The last - and briefest - of my GondolinWeek prompts. Featuring: Tyelcano, Maeglin, two-thirds of a conversation and approximately half of a dilemma. Enjoy!
"I was told that my mother held the Sons of Fëanáro very dear."
The words are discreet, guarded, and the wording polite. Still, the unspoken question – was it the truth? less than it? too much of it? – hangs in the air like an accusation; and Lómion has to look away.
"…and you think of me as your replacement to be bested."
The accusation hangs in the air like a question, discreet, guarded; though there is nothing polite about the wording, Lómion decides.
Still, it is difficult to tell what politeness truly is. It may as well be than one is born with it, and in such a case, twofold he is cursed: once by the blood of Eöl and again by the blood of Aredhel.
Tyelcano of Himring offers him a curt smile. It is definitely not polite, but it bears a trace of kindness.
"There is nothing to fear," he says. "You are bright, and young, and the King speaks very highly of you. I am not taking your place, Maeglin."
"Lómion," he says, breathless, in spite of himself. "My name is Lómion. And I never said anything about…"
For the first time since they have met, Tyelcano looks impatient.
"You know just as well as I that two-thirds of a conversation are deduction and omission. I have had a long day, my heart is weary, and I am done pretending. What do you want from me, cundunya?"
Lómion feels the contortion of muscles in his face: one by one they freeze, mirroring the numbness that settles in his chest.
"Forgive me," he says. "It was not my intention to burden you."
"You burden me not. The water pipes, on the other hand, about the replacement of which we have been talking for three hours without doing a hand's turn…"
"It does weigh on the mind," Lómion says, recoiling at how uninterested his voice sounds.
"So does aimless chatter," says Tyelcano. "Ai, do not glance at me as if I have wounded you: we both know I did nothing of the sort. You see much, child, and you understand. It was not without reason that I used the name your father gave you."
Lómion tilts his head. "Most people refrain from using it for that reason alone."
"The people who claim to shield you from the shadow of your father's name are the very people who cast it above you. Aye, you are still young: yet old enough not to care what others think about things you cannot change. Eöl is your father – and Eöl was cast down from the Morikirya in great shame. You, however, are not him, and his fate is not yours; not unless you make it yours."
"I do not feel like the master of my fate," says Lómion. "Do you?"
The Counsellor laughs; and his answer is lost somewhere between assumption and premonition.
Morikirya ['dark-teeth'] is a Quenya translation for Caragdûr ['dark-spike'], just for fun. I don't actually think anyone would use the name, but we're in a "superfluous" companion story, so why not?
You have reached the end of this small companion piece.
The Before- and the Afterwards can be Witnessed and Deducted by reading my 'The Seven Gates' .