Decided to split the chapter into 2 or perhaps 3. Sorry for the delay, it just kept growing on me.
The Little Prince
In the First Age, year 503, I was born a prince in Gondolin - a city of white marble buildings over which my grandfather reigned as High King of the Noldor. My naneth was his only child, and still is. Being her darling son, I was the pampered prince. Needless to say, my early boyhood was spent in blissful innocence of the evil that lurked outside our White City. Of my earliest days, I recall my golden-haired Nana as an ethereally beautiful and gentle presence. That is not to say that she was a fragile damsel in need of protection. She was wise in some ways, and wilful in others.
She loved to dance and sing. She was all flashing feet and swirling silks, a heady mix of birdsong and the scent of roses followed her as she spun and laughed at our games in our jewel of a courtyard in the House of the Wing. Only much later would it strike me that her silver feet were not flesh and blood but were crafted by a master-smith to replace what she had lost before the Moon and Sun first rose.
My father was mortal and the only being in the city to sport a beard. His facial hair fascinated me as an infant, having seen no other until well after the city fell. His shoulders were broad and his arms strong as he carried me aloft so I might glimpse the Lords of Gondolin in all their glory during the joust. My father was a lord himself, but he did not joust. My naneth refused to allow it. I need not see my Ada wounded the same way Lord Galdor was when he was knocked off his steed.
There were few children my age, elven or otherwise, among the noble houses to be my playmates. Perhaps my grandfather did not deem it fit the offspring of a cook or stable master be the companions of a prince. Grandfather Turgon was stern and distant. It was a rare thing for him to smile, like when I brought him an apple when he came to dine with my parents. Perhaps he had forgotten how. He was so tall and so imposing to a young boy's eye, unlike my uncle.
He was my Nana's cousin. Sadly, his name is now accompanied with a string of expletives and curses, if ever mentioned. He stood a good deal shorter and slighter than any of the other lords. He favoured the shadows and dark garments as bright colours hurt his eyes. He told me he grew up in a dark forest where the sun never really reached through the trees.
He was very clever with his hands and made many toys and ornaments for the court. He was a smith by training. His House was always busy with orders ranging from earrings to swords. His forge was constantly buzzing with activity. Once my nurse brought me to the House of the Mole as she wanted to visit her brother who worked there. I was left in the forge watching Uncle Lomion at work. He made me a small ship with little oars that steered it for my name-day.
On hindsight, I think the louder lords scared him with their rough and tumble games, just as they seemed too imposing to a little boy at times. He preferred to avoid them all and work on his craft. It was magic how he could weave a delicate necklace from mithril or forge a shiny dagger from raw iron. I was too young then to do little more than watch him work, and he would try to explain the processes like quenching and tempering, most of which flew over my too young head. Perhaps if things had gone differently, I might have become a smith instead of a mariner.
The other lords of my grandfather's court were mostly a cheerful bunch. I recall tall Glorfindel with his booming laugh and golden hair. He liked to toss me into the air and catch me in a silly game, sometimes until I became sick and my Nana got mad with him. He was everyone's golden champion at the jousts and cut a fine figure atop on his white steed. There were always ladies swarming about him.
There was his friend Ecthelion with his smiling eyes and silver flute which he made so many beautiful melodies. I still have the flute with me. He gave it to me that fateful dawn to keep safe until after the ceremonies. Perhaps he did so to distract a fretful child. Little did we know it would be one of the few items to spirited away from Gondolin's ruin. I hear Ecthelion has been long reembodied, but I have no leave to return him his flute, being forbidden to set foot on the ground, even if it were Valinor now set apart from Arda.
There was Lord Duilin whose House always put in a strong showing at the archery competitions, next to Lord Egalmoth. We could hear his booming voice from across the Square as he drilled his archers. He promised my Ada to train me once I am old enough to draw a bow, some of which stood as tall as me.
There was Lord Penlod, who visited with his arms full of scrolls at my Nana's behest. He tried to tutor me in mathematics and Quenya but ended up drawing silly sketches to make his student laugh. At four, I was far too young for the schoolroom in his opinion due to my Mannish blood despite my Nana's insistence otherwise. I recall having to trace out the runes on a slate until she was satisfied.
Lord Rog was rough about the edges but soft-hearted. He sneaked me a candy apple at the fair once despite my Nana forbidding me any sweets after I broke a window that morning with my ball. I was not allowed to kick balls inside the King's Hall. In my childish memories the sun always shone, and they always had a smile for a little prince.
Perhaps they never lived through the loss of almost everything they held dear, unlike Lords Galdor and Egalmoth. If they ever pampered a spoilt little prince or played silly games with me for my amusement, the memories were long overshadowed by the harshness of our life at the mouths of the Sirion. I can barely recall them wearing the bold and bright colours so favoured by my grandfather's court. Garbed in deep green, Lord Galdor and his men stalked cat-like in the darkness ahead as we fled the flames behind us. Together with Glorfindel, Egalmoth guarded the rear to protect any stragglers. I recall that his arm looked wrong in the flickering light. He never wielded a bow again in Beleriand.
There were the ghosts too, both literal and figurative – relatives who lived Outside or had fallen and were hopefully in Mandos. These my mother spoke of in hushed tones as I sat on her lap on rainy nights. She spoke of my grandmother, who drowned before the Moon rose. Her aunt of the dark hair and bold eyes, who stalked the forests alone without fear. She died too. Of my Mannish forebears, my Ada was not inclined to speak of them, though I once heard from my uncle that my Ada's own father and uncle dwelled in Gondolin for a time. They fell in battle fighting a great evil and protecting the King, my grandfather after Granduncle Fingon was slain. Nana spoke fondly of her Uncles Fingon and Argon, and her grandfather Fingolfin, all of whom never set foot in Gondolin before passing into Mandos.
There were others who still lived and walked in flesh, though not of the House of Fingolfin. Nana spoke in fear and awe of the wild Feanorions, one of whom had survived the horrors of Angband. The same House had two of the best smiths in all Elfdom. There was the Lady Galadriel too, a mysterious elleth who forsook the ways of the Noldor for love of a Sinda princeling. I would meet the formidable lady later in my young life.
On dark, storm-blasted nights, my boyish imagination would paint the ghoulish mirages of my departed relations. Great-grandfather watched over the city from atop the cairn where his bones lay buried. Grandmother Elenwe dripped sea water as she crossed the square to grandfather's house on silent feet. My granduncles and aunt rode through the city on ghostly steeds of misty grey. Somewhere in the hills, my Mannish grandfather and granduncle cursed Morgoth and shouted their defiance over the thunder.
A week before the city fell, there was a tremendous storm. The Great Eagles were scattered by the wild winds. I fancied I saw the ghosts again and heard their whispered warnings. If I told my nurse, she would have told me it was nothing but too much cake before bedtime and such thoughts were blasphemous as all souls, Elvish or otherwise, were safely gathered into the bosom of Mandos for judgement. This was the teaching of the Valar that guided our lives. I never really thought to question her or warn my parents of the ghosts' warning. How could I tell them that I dreamt of Grandmother Elenwe at the foot of my bed warning me to beware?
Author's Notes:
Earendil was six when Gondolin fell. He has some memories and happy ones too, but not as many as he would make later in life. About them ghosts, it's just too many sweets before bed, Earendil. Decided to run along with the less sinister version of Maeglin before Pengolodh started writing his histories of the fall of Gondolin.