Húrin
The dawn has not yet broken over the gilded prison that is this city when the knocks come, pulling me from the confusing swirls of colour and sound that serve as my dreamscape. For a long moment, I consider simply ignoring the knocker – these so-called hospitable elves have all but imprisoned my brother and I; do they truly deserve any courtesy? – yet the thought of my father's disapproval prompts my eyes to open. I am a son of a noble house: no matter what the circumstance, I have the reputation of Marach and his sons to uphold.
Huor is still deeply asleep as I leave the warm confines of my bed, wondering at the softness of the linens. Not even the finest weavers of the edain could produce a fabric worth comparison. I quickly make for the closest wardrobe, find it, as usual, hung full of garments that no doubt fit my form to perfection. I choose the first item that comes to hand – a robe of deep blue, as finely woven as my bed sheets – and hurriedly knot the sash around my waist before checking myself in the ornate mirror on the opposite wall. Suitably presentable, I think.
My brother and I have been given large chambers, comfortably furnished yet impersonal, intended for guests. No doubt we shall be referred to as such, as if our tenure in the Hidden Realm is temporary. We each now have a private office and bed chamber of our own, with additional rooms for living and dining and washing to share. Incomparable to our previous shack in Brethil.
If there is any positive outcome from this disastrous situation, it is the promise of a lifetime without war or danger. No army could lay siege to Turgon's kingdom with any chance of success; how could it, with Gondolin's location a secret and no knowledge of the landscape or city? Here, we shall be safe. Here, there is no chance of losing Huor to anything other than the natural end faced by our people. Why, then, do I feel this to be the wrong path? Here, I cannot fight for the lands and people I love so dearly. Here, I cannot take a wife and sire children. Here, I am little more than a coward.
Today marks seven days since our arrival here. (Just seven days, and already I am restless.) I briefly run a jeweled comb through my hair, then slip out the door. As every day, I find Huor loitering outside, awaiting me, with that same sad, drawn expression on his young face.
"Good morning," I say with false cheer, as we turn down the passage toward the dining hall. Sunbeams begin already to pour through the wide windows, golden with what should be the promise of a new day. A few clouds streak the rosy sky, the sky gradually growing blue for yet anotherpleasant day.
"Good morning," Huor returns at length. We walk several more paces in silence before he speaks up once more. "I dreamed of home again last night. It's always the same, Húrin; Mother always weeping, Father always silent. I'm standing in their midst, but I cannot be seen. I cry out to them, but my tongue sticks in my throat." His voice remains low and steady for his tale's duration, betrays neither fear nor grief, only quiet sorrow, congealing into despair. "Will I ever cease to be homesick?"
My eyes dart to the argent floor beneath my feet. My blood pounds for several moments, but I manage to smother my rage toward our elvish captors. "Not until-" I begin to respond. Not until this is home.But I swallow the hopeless words. This will never be home; neither of us want it to be.
"Perhaps it will subside with time." I offer him a smile. "I remember how homesick we both were when first we arrived in Brethil. After three days, we were prepared to return to Dor-lomin, but in time, things grew better." I cease the petty words and shake my head. "I fear the only comfort I can give is that perhaps, one day, we will no longer feel."
"Feel homesick, Húrin?" His reply is cautious, gingerly. "Or angry?"
He is keen. I suppose it must surprise him to hear such bitterness in my voice, the jovial Húrin's voice. (I am surprised myself.) "Both alike, brother," I answer, attempting a sad smile, suddenly inhaling the aroma of an elvish breakfast. We now steadily near the dining hall; I can make out the hum of conversation, echoing off its cavernous ceiling.
"Yet," I continue, at once inspired, "our feelings should not dictate our manner here. We must act as representatives of our House."
"Of course," Huor agrees. "Besides, we will only be the more unhappy if our hosts dislike us, I imagine."
My smile this time is genuine. "Wise words, Huor." As I speak, the lofty doors of the dining hall suddenly gape before us. "I wonder what their plans for us are today."
