doriath? Such a journey is treacherous, and how could they keep us? We number nearly a hundred thousand. I, too, trust Tuor's intentions, but I confess I do not see another solution to our predicament, at the present."
Glorfindel's words acted as a balm on the agitation of the assembled elves. The fearful silence gave way to mutters of agreement.
"Glorfindel is right, Papa," said Idril, "It is imprudent to flee the city as we are, without preparations. But prepare we must, for we know not when Morgoth may strike. We must be able to leave Gondolin safely at a moment's notice."
Tuor, who had been cowed by Maeglin's sudden attack, seemed to regain his courage when Idril spoke.
"I second this, King Turgon. Ensuring the safety of the people of Gondolin was the will of Ulmo. I pledge to aid this endeavor in any way I can."
"And I!" said Glorfindel and Ecthelion simultaneously.
"Ecthelion and I shall double the number of guards on watch," said Glorfindel.
They all looked toward Turgon, who sat like a statue with his brow drawn.
"So be it," said the king, "Our watch will be doubled, and an emergency provision will be maintained."
"And a secret means of escape, my King?" said Tuor, a little too boldly.
A line shifted in the king's jaw.
"At the present, Tuor," said Turgon with cold conviction, "We need not yet resort to tunneling out of Gondolin like sewer rats. If they come, we will fight them with our full strength, as men of the Noldor."
"Papa-"
"Enough, Idril. I have decided. Maeglin, I trust you shall see to it the armory will be stocked to match the increased guard?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Has anyone more to say to the Council at the present?"
Silence.
"Then let us vote to adjourn for the time being."
Ø
"Maeglin!"
The black-haired head did not turn. Maeglin stormed down the corridor, a furious energy in his step. Idril chased after him. Her bare feet skipped silently over the marble tiles.
"Maeglin!" shouted Idril, "I must speak with you!"
This time, Maeglin stopped dead in his tracks. Idril skidded and stumbled, narrowly avoiding a collision. He pivoted. His face was now inches from hers.
"To what do I owe the honor?"
"Maeglin," repeated Idril, "A few moments of your time is all I ask."
Her eyes were round.
Maeglin chewed on his lower lip and regarded her with his usual piercing stare.
"Very well," he said, "Let us speak in the tearoom."
Ø
The tearoom looked oddly empty without its familiar guests or servants. Idril took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs, turning her seat so her legs ran tangent to the round table. Maeglin imitated her, pulling his own chair back to leave a comfortable distance between them. He leaned back expectantly, indicating she was to speak first. But the wall between them was as tall as Gondolin's, Idril knew by the thinness of the line in which his lips were drawn.
She reached falteringly toward the hands folded in his lap, as though trying not to spook a cornered animal. Maeglin did not look at her, but allowed her to lift his right hand in both of hers, closed his eyes a brief instant as she turned it palm-upward and unfurled his fingers. The skin there was toughened and calloused from the smithy, the nails cut cruelly short just as she remembered them.
"You've hurt yourself," she noted, indicating a raw patch over the base of his thumb.
"So I have," said Maeglin, " An apprentice burned me accidentally, last week at the forge. He was trying to hand me a tool."
"Ai Elentári! How foolish of him."
Maeglin shrugged, still avoiding her eyes.
"He knew no better. It was my fault, for neglecting to teach him."
"You are a good head-smith, Maeglin. Thénarion would be proud of you."
The head-smith who had taken Maeglin in, who had taught him at the royal forge just after his coming to Gondolin, had perished in the Nirnaeth. When Idril invoked his name, the corner of his mouth curved upward, and his expression softened.
"Thank you, Idril. He was a good man, and I liked him a great deal."
Idril smiled back at him. She pressed her fingers against his hand, fondled it until he no longer flinched in response to her touch, then released it.
"Well, what is this matter we must discuss?" said Maeglin.
"The prophecy, Maeglin. You spoke against Tuor, though it be against the good of Gondolin. You begrudge him, for reasons of your own. You must know in your heart it isn't right."
Maeglin sighed.
"You are correct that I have no great love for Tuor, son of Huor," he said, "But it matters not. I would speak against him all the same if he were my friend. He wishes for us to turn our backs on Gondolin, Idril. Everything your father has built. Everything you and I have done. Do you not remember the treacherous days after the Nirnaeth? How you put your hands into the chaos and battled to pull prosperity from the ruin? It has taken years, Idril. Years, for our lives to return to a semblance of normalcy. What could a man, not three decades old, understand what we have lived through?"
"He was born during that Year of Mourning, Maeglin. Born after his father died in that same Nirnaeth. He was formed by the aftermath, just as we were."
