Turgon
"I see Pengolodh has been teaching you well." I've stopped by the library in late afternoon, peered over Húrin's shoulder at the neat rows of tengwar blazoned in Quenya mode (vowels shifted northwest) across his sheet of parchment.
The youth's face pivots abruptly upward; I must have startled him. "Certainly, my lord." His eyes sparkle briefly, then cloud over. "Though at the moment my assignment is slightly difficult. Huor gave up on it entirely perhaps an hour ago."
My lips crinkle into a smile. "In that case, I commend your sedulousness, Húrin." He accepts the compliment with a humble bow of the head. "And the shape of your letters, as well!" I add, noting with surprise the delicate black edges of his letters' stems, the perfect black curves of their bows. "If only mine had looked half so fair when I was first learning to write."
Húrin blushes strangely, suddenly, bows his head again, this time with an air of discomfort. "I fear the tengwar are the simple part of this assignment, lord; those we learned as boys in Dorthonion." (I see; his real fear must be of correcting me.) "The Quenya, though... Your father and his people passed little of that to my sire Hador."
"Yet it should not surprise me that they did pass impeccable penmanship." I acknowledge his brave correction without apologizing (for my apparent assumption that the Hildor are entirely illiterate). "I am sure your Quenya will soon be just as flawless."
"I thank you," the youth replies modestly. "If only such mastery required a little less discipline!" He shoots a glance down at his work and the two immense grammatical texts open beside it.
"May I ask what constitutes this particularly challenging assignment?"
A glance of my own at his first three sentences reveals use of words describing the family, at times grammatically awry, but still perfectly intelligible: My father name of him Galdor man noble and brave. Hair him golden like brother Huor and me. My mother name of her Hareth beautiful and kind have brown hair. It strikes me suddenly (in a rare moment of remembering he was my kinsman before he was a madman) how Fëanáro would be appalled.
"Huor and I are both to write a description of our family to practice describing people and talking about relationships. The problem is that we have a very large family, and on top of that I neglected to write down nearly everything Pengolodh said about the grammar we need..."
"I'm sure it will please him you are making the effort to study it on your own, then," I assure him. "I know he must tutor many Noldorin children in the city who would not trouble themselves with that."
Húrin chuckles. "He himself says much the same! He says even Huor is far more dedicated than the Noldorin children whose parents are forcing them to learn Quenya. I suppose anything loses its magic under complete duress."
An intriguing choice of words-one that might reveal the emotions under Húrin's unflagging etiquette, the answer to the query that has pestered me as I know him better: Are you happy here?
Selecting my tone with caution, I dare to probe, "You enjoy studying it, then?" I doubt he will be honest. Húrin, as I have learned quickly in the month since his sudden arrival, takes pride in his diplomatic mannerisms and opinions. It brings me unanticipated sadness to see such seriousness in a child as young as Húrin; memories rise unbidden of my Idril as a child, forced to forgo her natural happiness for the solemn formality of courtly events.
"Indeed, sire, and I believe my enjoyment shall increase when I achieve a greater mastery of the language," Húrin responds, promptly confirming my suspicions. His eyes flicker briefly between myself and the door, no doubt wondering if I am planning to take my leave. I, however, seat myself. It is my duty, as both a sovereign and a person, to build a relationship with my guest.
"I am sure such mastery will develop quickly, given your dedication. You work is already quite legible," I praise, reading again his basic descriptions. "Are you much like your father?"
Húrin's face creases momentarily with longing; he misses his father. Of course. Briefly, I feel a surge of annoyance, anger even. At least Húrin has the comfort of knowing his father still lives. Yet I control my grief, a task made easy by months upon months of practice. It is not the child's fault. And, really, what difference is there? Neither I nor Húrin will meet our respective fathers until the world's end.
"In face, yes, sire," Húrin replies, seemingly unaware of my fleeting inner turmoil, "though in stature and temperament I take more after my mother and the people of Haleth." He gazes sadly at the neat tengwar script: My mother name of her Hareth beautiful and kind have brown hair.
"I must confess I have not had the pleasure of meeting the people of Haleth. Does their bearing differ greatly from your father's house?" I ask, genuinely interested in his response. I, like all but the most xenophobic of my people, long for any information of the world outside Ondolindë.