The dining hall echoes with the chatter of the gathered lords and ladies. Upon our entrance, the noise subsides somewhat, and King Turgon stands to greet us. His words of welcome – identical to those spoken the previous morn, and the one before that – lack any emotional inflection.
Siniath – the servant tasked with attending to even the smallest of our needs (and it was indeed him who had woken us this morn with his customary knocking) – leads us to seats on the high table.
Due to both casual observation and careful question, I have gathered that the morning and midday meals are open to any member of the upper classes, whilst the evening dinner is reserved for those with King Turgon's personal invitation. The working and middle classes are not excluded either, unlike in most mortal gatherings: a form of rotational system allows every citizen to dine with the lords and ladies.
It is interesting how such an arrangement impacts the relationship between the Court and the Commons. The relaxed manner of dining, the ease of conversation between Lords and farmers... It unnerves me. Haldir, Lord of Brethil and foster-father to my brother and I, always maintained that there should be a marked distance between the upper and common classes. 'The men must respect us, child, remember that. How can they respect a Lord who associates with the soldiers and drunkards alike?'
Yet here there seems to be no such worries over respect. The chiefs of the Houses share the dais with the King during the meal itself; however, I have no doubt they will mingle freely once the plates have been removed. 'Have they no trouble with disrespect?' I wonder. 'Not that contempt in the barracks would cause much strife: these elves have not fought since theDagor Aglareb!'
"You seem a trifle perplexed, Lord Húrin. Might I be of assistance?" It is the lord to my right that has spoken, an elf in rich green, a tree embroidered on his tunic: Lord Galdor. His face is familiar; he more than any other has strived to raise a hand of friendship, conversing with my brother and I when any opportunity arises.
I summarise my thoughts for him, careful to sound more curious than critical: I am, after all, representing my people, and surrounded by people happily using a system I find fault in.
He mulls over my words in the manner one would deliberate a curious wine. Finally, he speaks; "I understand your confusion, my Lord. Our system of social interaction would seem strange to you, as indeed yours does to us. I see the wisdom in your words, though I am afraid you must judge by different standards in Gondolin.
"Social standing is less important to elves than it is to Men; even interactions in Tirion – a haven for lovers of formality – are laxer than you would expect. Moreover, as a consequence of our extended life span and the close quarters within the city, most people are on good terms with the entire population. Is it not better to form friendships now, when at any moment our home could be overrun by the enemy?"
"I suppose that is reasonable," I answer him, forcing my lips into an ambiguous smile. The principle makes sense, yet it still seems to me inappropriate, somehow. And overrun by the enemy?That hardly seems true of this impregnable city. Nevertheless, though, I strive for a clever reply, "And such friendships would certainly reduce political friction, as well."
Galdor's brow furrows, for but a moment. "Yes..." he says, tone detached, even puzzled. "Yes, if friction should ever arise among us."
The Elves may be peaceful, but surely he does not mean... "Do the Eldar then never suffer disputes of policy, leadership?"
Galdor's ready smile returns. "Not frequently- though certainly you have heard the tale of Finwë's sons? But not here, not in Gondolin."
"Because you are all such dear friends, right?" My grin is probably mischievous, but it suits a conversation with Galdor. Perhaps it is simply because he shares my father's name, but I find it easy to share a laugh with him. Other lords, however, may not take as well to a jest.
"You are quick for a mortal," he replies, smirking somehow congenially. Lord Salgant, who sits to his right, half-hidden behind the hill called Breakfast on his plate, shoots Galdor an odd look- odd, but swift- beneath his slender brows.
"I thank you, Lord Galdor," I rejoin with a similar smirk and a brief, jocular bow of my head. Quick to include Huor, who sits tamely nibbling a pastry, I add, "I can only hope my brother will learn from my wise manner."
Huor snorts and smiles toothily, looking up from his plate to respond, "What a marvelous teacher youwould be."
"Better than some, better than some," I answer lightly, returning my eyes to my own plate and taking a bite of some sort of pork.
I savour the brown meat, crispy yet tender, perfectly salted; if only war-torn Brethil could offer such delicacies... No.Brethil offers freedom, the choicest of all provender. This city cannot do so, and by its nature, never shall. Soon aware that I frown, I take another bite of meat, mounting my features into the easy mask of satisfaction.