The two cousins sat looking at one another. They had not talked like this, face to face, since they were both quite a few years younger: not since they had collaborated to house and train the orphans, ruling Gondolin in Turgon's stead. Always they walked with the king between them, separate from each others like mountains by a canyon. Though they may have been friends in a different life, Maeglin's love for Idril was too strange, too vile, for this one. And here they were, pulled together again as the dark forces of the world threatened once more to rend their lives apart.
Maeglin parted his lips, as though to remark upon this, but closed them again, and said nothing.
"Say what you must, Maeglin, son of Aredhel."
And the voice that obeyed her was soft and sad, like the last line of a tragic play: "Idril, I love you."
The pronouncement was so sudden, so bizarre, that Idril could not restrain the tears of pity that rushed to her eyes.
"I know."
He reached out, perhaps to touch her arm, or to catch her tears. But she pulled away, and stood from her chair.
"Maeglin, if you love me- if you truly love me- then promise me this: that you will speak with your mind, and not with your heart, on the matters of Gondolin. That you will put its people before the tangled affair of you and me. Papa trusts you. He will listen to you. Do not take that trust lightly."
Maeglin rose now as well, sensing their meeting was over. Saying nothing, he bowed, and departed.
ø
Gilwen rapped her knuckles against the dark oak. When there was no answer, she turned the handle and opened the door, stepping into Maeglin's bedchamber. Her eyes squared in on him, sitting at the edge of a mattress, holding a garment smudged with rosettes of his blood.
"What in Nienna's name are you doing?"
Her eyes found the half-empty bottle of spirits, the needle, his swaying comportment. She stuttered, for the moment too furious to speak.
"Maeglin, you- are- a- fucking idiot."
"Go away, Gilly."
"Have you lost your mind? Give me that-"
She wrenched the fabric from his grasp and saw that he had been trying to mend a collar. The first few stitches were widely spaced but passable, but an erratic scar of bizarre needlework followed. Gilwen groaned through her teeth, half in exasperation and half in pity. She tossed it aside, pulled him up by both wrists, and dragged him to the washbasin.
She plunged his hands into the water. As she cleansed them, he retched, and she barely caught his chin in time to direct the stream of vomit into the basin.
"Leave me, Gilly. You are my wet nurse no longer."
Though it seems you are in need of one, thought Gilwen.
He walked back to his bed and slumped facedown on it. Wordlessly Gilwen stood by the dirtied basin and looked around the room.
From her years as a servant, Gilwen was a good reader of rooms. Maeglin's was spare and clean, but untidy. His belongings were few, tossed into a closet three sizes too big. Leather shoes, well-made, stood by the door, meant for surprisingly large feet. There were a few mining maps tacked on the far wall, a harp gathering dust in the corner. A bronze helm adorned the windowsill, the first one he had ever forged with Thénarion. Aside from this there were no sentimental objects: no letters, no portraits, no games or trinkets.
The only object of note, kept pristine, was the drafting table in the corner. Here there was a neat stack of drawings, annotated in a tiny hand, a few rocks arranged in a pewter grid, and some sharp quills. Here was an elf who resided largely within his own mind, only seldom emerging to consider the world beyond.
She ran the water until the basin was clear, then filled a crystal cup with it. She walked to where he lay prone, half off his bed. He sat up obediently and accepted it, almost out of habit.
"You have come to reproach me for speaking against Tuor, I presume," he said, "You need not bother. Idril has told me so already."
"No, Maeglin," said Gilwen, "In fact, I've come to speak with you about Idril."
Maeglin raised his eyebrows at her over his cup.
"What of her?"
"That your feelings for her-"
Maeglin's eyes flashed.
"Are no more than lust and pride? That I love a mirage, a shadow, a fantasy, concocted of my own twisted ideals, and not a living woman?"
"Maeglin-"
"That she is my first cousin and my love is mere perversion, borne of my pathologic isolation? Is that what you have come to say of Idril and me, Gilly? You will not be the first."
"I never-"
"Oh, don't you think I know all of that! Don't you know I would give anything never to have laid eyes on her?"
"I just meant-"
"I knew from the first minute we met that nothing could ever be. I knew it before she spoke a word. If I must hear one more time-"
"No, Maeglin!" she cried, and Maeglin stopped midway through his speech at the rising tone of her voice, "I don't give a damn whether you truly love her or not. But it's hurting you too much! I'm afraid. I'm afraid your love for her will kill you and I won't be able to stop it. I can't bear to watch in silence any longer. I can't!"
"You look like you're about to cry," said Maeglin sheepishly, his next sentence forgotten.
Gilwen sniffed deeply and wiped her face on his sleeve.