Húrin slowly cleans his quill of ink, considering his answer. "To the elves, I suppose, there would be few noticeable differences between our peoples… However, for mortals, we are almost entirely different races. The Halethrim are dark where Hador's Folk are fair, broad where they are slim. They are more inclined to solitude and silence, whilst the people of Hador are joyous and outgoing…" Húrin trailed off, lost in thought.
"The Haleth are to the Hador as the Sindar are to the Vanyar," I summarise.
Húrin mulls this over, then, with a faint blush, admits, "I am unfamiliar with the term 'Vanyar', sire."
I laugh, attempting to make Húrin feel more at ease. "Do not fret, young Húrin. The Vanyar are one of the three main clans of the Elves. They are mostly unknown to the mortal races, as no full-blooded Vanyar took the journey to Beleriand." Though one almost did, I think. Oh, Elenwë. Again, I summon my self-control lest I totally lose myself to grief. "I must now admit to a regrettable ignorance also; I myself am unfamiliar with the term 'Hador'. I believed you to be of the House of Marach."
"Hador and Marach are one and the same," Húrin explains, his blush now fading. "Originally, our house was named for Marach, who led our people out of darkness and over the Ered Luin. However, the house was named again to honour my grandfather, Hador, as he was the first ruler of our realm, Dor-lómin."
"A worthy vassal, it sounds, for my brother Fingon and our father Fingolfin before him," I answer, smiling gently. "And now Hador's line finds a place here in Ondolinde; our houses, it would seem, are bound."
For now I mention nothing of Ulmo's counsel (the dream of the still, black sea; stars and stars reflected in its abyss; the Vala's voice-out of deep wells, far away-speaking the name of Hador). My hospitality does have other roots than this.
"It is an honour," Hurin replies, quicker than my reflections. He bows his head politely, glances uncomfortably at his studies once more.
"Your people certainly teach courtesy." Better than some Noldor do, I refrain from adding. Family politics are not quite the conversation material I need.
"Thank you, my lord. We learned much of it from the Eldar, of course, and Huor and I have been instructed in the customs of both Hador and the Halethrim. That is why we were in Brethil..." He trails off suddenly- "before our coming here."
"That is greatly to be admired." I purse my lips in the moment of silence that follows (the moment before Hurin can nod and thank me once more), then probe for another genuine answer. "Do you miss your home, Hurin?"
He twists his quill in the inkwell, stirs and stirs and stirs. He cannot lie; he dares not speak the truth. For a moment I regret asking a difficult question whose answer I know. He is unhappy here, yes, but is he afraid? Does he trust me and my people, or does he fear us as captors?
I soften my voice and lean slightly toward him, coaxing. "You may always speak the truth to me...my friend."
He freezes the quill in its pot, looks toward me slowly, calculating. "Yes," he says at last, "yes, I miss Dor-lomin and Brethil alike." Silence catches in his throat.
"As I miss Aman." Without hope. The attempt at empathy is genuine, if only he would see it. I do pity him; I pity that ill fate placed him here, though by it his life was surely saved; I pity that for him and his brother, there can be no returning.
Yet I also count them blessed, alone of mortals to behold Ondolinde. There could exist no better place to spend their days, if only they would see that. (They will not; they are not home.)
"But for you return is completely impossible," he answers, almost too quickly, yet with plodding cadence. "You cannot speak with those who have trapped you far from home, cannot plead leniency from them. They do not speak to you each day and..." His lips snap closed.
"And?" My voice hovers barely above a whisper.
He sets his jaw, swallowing prominently, as if rephrasing his reply. "Remind you of your fate."
"You would be surprised," I reply. "Are not Thorondor and the Windlords and the seven stars of the Valacirca tokens of our doom? Ulmo, too, speaks to us, unable to spare us what must be, but willing to aid us in our exile. Those responsible for our displacement do not wish us ill." I pause briefly. "The same is true for you."
Húrin bites his lip. "Yet, if you but had the chance… Would you not also ask…" He swallows, calling on his courage, and I finally see the depth of his desperation. "Would you not beg for leniency? Would you not…" He trails off, staring at his neat tengwar letters. My father name of him Galdor man noble and brave. Hair him golden like brother Huor and me. My mother name of her Hareth beautiful and kind have brown hair.