Several silent moments pass, ere being broken by the King's voice, resounding Huor's and my direction over but a few seats. "My good guests, what know you twain of swordplay?"
"Much, my lord!" Huor replies before I can swallow my bite or compose a more intelligent answer. "Our father and uncle have instructed us well, and we have done battle with Orcs a score of times."
A score, brother?My thought labels the exaggeration, but I keep silent. Perhaps King Turgon will recognize hyperbole, as well.
"Then you are, perhaps, warriors seasoned to spar with the trainers and swordsmen of my court today?" answers the King, eyes shining with kindness- and a hint of amusement.
"We would be honored, my lord," I reply (I hope) gracefully, inflecting my voice with the slightest edge of surprise. I bite back a joke; I cannot say whether Turgon would laugh or take offense at a remark about his men losing to Huor and myself.
"Then I myself will escort you to our training courts as soon as you have finished your meal." By the tone of his voice, my words have pleased him. I myself am pleased: King Turgon, I have learnt, is difficult to read at even the best of times. Hopefully, my gradually improving ability to read faces signifies a greater mastery of political subtlety, a skill useful to any who spend time in a royal court, especially a court of elves, where faces are not so easy to read.
Huor finishes eating long before the majority of the high table, positively bouncing in excitement. Only in the last year has he been allowed to train with a full length blade; before he was limited to knives and short swords, often wooden, not metal. The prospect of training alone is enough to inspire joy. The prospect of training with the elves – famed masters of blade and bow – has him chattering enthusiastically to Lord Glorfindel, who does not try to hide his amusement.
Soon enough – though I imagine it feels like an age to Huor – Turgon rises and departs the High Table, followed by the majority of the lords. Huor skips alongside the Lords Glorfindel and Ecthelion, taking three steps for every one of their long paces. I fall into step with Galdor, who is conversing amiably with Lord Salgant. I have found myself coming to like the pair, to my initial surprise; both seem to be genuinely interested in my brother and I, and the life we shared in Brethil.
"You must be skilled indeed to face orcs a score of times with such tender ages, Lord Húrin," Lord Salgant comments.
"Unfortunately, Huor has allowed pride to overshadow truth; we have not seen half as many orcs as he claims," I reply lightly, thinking of the few skirmishes we have witnessed. In truth, the men from Brethil generally kept us as far from any real fighting as possible. The skirmish which led us to this city was only our third.
"He fooled none," said Galdor, with an easy smile. "Lord Huor's enthusiasm is – although charming – not enough to persuade any to believe he is a seasoned warrior. It is in direct contrast, I believe. No tested soldier would be so joyous at the thought of battle."
"You seem to have forgotten Glorfindel, Galdor. He still retains his childhood eagerness for everything from training to paperwork. He even feels enthusiasm for the Night Watch!" Salgant snorts, his eyes focused disparagingly on the golden haired lord ahead.
"Is it not better for Lord Glorfindel's spirits to remain high than low?" I ask, the eyes of both elves turning to me. "In such dark times, hope must be cherished in whatever form it appears, after all."
"Wise words, Lord Húrin. To let fear rage rampant would be the first step on the path to darkness," Galdor replies.
"I do not doubt that," Salgant responds, "Yet I must ask; would it not be more prudent for Glorfindel to show even a glimpse of solemnity, considering the dangers we may well be facing?" He gives Galdor a significant look.
The other elf's lips crinkle into the semblance of a smile. "So one would think," answers Galdor, as we round a corner in the direction of Turgon's training courtyards. "Yet I suppose some of us bear solemnity enough for us all; perhaps Glorfindel can bear all our joviality."
"Such a drudgery must be forced on someone, I suppose," I put in mischievously, tone waxing pensive as I add, "And often it was I, before..." I leave the phrase hanging; I've stumbled. Expressing my true feelings about our sentence here in Gondolin has never been my intention.
