Hi people!

So we're at the gates before the destruction of this beautiful city. However, some things will happen before.

I want to thank Celridel for her immense help in the edition of this story and thanks to d'elfe, Tibblets and Ducking Cute for their interesting and encouraging reviews... and... waiting for your reviews, guys!


Chapter 67: Work of Art

June 20th, FA 510. The evening before Tarnin Austa

The moon climbed into the sky, glowing white in the evendim. It hovered over sleepy terraces, gilding the fretted towers and paved streets. It silvered the rose gardens and shadowed the secret alleys with moonshine. The Gondolindrim lit their silver lanterns and readied themselves for midnight, their quiet joy filling the city. At midnight, their solemn ceremony would begin, and no voice would break that silence until the break of day. But it was not yet midnight, so Salgant stole through the pine grove, treading like a spy in enemy territory.

"Lord Salgant, what brings you here?"

Salgant's heart jumped, pounding arrhythmically in his chest at the deep, melodic voice.

He saw Maeglin emerging from the trees to his right, slipping easily from their tangled branches. Looking ahead, Salgant saw that the forge door was closed, and no furnace fires were visible through the windows.

He turned to face the Prince, wetting his lips with his tongue, as images jostled uncomfortably in his mind. The pale moonlight accented their faces with silver, but Maeglin's eyes seemed only to be holes gouged into the night.

"I came to speak to you," Salgant began, hearing his voice crack.

"Of course you did," Maeglin purred. For some strange reason, an image flashed through Salgant's mind. For an instant, he saw a bone-white tree, skeleton branches reaching up to the night. There were no leaves on this tree, but there was fruit, and he knew to touch that fruit would be death. He licked his lips again, trying to decipher what it was, but the image had dissolved away, and leaving only a ripple of fear in his stomach.

"Lord Salgant," Maeglin said kindly. Either he had shifted his position, or Salgant had stopped dreaming things up. The Prince looked as he always did: lean, tall, handsome, his black eyes quiet and inscrutable. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Salgant opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Maeglin held up a finger, smiling easily. "What I told you does not rest easily on your mind, does it?"

"No," Salgant admitted slowly.

"And what about it pricks the most?"

"Are we certain that the Unnamed will keep his promise?" Salgant said, his voice pitched scarcely higher than a whisper.

Maeglin leaned forward, his eyes lambent. "Salgant, what a grand and intoxicating innocence you have! The Lord in the North will fulfill his promise. Do you consider him a liar? Or do you mistrust me?"

"No," Salgant said fawningly. "You are not a liar, neither can you be lied to."

Maeglin smiled slowly, almost ruefully. "Ah, but it seems I am not as insightful as I thought. I wonder if confiding in you was wise."

"I am flattered at your confidence," the Lord of the Harp answered hastily. "Only...I am concerned for the Prince's safekeeping. I am concerned that the Lord...in the North's anger at the House of Hador will lead him to act more rashly than is necessary. Eärendil is nothing but a boy and no danger to anyone."

"I am certain that Lord in the North will do nothing rash," Maeglin purred.

"But what if during the conflict that will surely ensue, Tuor is killed, or Eärendil, or even the King?" Salgant dared. "What will happen then? The Noldor will be left Kingless and scattered..."

He trailed off as Maeglin took him by the shoulders. "Should that unlikely event happen, Salgant," the Prince said gently. "Then there will only be two choices. If we give the throne to Maedhros Kinslayer, our last hope will be gone. But do not forget I am a Prince, and I must, I will take that burden upon myself. It would be my sad duty to wed the Princess and ensure that the Noldor have a fitting heir. But as I say, I do not expect to be King. I only expect the Lord of the North to fulfill his promise, cementing our position here in Arda by protecting us from our rabid kin. I expect one other thing, Salgant."

Salgant swallowed hard.

"Can I continue to trust you, my dear friend?" Maeglin asked, smiling.

"Of course, Lord Maeglin," the other said quickly. "There is only one other matter, just a little one."

"And what is that?"

"The Princess has taken to wearing shoes. I do not know if that is of any interest to you."

Lord Maeglin raised an eyebrow slightly. "Thank you."

"I am the one who is to be thankful," Salgant said, satisfied he had made the one he admired happy.

The night had grown late while he had talked with the Prince, and as Lord Salgant walked back to the palace, he came upon a procession of Elves going towards the walls. Seeing his wife and daughter, he fell into step beside them.

"Atar!" his daughter whispered, taking his hand. She was young by Elvish count, her grey eyes innocent and excited. Salgant smiled and kissed her forehead, reaching behind his daughter to wrap an arm around his wife's waist.

Midnight came. Silence wrapped the city in a soft embrace, and all the Gondolindrim stood upon the walls and waited with bated breath.


Turgon's POV

'Night wanes and dawn is at hand. I hear the hearts of my people beat as one. Let the eyes of Summer behold immortality. This city is built from tears and resurrected dreams. It is built on hope, and hope will never die. The hope of my people no longer lies in the West. We fashioned our own hope when we were shut out, and this shall endure.

We made a song from living stone, and we shall sing this song until the end of the end.

Dawn comes with rosy fingers, lighting my pale City. Once, I imagined I would an image of Tirion, Tirion upon Túna, Tirion the Fair. No more. I took my heart from my chest and played upon my heartstrings, and the stone answered. I created a fairer city, the greatest work of art on either side of the Sea. I made a symphony of marble.

And I lost too many, I know. But I think I have saved enough.

So ready your voices, my people. Sing for the city that we built. Sing for the city that is my design.


Lord Maeglin's POV

Idril, Idril, Idril. I did this for you. I did this all for you. You made a mistake, darling, but even the wise stumble at times, and I can love you through it all. You think you love the renegade man now, but when he is old and mindless, and cannot even remember your name, will you regret your choice?

I know you will. You want to live, Idril. You deserve life. Your slate will be washed clean-with fire, but fire is the greatest purifier of all. I will drive the dross from the silver, Celebrindal.

You have turned away from so many of my gifts, but you will not be able to tear your eyes away from this one. This is my masterpiece. My wicked work of art.

This is my design.

This is my design.

I love you, Idril. You are the voice of my hunger and pain, you are the voice that has never stopped calling me. And maybe this devotion is doomed, but you are the poison I cannot live without. Our world may be ground to dust, and our sin may overwhelm us, but we'll drown in it together, you and me.

The sun is coming, but you did not look at it, Idril, you look at me. I know that you know. I know you have known from the beginning, and I knew love would fetter you here.

And the mountains are red.

You wished for light, Idril? Here, I give you fire. We have all our flame and our storm to walk through. I went through mine alone. Now it is your turn, Idril, and let the coals burn away your shoes of suspicion. There will be pain, but I will catch you on the other side.

This is my design, Idril.

This is my design. And if it is sin, I cannot repent.


Waiting for your reviews, guys!