I am unused to having my judgment questioned so; for a moment, I feel nothing but indignation. Yet I reign in my initial ire. He is just a child. I rest my hands upon his shoulders lightly and give a gentle squeeze. Húrin slowly looks up, meeting my eyes warily, as if expecting reprimand. If he were not a child, it would certainly be so.
"Húrin," I say quietly, "you are a Lord's son. You are a Lord's heir. From birth you have been taught about what it is to rule. You must cater to all needs, care for all hurts, celebrate all joys. Yet when decisions are made, you must take the path that benefits the majority, for whilst you must heed and protect the voices of the minority-"
"- the greatest good is achieved by bringing happiness to the majority," Húrin finishes. "I… I understand. My father says… said that all the time."
I smile sadly. "As did my brother and my father, and my grandfather before them. It caused me to feel nothing but irritation until I founded Vinyamar and understood the wisdom of the words."
"My father must have heard it on a visit to Mithrim," Húrin muses, "or perhaps it was my grandfather…" He smiles, a quick twitch of the lips. "I, also, found the endless repetition to be irksome."
"It is a curse shared by all parents, I fear, that their children find the useful adages and anecdotes boring, yet the useless - and often embarrassing - ones amusing! Lady Idril, for example, takes great pleasure in recalling what has come to be known as 'my plumbing adventure'."
Húrin laughs. I do not believe I have heard him do so before: the sound is a hopeful sign that he may at last have ceased to regard me as a person to be revered, rather than to be fond of.
"I believe I may have heard that particular story, my Lord! Would that possibly be-"
"Sshh!" I hush him, smiling. "The walls have ears, young Húrin! How could I possibly retain the respect of the people if that story were to be overheard?" We laugh together this time, a joyous sound richened as we catch Pengolodh's surprised expression, approaching Húrin's worktable to discover his King and pupil laughing uproariously. Knowing Pengolodh as I do, the startled scholar would not have registered our laughter until he was within a few feet of Húrin's desk, so intent was he on his manuscript.
"My Lord King," he greets, bowing respectfully. Behind his back, Húrin mimes struggling with a spanner, a fist pressed against his lips to stifle his laughter. Truly, it is worth the humiliation of the story to see Húrin so joyful.
"Lord Húrin," Pengolodh continues, "How goes your study? You have completed your family description, I see." He takes a seat beside Húrin, working his way through the basic Quenya several times, praising and correcting gently in turn. Húrin takes up his quill again and labours quietly, re-writing his basic paragraph so that it becomes more fluid than before.
My father is a man whose name is Galdor. He is noble and brave. He has golden hair like my brother Huor and me. My mother is named Hareth, and she is beautiful and kind. She has brown hair.
It could read more smoothly, but the grammar is now flawless; Pengolodh is the finest of teachers, but Húrin is undeniably a quick study, as well. I notice that his letters take on more rigidity with his tutor over his shoulder.
"Well done," I praise, directing the compliment at both Húrin's revisions and Pengolodh's instruction. "How long before he will be reading Valinórean lays?"
Pengolodh beams. "We have actually begun with just a few; Elemmírë's Odes to Arda are fairly basic in structure, and they certainly add an element of delight and reward to our studies... With this kind of devotion-" Here he indicates his pupil. "-we will be advancing soon."
"I am not surprised to learn it," I respond warmly, then slowly slip my chair backwards and rise, smoothing my robe's blue and silver folds as I do so. "I'll leave the two of you to your books; I fear Maeglin might already be searching for me." I quirk an eyebrow.
"Greet him for me when you return to the throne room," says Pengolodh brightly, then turns briefly to Húrin. "He was a good student much like yourself: dedicated despite arriving suddenly in Ondolindë and beginning his study late."
"Truly?" Húrin's expression displays some unexplained surprise. "I never knew he was your student."
"Oh, yes." Pengolodh nods, then shakes his head emphatically. "But that is another day's story. Now, back to the verbal noun and its plethora of irregularities."
"Enjoy your lesson," I call. "I'm addressing you in Quenya next time, Húrin Galdorion."
"I look forward to it, my lord!" Húrin answers brightly. "And don't damage any pipes in the throne room..."
I emit a facetious sigh, but let my eyes smile. "For you, Húrin, I'll do my best."
With that I turn around fully and stride toward the library's immense double doors, propped open as they always are. Wan sunshine filters in through long windows bookending the corridor into which I emerge. Pengolodh's voice resonates out behind me: "Be sure always to add óre in a personal clause..."