"Before your coming here, you would say?" probes Salgant. His voice is concerned and patient, yet somehow dark. Why should it not be? I have just come within a hair's breadth of insulting his beloved city; in his place I, too, would take umbrage.
Fortunately, Galdor speaks up before I can piece together a fitting sidestep in reply. "I am sure the adjustment to life in Gondolin has not been easy for yourself and Huor; it was a challenge for many of us. Faring free one moment, then bound, hiding, to the city's borders the next... It was a necessary evil."
"And not all could abide it, being caged like a bird with clipped wings," adds Salgant, gaze flitting enigmatically toward the dark, slender form of Lord Maeglin, walking several paces ahead of us.
Before I can inquire as to Salgant's meaning, however, I find that we have reached the edge of the palace. By now the sun has risen upon Gondolin; its yellow light illumines the hall, as it rushes into the citadel through a row of floor-to-ceiling windows, with a set of double doors in their midst.
Our group of companions for the day files out in ones and twos: Turgon, Maeglin, Glorfindel and Ecthelion (with Huor babbling between them), then Salgant and Galdor; myself, I am last. When the elves begin slipping off their heavy outer robes to reveal light tunics better for fighting, Huor and I follow suit. The airy undergarments are a natural choice for nimble movements.
"What a comely day we have," announces Glorfindel, facing Huor, "to paint this fine, green grass crimson with blood!"
Huor falters for a moment, pales, eyes widening. Even his recovery gropes for enthusiasm. "Ah yes, er, all right, my lord..."
Glorfindel wiggles an eyebrow, then a grin bursts onto his face, and he begins to laugh, a sound like a waterfall, strong but somehow fair. Ecthelion joins him wearily.
"Fear not, Lord Huor," says the Lord of the Fountain. "Glorfindel exaggerates all our skill. The last time any blood was spilled here..."
"Was last month when I so gloriously beheaded those previous mortal guests..." That cheeky grin hasn't left Glorfindel's face. "May Námo guard their fragile souls."
"Well, Glorfindel, are younot terribly comforting?" puts in Galdor from beside me, a smile toying with his own lips.
"Nay, it will take more than that to cow our sturdy guests!" returns Glorfindel.
"Let us put that to the test," Turgon declares from the outskirts of what has become our cluster on the manicured lawn. It is fenced in on all sides by the white marble of all the city, and now, Turgon indicates a rack of weapons (swords, daggers, bows, axes, lances...) of all sizes beneath a wide stone awning. "My Councilmen, perhaps, already wear their blades, but Húrin, Huor, you twain may take your pick."
My own eyes must now be as wide as Huor's as we walk side by side toward the small armoury. In a few steps, we reach it, and Huor's eyes gleam cunningly in the direction of a particularly lengthy sword, its hilt and scabbard jet black but inlaid with argent diamonds.
I raise an eyebrow at him, whispering. "Is it not two-thirds your height?" He rolls his eyes and shifts his gaze across the selection.
"Yes, but one day I'll be tall and strong enough to use a longsword!" His eyes focus on a two-thirds sword with sapphires embedded in the cross-guard. "Maybe I'll be able to beat you!" He adds, picking out the sword and testing its weight.
"Not likely!" I laugh, choosing a hand and a half sword with an emerald fixed to the hilt. I privately marvel at the lightness of the blade; at the balance of it in my hand. I give a few experimental swipes. The air sings as the blade slashes through it. Brethil's blades seem as clumsy as orc-made swords in comparison. "Though preferable, always preferable," I remind myself. "Every notched blade brings us closer to victory; if this sword has seen battle, then I'm a Dwarf."
"Which lucky lord will be granted the honour of single combat with noble Húrin and valiant Huor, I wonder?" Glorfindel asks, teasingly winking at Huor, who flushes scarlet but straightens his shoulders with pride.
"Given how eager you are to paint the grass with blood, Glorfindel, I advise you duel one with more experience than Lords Húrin and Huor. Ecthelion, perhaps?" Turgon suggests. "As for the young lords... Fairion? Rog?" The selected pair step forward, deducing how much of a threat we may pose in an almost painfully familiar manner. We are – were – taught to do the same in our lessons in Brethil.
