Hi guys!
So, we begin with the story of Tuor and Idril.
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Chapter 53: To Give What You Cannot Keep
FA 472: 23 Years Later ...
He walked for a while, holding the swan-helm under his arm. He had delivered his message to the High-King, and now he wandered their gardens while King and his Court made their deliberations.
He himself was too weary for any serious thought, so he leaned gratefully into the hands of nature, drinking in the beauty.
He made his way over to a pool of water, colored green by the leafy light, and sat by it, his back to the leaning willow tree.
"I didn't know there was anyone here."
Tuor stood up, his exhausted muscles protesting. The glory of Ulmo, the formidable power that had cloaked him when he entered Gondolin, was gone. Now he was merely a bone-weary and travel-stained man, who had been both a thrall and an outlaw.
He nodded to the woman, who was dressed in black, her hair pulled away from her face in a tight braid. "Neither did I," he said politely. "But well met, nonetheless. I am Tuor, son of Húor of the House of Dor-Lómin."
The woman's eyebrows arched in surprise, then she smiled at him. "Well, the resemblance is certainly there," She answered. "I am Laura Kinney."
"You knew my father?" Tuor asked, his eyes sharp with eagerness. His father was the ghost of a memory in his mind, a gruff, bearded man with kind eyes, and he yearned to learn more of him.
"Not exactly," Laura admitted. "But I saw him in during the Nírnaeth Arnoediad." She paused, her eyes far-away and crowded with bloody memories. Her body twitched suddenly, and she returned her gaze to Tuor, her eyes as green as thistles and no less sharp. "I never talked to him if that's what you're asking. But I remember his courage very well. He was an exemplary man."
A sad shade of a smile flitted over Tuor's face. "So I hear." He studied Laura curiously. His eyes were blue, but they were the blue of the hottest fire, a blue that jolted the heart. They were dangerous, brilliant, and to say they were blue was like saying the sun is gold: true, but not able to capture the burning. "It is good to see another one of my kin here," he said at last. "You keep your youth well, Laura. Twenty years can sometimes change a man beyond recognition."
Laura smiled. "Thank you, but I'm afraid can't take credit. Gondolin is good for my complexion."
Tuor smiled back: he evidently did not believe her, but Laura decided she would let him learn the truth on his own.
"I should be going," she said at last, when Tuor's gaze, like twin juggernauts, had become too much for even her. "See you around."
Tuor bid her farewell, then resumed his seat under the willow, closing his eyes.
When he did so, the rustling of the willow-leaves sounded like rain. He thought it very beautiful. It had been a long time since he had been able to let his guard down entirely.
He slept.
A calm voice woke him, its sweet, melodic tone stirring up an elixir of wonder and curiosity.
He opened his eyes, but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. He had never seen anything or anyone so heartbreakingly beautiful. She knelt before him, clad in flowing white, with a belt of silver flowers about her waist, she glowed like a fallen star in the green gloom: Idril Celebrindal, deemed the dearest treasure of her people. Her intent eyes caught him, so bright and blue and brilliant, and he knew that she read his inmost thoughts and dreams.
"I bring a message from my father, Ulmondil."
He leaped to his feet, and she rose with him, smiling. "I beg your pardon, Princess."
"For what?" she chided laughingly. "None could fault you for sleeping. You have been traveling for many months. But that is over now. My father bids me tell you that Gondolin is your home."
"But the... message-" He began, stumbling through his sentence.
She shook her golden head. "I heard the message. But what are the Noldor known for, if not for their pride?"
"What of-" he began and was about to say Their beauty when she hushed him again. "There will be a feast held in your honor. Will you come, Lord?"
"I will," he said earnestly. She smiled at him and was gone.
The palace and surrounding garments were lit by lanterns and torches, some tinted to give off red, silver, or blue light. Long tables groaned under the weight of kingly fare. Ribbons of crimson or silver were twined around the fluted pillars, and the air was enchanted by Elven music.
Tuor sat upon the royal dais, his eyes wide. Never had he seen such beauty, and he felt overwhelmed and underprepared, bewildered by the sudden magnificence.
"My Lord Tuor."
He looked up quickly, wrenching his gaze away from the ongoing below. Idril stood in front of him, a slim-ankled dream in a gold-trimmed gown and a delicate silver diadem, inlaid with pearls.
Tuor rose instantly to his feet, his face beginning to burn. Idril smiled at him and held out her hand.
He took and kissed it gently, but when he looked up, Idril was staring at him. Her lips quivered, parted, her mystic eyes grew wide and confused.
For only the briefest of seconds, her features were naked, open, searching. Then her face arranged itself, became the portrait of gracious decorum once more. "My Lord Tuor, how lovely to see you once more."
"And you as well."
She smiled, and passed by him, throwing a quick glance at the Elf that set to Tuor's right.
Tuor followed the Princess' gaze and nodded to his companion, a silent Elf, dressed all in sable-black, with a silver circlet on his brow.
Maeglin did not respond. He had seen it all, the awful, beautiful dawn of something he could not control.
A dance was struck up as soon as the guests had finished eating, and the piping, lovely rhythm invited all to dance. Only Maeglin and Tuor remained seated, for the first despised dancing and the second did not know how too.
During the dinner, Tuor had felt absurd, a travel-stained oddity in this bright place. He had no clue of Noldorin table-manners or Noldorin small-talk and fumbled his way through the meal.
But he had always loved music, and once the dancing began, Tuor amused by keeping time, tapping out the tempo with his boots.
"This feast is in your honor, and yet you do not dance, my Lord?" Maeglin said at last.
Tuor turned, smiling. Watching Idril dance had gone to his head like fine wine, and he spoke unguardedly. "Ah, Prince! You speak at last. Your words must be valuable indeed, for you guard them like a Dragon."
Maeglin smiled thinly.
"To answer your question, I cannot dance. I have spent most of my life in the wild, and survival was the only thing that was taught." He looked back towards Idril, her enchanting grace making his heart beat hard.
A wave of fury washed over Maeglin when he saw what the cynosure of Tuor's gaze was. "What a shame!" he said. "I thought that since you are the messenger of a Vala, as you say, you would have a more varied skill-set. After all, a man with only one talent rarely impresses women."
Tuor turned on the Prince, his eyes suddenly dark, and Maeglin understood he had overstepped his bounds with this strange, more-than-mortal man. "What ails you, Prince?"
Maeglin drew in a deep breath, his gut churning with repulsion and a nascent hatred. "I did not intend to offend, my lord. I was only curious."
"These days, more of us dance with swords than with women. And more of us court death then court brides," Tuor said.
Maeglin reached for his untouched glass of wine and raised it in a cheer. "For the Celebrindal," he said abruptly, downing the glass in one swallow, and was gone, leaving Tuor with a bitter taste in his mouth even the sweet Elvish wine could not erase. Then he caught Idril's gaze, and she inclined her head to him. He smiled, bowing his head in response, and was considering coming down to her, when a tall, well-muscled Elf with a mane of red hair approached her.
The Princess smiled and turned away with her new partner, whirling away from Tuor in a quick-step dance.
Tuor had seen very few women in his lonely life. Now, he would only have eyes for one.
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