I take a left, toward the throne room, and walk in silence, greeting passing guards with a liegelord's nod. My thoughts are elsewhere, measuring mortal worth in terms of elvish linguistics.
"Where have you been, Uncle?" Maeglin is asking with a mischievous smile. By the vines carved into the columns, I realize I am halfway to my destination.
"Studying," I answer thoughtfully. "I apologize for the disappearance."
~oOo~
Glorfindel
Strolling through the Great Market is like walking through a dream: eerily familiar, yet somehow utterly alien. The market itself is unchanged - crowds of people flock the richly stocked stalls under a ceiling of colourful bunting and a cloudless sky - yet the atmosphere of the place is wholly different. I have the unnerving feeling that my presence has caused this alteration in attitude.
The reaction to my passage is like to a ripple: it spreads outward, disturbing all in its path. Heads turn, whispers and rumours at once begin to circulate. Yet nobody approaches! I take pride in the reputation I have cultivated - Glorfindel, friend and confidant to the people! No worry too small! - for my father instructed me from childhood to be open and caring to all who cross my path. This sudden alienation from the folk I regard as friends is a sharp blow to my ego.
Of course, I do know the cause of this distance between the people and myself. It is the presence of young Húrin and Huor. Though more than a month has passed since their unexpected journey to our hidden city, their story is still the only topic passed along Gondolin's gossip grapevine. It becomes more spectacularly sensational with each retelling - more recent versions the two edain supposedly battled a legion of orcs (commanded by a Balrog of all creatures!) - and so easily holds more interest than rumours of corruption in the city's crockery industry.
Public opinion varies, as it so often does in a city so diverse: some feel curious, some worried, some angry. Most have never set eyes upon a mortal; many fear they bring the taint of Morgoth into the city; a few have expressed true anger that we lords have exposed the people to the danger the mortals may bring. There has been no greater rift between the people and the peers since our city's founding.
However, few people have gathered the courage to ask the lords about the edain. None at all have approached the mortals. It vexes me to no end that people I know to be valiant have let fear of these unknown children cloud their judgement. Thankfully, Morgoth is unlikely to figurehead his armies with barely-pubescent mortals.
"What foul thought so darkens the fair face of Glorfindel?" Ever cheerful, Egalmoth calls out as he approaches through a crowd to my right. The people part as though they were butter and he a hot knife; ironically, however, he is the one dressed like butter, his robes a gloriously bright yellow decorated with swirls of gold thread. Indeed, he could pass as Lord of the Golden Flower whilst I have let my irritation show… Today I have abandoned my usual gold for dove grey. Glorfindel in grey - such a paradox has never been uttered!
"What pleasant thought so brightens the robes of passably-attractive Egalmoth?" I counter, grinning. He laughs and, reaching me, claps his hand on my shoulder.
"Passably attractive? How dare you!" He mock-reprimands, wagging a finger in my face. "I'll have you know, I am considered devilishly attractive amongst all the men and women of this city." He enunciates his point by prodding my nose sharply. "Even the Dwarves have given their compliments! Perhaps it's the Vanyar blood in you that has caused such short-sightedness!"
"Dwarves consider you attractive? Perhaps it's the Vanyar blood in me, but I would consider that an insult!" We laugh together, tension easing from my shoulders.
"Truly, Glorfindel, what bothers you so?" Egalmoth asks, as seriously as it is possible for him to be, with his butter-yellow robes, forest-green tunic and lavender trousers.
I briefly glance around us - as even a fragment of a sentence from my lips could be heard, blossom into yet more fodder for the rumour mill - but my ripple effect has created some privacy for my words. I frown and sigh and begin with a question of my own: "My friend, have you found yourself out of favour with your merry constituents in the past weeks?"
He shuffles in place, and the constant glow of his eager, pleasant face dims for a moment. "On Húrin and Huor's account?" I nod emphatically, and he continues, voice low, "None of the public thinks well of them, but instead of seeking the truth, they seem content to spin yarns in accord only with their own fancies. And they-"
One shopper - of Duilin's House, by her braid and feathers - skirts close to us to avoid a bread cart, smiling shyly as she hurries past. Briefly silenced, we return the expression.
"Shall we meander hence?" I ask Egalmoth; my tone is cheerful, but my gaze is heavy with meaning. "It is little good to converse in the center of the road."