Fairion, another kind face to my brother and I, ties back his hair and sends Huor a small smile. "Shall we duel, young Huor?"
Huor puzzles momentarily over a witty response, but his enthusiasm wins, prompting laughter from the gathered audience. "Yes please!" He takes up his stance, falling into his training mindset. All traces of enthusiasm vanish. It is quite disconcerting to see his young face so serious. If only...
"Ready, Lord Húrin?" Rog asks, bringing my mind back to my waiting partner. His hand rests casually on the handle of his mace; his scars ripple as his eyebrows rise.
"Yes," I answer, and my vision tunnels. Gone are the watching crowd. Gone are the clashes of sword against sword as Huor duels Fairion. Gone are the calculating eyes of Turgon. All that remains are Rog and I, the mace and the sword.
Rog's first strike is like lightning, forcing me to fling myself to the ground to avoid injury; I roll, land on my feet and leap up, bringing my sword round in a wide arc. Rog lashes out with his mace: the chain tangles around my blade. I drop to my knees and yank down with all my strength; caught off guard, Rog falls forward, unbalanced, but his elven grace prevents him from tripping over my crouched form, as I'd planned. Instead he spins on his toes and pulls his mace free; I jump to my feet and back away two paces.
I take a step to my left; he moves right. We circle each other, eyes narrowed, bodies taut as bow strings. He is faster, stronger, more agile: he will undoubtedly win this duel. All that is left to be decided is how long it will be until I give up the fight. Unless...
I just might pull this off, but my acting has to be impeccable. I furrow my eyebrows momentarily, flex my fingers and take a breath, as if preparing for a strike. My knees tense. His face twitches momentarily: he believes! I launch myself forward, as if tired of the waiting game and he instantly brings his mace swinging down in retaliation – for a blow that isn't there.
As soon as he goes to strike, I twist out of the way and land to his left, bringing my sword down on the handle of his mace, which is wrenched from his grip. It hits the ground with a dull thud; I bring my sword to his throat; his astonished gaze meets my steady one.
"I win," I say lightly, sheathing the sword.
~oOo~
Maeglin
My spar with Salgant is a pantomime, a translucent ruse that lets us watch the mortals from the corners of our eyes. I bang my sword against the harpist's in an effortless rhythm; there is no struggle here.
Splitting my gaze between the mortals' duels and my companion's rotund face, I note the horror (and the shame and the pathetic fear) in Salgant's features as Húrin flings the mace from Rog's grip. The harpist's eyes flit toward mine, begging attention, practically shouting. Words like these: Didyouseethatdidyouseethat? I told you. I told you we had reason to fear them. Whatdowedowhatdowedowhatdowe-Fool.
Our swords clash to form a silver angle, fall to our sides, are lifted for another false blow. I avert my gaze from his purposefully, dispassionately. Salgant, you mewling idiot.The mortals are no threat to us within the city walls; Hurin's swordplay is unimpressive. He beat Rog,for Elbereth's sake, Rog who (for all his resilient courage) is (Shall we say?) more muscle than mind.
Another silver clang. On my other side, Huor and Fairion's supposed duel has turned into more of a primer on basic elvish battle tactics. It's just as well. Even Iwould hate to see the boy's spirits crushed by the Lord's skill.
"The first step I always take," I hear Fairion gush between sword-bangs, "is to quickly analyze my enemy. Within a few parries, I can determine who he is, many of his strengths, and most importantly, his main weaknesses."
I think Salgant's campaign is like swordplay (against a feeble foe). Now we assess our two enemies; I wonder if Salgant fathoms we will strike.
Our swords collide, silver, sunlight flashing off their intersection. I watch the grass, feel a breeze brush my face. To my right Húrin takes on Glorfindel.
"Ah, to have beaten the formidable Lord Rog, you must have some small merit with a blade." A glance reveals Glorfindel cutting a teasing glance at Rog, who hefts his mace over a meaty shoulder and meets the eyes of Turgon himself. "However, Lord Húrin, the most heinous fate that can befall a warrior is a surplus of pride..."