"Do you love me at all, Maeglin? After all we've been through together?"
"Gilly..."
He was disquieted by her tears, but unmoved. She hated the look of perplexed indifference on his face, hated that she could not reach him.
"Just once, Maeglin, could you please stop shutting the door?"
Maeglin made a gawkish movement toward her, meaning to embrace her but thinking better of it. Instead he patted her hesitantly on the back.
"I apologize for upsetting you," he said, "I know what you ask of me, and I cannot give it. But thank you, Gilly. For your concern."
She glared at him with reddened eyes.
"You truly are an idiot."
"So I am."
Gilwen sighed and wrapped her arms around herself.
"I loved you once, you know. Many years ago, while I was still a servant. Because I could never understand you, I fell in love with you instead."
"And now?"
"Does it matter?"
Maeglin smiled but did not reply. He passed her the half-empty spirit bottle. She took two gulps and set it down without making a face.
"Gilly, why do you bother with me?"
"I know not. It is a thankless task."
Absently, she gathered his hair in his hands, sweeping it over his shoulders, over his back. It was even straighter than her own. She took the brush from the nightstand and began to run it over the knots.
"Do you remember when you were ten," she said, "When I let you chase the garsnuffs into the wood?"
"I do," said Maeglin with a smile, "I lost the path and wandered into the dark."
"And I screamed after you, mad with worry-"
"Did you? I never heard."
"The next thing I knew, you came running out back the way you came, a half-grown spider giving chase-"
"He had pounced on the garsnuff I was chasing, almost bit my arm off-"
"Your little cloak became ensnared on a branch as you ran."
"And you cut it from my shoulders with your knife! Ah, Gilly, if you hadn't done so we never would have been caught. That night my mother asked me where my nice cloak was, the one you had made for me. Nothing ever escaped her."
"And you blurted your confession like the hapless young fool you were."
"I was only ten! Oh, how my mother flew in a rage at the both of us-"
"Which was entirely unfair. It was no fault of mine. As I recall, you pointed your fat little finger straight at me, claiming I had let you go..."
"And when my father came home, she told him the whole story, and he merely shrugged and said it was healthy for a young boy to taste danger, that she was too soft with me."
Maeglin's grin faded.
"The poor woman, the grief I brought upon her. I will never forgive myself."
Gilwen suspended her brushing of Maeglin's hair. She had run the bristles over it endlessly, so that it now shone like polished ebony.
"Aredhel never thought of it that way."
"Can you imagine, Gilly, if she could see me now? Fleeing to the mines every fortnight, in love with my own cousin, pariah of my uncle's court propped up only by his goodwill? What would she say, if she knew this is what became of her sacrifice? I am worth-"
"Your worth is beyond measure."
"But not enough," said Maeglin bitterly, "All my mother ever spoke of was Gondolin. No matter what I did, I served only to remind her of all she had lost. She was robbed of her family and her palace, and in return, all she had was me. How could I ever be enough?"
Gilwen sighed. She moved closer to Maeglin and put her hand on his shoulder.
"You don't understand, Maeglin," said Gilwen, "Your mother loved you more than you can imagine, more than all the world could contain. When she first felt your quickening, she put my hands on her belly. She rejoiced for the child she would have, and the man you might become, even as your tiny feet fluttered within her womb.
When you grew old enough to play alone in the garden she watched you always from the window, worried any harm should befall you.
And when your father sent you into the woods hunting, she retreated into her bedchamber to hide her terrified weeping. 'I know he must learn to fight,' she said, 'And I hate to be such a fool over it all. But what am I to do if my boy is hurt? How am I to survive without my only son?'
Even if she never found the words to tell you, Maeglin, I know she would have sold all of Gondolin and all the world to keep you safe. It was her folly never to tell you so."
Maeglin looked long and hard into Gilwen's eyes, desperate to find more answers. Then he gave a small but decisive nod, indicating that he believed her.
"Maeglin," said Gilly, spotting the instrument in the corner, "Your mother always did love to hear you play your harp."
Maeglin rose and walked over slowly to where the old wooden instrument lay. He picked it up and shook it. A flurry of dust arose and caught the light streaming in from the window, glittering as it fell.
He set the harp on the rug and sat astride it. He lifted his hands to the strings and began to pluck them. The notes rang through the room, singly at first, followed by melodies, and chords. Every so often he hit a sour note or muted a string by mistake, and then he started over, his eyes closed, searching with his fingers for the song he had abandoned for so long.
When Gilwen left him, he was still playing.
Also regarding the previous chapter: please don't actually try nightshade and sugared water as an antidote for oleander at home. I feel like it should go without saying, but still.