"I quite agree." He grins briefly and strides forward; I fall in step beside him, then turn to him, eager.
"As you were saying, the people...?"
His brow furrows, and his lips curve down into a rainbow's first stripe. "What was I saying?" His lips work soundlessly, and he puckers his eyes. Some muttering follows, and then: "Come now; yes! And my people seem somewhat wary of my involvement with the mortals. Stories interest them more than does truth."
"Well, it does relieve my mind to know they are angry with someone else, as well..." I muse good-humouredly, then channel my free tone into worry's narrow confines. "They are afraid, Egalmoth. It's simple: they fear the stranger on the street and the other side of the fence because they fear the knife in the back and the blow to the head. They fear the unknown because it might be a threat. And as a threat is terribly interesting to discuss, the gossip begins and spreads and grows into a snarling monster that- "
"I understand your point, good bard," my companion placidly interrupts, a grin teasing his lips in answer to my quasi-artistic tirade. "As frightening as your attempts at poetry are, we would have a weapon for change, if only they did not induce bleeding from the ears... But truly, what are we to do about the situation, my friend? Describing it all day will change nothing."
"We must..." I trail off, gaze darting up and down the busy street, both pensive and distracted. "...somehow transform the people's hearts and minds, give them the same trust in the edain that we have ourselves."
"But how?"
"Well," I muse aloud, "why do we feel as we do about Huor and Húrin? Why does the King love them so?"
"Because we all know them?" replies Egalmoth. "Personally know them and have spoken with them and sparred with them and laughed with them..." His eyes at once sparkle with the radiance of realization.
"And if we were to allow our people a similar experience..." I begin.
"...the effect would likely be identical."
"Precisely!" I clap my hands triumphantly, turning a few passing heads. "And has the vibrant Lord Egalmoth any suggestion as to the creation of such an experience? I myself have a few thoughts already..."
Egalmoth tilts his head to the side, considering. "It should not be too obvious…"
"Naturally, my dear."
"Perhaps an event the entire city can celebrate? Or should it focus on a specific branch of society's tree?" He casts his eyes among the crowd, searching for inspiration; they fall upon a group of children racing along a side-street. "An event for adolescents? It would be good for Húrin and Huor to interact with people of a similar… age? Stage of development?" He frowns. "We should create a system of comparing the life cycles of the edain and eldar. The pair are equivalent to… thirty year olds? Forty?"
"Regrettably, I cannot say! Their mortal childhood is paced most strangely; hardly a childhood at all! To think their adulthood begins after only two decades... Incomprehensible!" I shake my head. "Fashioning such a cultural guide is an intriguing idea, though I presume such a reference would prove more interesting than useful; I do not suppose we shall ever meet another mortal for several yéni." I reply, pensively.
"If ever," Egalmoth comments. We share a look, calculating.
"You do not truly believe we shall never again roam the paths of Beleriand as a free people?" I ask.
He hesitates, scrutinising the crowd again for any eavesdroppers, and hastens towards a less crowded alley. I follow, perplexed; Egalmoth is usually the personification of cheer. My only rival, indeed, in terms of joyous attitude. In happier times, we attempted to out-cheer each other, to the great amusement of any bystanders.
In the shade of the alley, he speaks. "In truth, Glorfindel, I sometimes fear we have no hope of roaming Beleriand again, free people or not. I fear Gondolin will longer serve as our home but our grave. I - come now, Glorfindel, you mean to say you have never felt the same?" He accuses sharply, as I almost stumble with shock.
"Passing doubts, certainly, but not such brutal imaginings!" I cry, and cringe as passing heads turn. I lower my voice. "Egalmoth, at what moment did I misconstrue you as a positive person?"
"Does a positive person have to always remain so? Are moments of negativity prohibited, or is it just I that must remain so cheerful?" He retorts.
"Of course not, my friend! Yet you yourself must admit, such a confession is decidedly out of character! Since when have these fears plagued you?" And since when, I silently add, have I failed you as a friend? Since when have I failed to notice your fear?
"In truth, my friend, since the moment the gates of this city were locked." Egalmoth admits. "I cannot help but fear we made a terrible mistake in barricading ourselves into the valley. We cannot hide forever, Glorfindel."