"So you're planning to humble me, then?" I can hear the smile stretching Húrin's tone.
Salgant's sword bashes mine with a clang. He's growing slower, arm likely tiring out, but he is stubborn. There (if only there) we are alike. Húrin and Glorfindel have begun to duel; I hear their laughter, the clinks and swishes of their swords.
"Lord Maeglin, may I?" Galdor's voice resounds from behind me.
"Fight-" And I inflect the falseness of our spar into my voice, smiling somewhat mischievously. "-Salgant? Be my guest." I step backward, indicate the harpist with my blade. Salgant's breathing is slightly labored.
I sheathe my sword, move away, gaze flitting between the sparring pairs. My uncle has beaten Rog, it would seem, though to be fair, it is difficult to fight with a mace without intending to kill your opponent. I smile and begin walking in Fairion and Huor's direction. Judging by their matching grins, this duel may or may not be helpful to Salgant's interrogation project.
"You see, if you angle your blade thusly" – Fairion demonstrates with a twirl of his sword – "and apply a moderate amount of force" – he brings down his blade with exaggerated slowness – "you can disarm your opponent in a manner both skilful and efficient."
Huor practically glows with excitement as he attempts the motions, clumsily at first, yet steadily improving; despite lacking Húrin's apparent natural proficiency for sword craft, Huor is a talented young swordsman. I say as much to him – omitting Húrin's superiority, naturally – and he blushes with pride.
"Thank you! I've wanted to be a swordsman since before I can remember!"
A time before memory... An odd concept. My own stretches back far further, it seems. Mother explained to me the limitations of a mortal's memory, of course, when describing the weaknesses of mortals; her tutelage on the subject was most instructive. Still, the thought of not recalling one's own birth must be quite disconcerting: how are you to know the path your future lies upon if you do not understand your beginning? Fortunately, I have perfect recollection of my own delivery.
"I do not doubt your eventual mastery of swordcraft, young Huor," Fairion declars solemnly. "Perhaps you would honour Maeglin with a spar?"
I wish to protest. I had intended to liaise with both my uncle and Galdor to discuss the edain's aptitude with their blades and the risk they are now proven to pose. Not to one such as I, naturally, but to a civilian these mortals could cause serious injury. I also itch to chastise Fairion for his slip of the tongue – I am to be known as Prince Maeglin to the edain – yet I cannot publically reprimand Fairion. We must present ourselves as undivided.
However, I cannot bring myself to crush Huor's joyous expression. The child beams at the suggestion, giving an elaborate bow before cheerfully asking for the honour to duel. He even remembers to address me as Prince.
I raise my blade; we spar. Huor puts up a gallant fight, attempting several of Fairion's teachings, though even his enthusiasm cannot hide his growing weariness: he is only a child, after all. His blows grow slightly clumsy; I pretend to fight as though he was truly besting me to spare any embarrassment for his lesser endurance. I end the duel, however, before he can realise. It would be cruel to let him push himself any further.
I use the same disarming method as taught by Fairion. Huor looks highly disappointed, though I do detect a trace of relief. Duelling two fully grown elves must truly have exhausted him.
From over Huor's shoulder, I notice my uncle, the King, approaching. He is examining Huor with renewed interest. A pleasant sight: he will obviously welcome the scrutiny I and my fellow watchers have placed the mortals under.
"An engaging fight," Turgon praises, lips twitching into a rare half-smile as Huor – already flushed with exertion – turns scarlet.
"Thank you! Prince Maeglin is a challenging opponent, but I did try my hardest, milord," Huor says, glowing.
"At this rate you'll best us all before very long." Fairion's genuine smile might make for an intriguing perspective whenever our concerned group meets again.
I notice Salgant, eager for eye contact; he surely wants to discuss the mortals' apparent swordplay gifting at this very moment. However, we've scarcely been in the courtyard an hour; Turgon might find it odd for a group of us to leave so suddenly, so soon. I love my uncle dearly, but it might be best he not know a third of his Council is presently acting to question his decision. We'll stagger our exit-
"My lord-" Salgant's voice is as sugary as a basket of pastries. "-I fear I must take my leave of here. I have some pressing documents to attend to for my guard." The pointed glance he tosses between Fairion, Galdor, and myself could never be mistaken for subtle.