"Nor shall we have to. This darkness cannot - and will not - endure. We shall walk free again, my friend." I pull him into a tight embrace, which he returns almost desperately. When I pull away, sunny Egalmoth is back and the smile he gives me is in somewhat comical in its juxtaposition to his previous solemn moment.
"Thank you for the reassurance, my friend." He murmurs.
"Are you often plagued by such doubts, Egalmoth?" I ask, still unnerved. This serious side to my previously uncomplicated friend is more than a little unsettling: is my blindness towards his fears a one-off misconception or have I shown such neglect to other friends?
"Not often at all! Fear not, Glorfindel, you shall only be troubled by my gloomy worries once every yéni or so!" He laughs and, sensing my continued dissatisfaction, returns the topic to our planned event.
"So what did you think of rallying Húrin and Huor's... peer group (in a manner of speaking) for a party or festival or event of some kind?" he probes, resurrecting the idea that sent our conversation down such a dark path. "They might feel they belong here more if they had friends their own age." He corrects himself: "More or less."
I turn the idea over once in my mind, then give a single, emphatic nod. "They have had sadly few opportunities to interact with our own youth; it must be terribly boring to have only your brother and twelve stuffy lords for company all the time."
"Twelve?" he queries, a mischievous smile crinkling the corners of his lips. "As I'm among the lords, there should only be eleven- Never mind, of course: you're stuffy enough for two, I'm sure."
"Nay, my friend," I lower my voice and rebut, chuckling, "it's Salgant who counts as two."
He emits a burst of laughter, covering his mouth to stifle the sound. "He would have your head for such a jest..."
"Nay, I would say it to his face-and he would laugh, as well!"
"I know that you would, and I only hope that he would..." Egalmoth's smile has yet to disappear, and it stays in place as he re-directs us once more. "So we have agreed to an event for Gondolin's youth?"
"Indeed we have," I answer with enthusiasm, noting that we have passed out of the alley, and are heading in the palace's general direction once more, marked by the stone trees lining the street. "Now we have only to decide-" I tally the unknowns off on my fingers. "-its type, location, date, time, arrangements..."
"That might best be discussed with the Lady Idril," observes Egalmoth.
"Or with the boys themselves..." The thought occurs to me at once.
"No, certainly not!" my friend enjoins. "No one should plan and give his own party-how pitiful! We should mention we are planning it, of course, but we shouldn't consult them about more than which foods to serve, to my mind."
I tilt my head to the side, mulling this over as the citadel comes into view. "I've given parties for myself in the past." He merely looks at me and raises an eyebrow, laughter playing under the line of his lips. "And hordes of people came, too!"
"Because they felt sorry for you," he airily pronounces.
I give a mock sigh and roll my eyes, which are smiling. "Very well, we'll have it your way: food consultation only."
Within fifteen minutes we have ducked into the palace and out of the sunlight through a side door reserved for us Lords and the royal family.
"To see Idril immediately?" I inquire, peering down the dim hall in the direction of her receiving room.
Egalmoth nods. "Provided she has finished with her petitioners for the day."
We clip across the corridor and enter her sunlit private parlor to find that she has, indeed (It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon). The Princess glances up from what must be a letter, a warm but reserved smile stretching her features.
"Greetings, my lords," she says, and sets her pen down to indicate two chairs with plump grey cushions beside her secretary desk. "Sit down, please!" We do so, and her eyes are sparkling. "Why do I suspect there's some mischief afoot?"
"Mischief?" I place a hand on my chest and gasp in mock horror. "From the two of us? You must jest, my lady!"
"I see." She grins outright. "What scheme brings you here today?"
"Thank you for asking!" Egalmoth good-naturedly intones. "As a matter of fact, we find ourselves in need of your influence as a hostess..." The Lady nods, and Egalmoth persists: "We were talking, and arrived at the conclusion that there could be no better way to ingratiate Húrin and Huor with the people than an... event... of some nature for the city's youth, but-"
"But you need the assistance of the person in charge of nearly all gatherings here at the palace," she finishes.
"Yes, lady!" we chorus.
"Well, it's a wonderful scheme; I am at your service."
Two hours later, we have the skeleton of a celebration on a sheet of paper between us.
"On the third of next month," reads Idril, "we will host a ball in the Grand Rotunda from seven in the evening until midnight-with the aim of showing Gondolin how innocuous our mortals are."
I grin and unfold my hands. "It's perfect."