"Then I hope a morning of exercise has given you energy for the task," returns Turgon kindly, then grants permission that went unrequested: "You are dismissed, Salgant."
"Thank you, my lord." Salgant's tone is somewhat strained; he tosses looks over his shoulder again as he heads to put on his outer robe.
I look away in favor of strategy; Fairion, however, turns back to Huor with an earnest smile; Galdor looks on inquistively, idly fidgeting with the haft of his spear before returning to practice. I walk a few yards to join him in front of three blue and yellow targets. Casually drawing a throwing-knife, I toss it toward one of the bull's eyes. It lands inches outside the azure circle.
"When are you planning to leave as Salgant did?" Galdor's voice is low but pleasant.
"Not for a while yet," I answer. "I hate to go so soon." It's true of its own right-I do enjoy the Sun on my face-but Galdor's nod assures me he gathers my other motive for lingering, as well.
It might be difficult to interrupt Fairion (and Huor) at the moment, so I remain by Galdor, tossing and retrieving my daggers in silence as he launches his massive spear until surely he must tire of walking to remove it.
I am in no hurry to go inside for Salgant's nervous ramblings. The mortals' level of ability is worth noting, but an immediate discussion of it is futile. What good is talk when we cannot act? Nay, the best course is to observe, for now.
An easy ambience settles over our training ground. It is a relief to shed oneself of the rigidness of courtly decorum; to give in to the urge to feel the sun on one's face and the strength of our limbs. Ecthelion and Glorfindel now spar, spear against sword, trading mischievous comments with each blow. Nearby, Rog and Eglamoth duel, the chain of Rog's mace locked around the curve of Egalmoth's sword. Other lords assemble themselves around the range of training areas, enjoying the opportunity to relax from the trials of lordship.
My uncle is still engaged in conversation with Fairion and young Huor, though neither he nor Fairion seem to be expressing more than the odd word or phrase, as exhaustion has not lessened Huor's ability to chatter almost non-stop. If he were not a child, I fear Turgon would take offence. However, the King looks distinctly amused rather than irritated, even giving a small smile as Huor stops mid-flow to take a huge breath before continuing, just as fast as before. It is a rare sight. Since the death of my grandfather, the High King, scarcely two years ago, Turgon has been more wraith than elf. It has only been in this last week, since the arrival of the mortals, uncle has begun to show signs of recovery. If he were any other, the population of the city would be grant the boy his every whim (undoubtedly, the chance to leave our hidden home) for helping our King. If only they were not such a threat!
If only, if only...I sigh inwardly. If only Morgoth were defeated and Ondolindë's gates open to all! If only we had the luxury of trust! Yet we do not. Morgoth's foul influence grows every moment; Ondolindë's gates are bolted shut. We cannot afford to trust. Ondolindë must not fall. These mortals can stay and live and die, but they can never be trusted.
My next knife thuds into the target, a good two inches from the centre. I purse my lips in irritation. I can split an arrow with a throwing axe, yet performing the same action with knives is strangely beyond me. I try again; a fraction closer. I collect my knives slowly from the target, working each blade from its bed of straw. They need sharpening. Perhaps the dullness of the blade helped cause the poor trajectory.
On the far side of the practice grounds, Hurin and Penlod are comparing their defensive techniques, Hurin far more composed than Huor, whose boundless enthusiasm appears to be causing even Fairion – father to a young boy – slight astonishment. Galdor continues his practicing somewhere to my right, the rhythmic thump of his spear hitting the target mixing with the clash of Ecthelion and Glorfindel's blades to create an odd, yet slightly comforting song. The lords of Gondolin dance with their weapons held high, sword, spear and mace glinting in the morning light and I feel hope. We are strong. Despite the danger the mortal pair have brought to our beloved city, we are strong. The city shall prevail.