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As a city, Gondolin is far mightier and more beautiful than everything Tuor has ever laid eyes on. He has seen ruins in Mithrim and in Hithlum, in Nevrast. But never has he seen anything this grand. There are the great knights, beautiful and stern people. They look at him with kindness instead of the suspicion he suspected. But it's not a surprise that they're better people than he is. Even the servants are dressed better than him.
Ulmo's cloak is magnificent work, but rather simple to look at. Woven together out of seagrass, Voronwë once told him. Rather than the expensive silk other foreign material Tuor had no knowledge off.
"You must've had a difficult journey behind you," the golden-haired princess says as she approaches him with a carafe and refills his glass with wine. "Voronwë has already told us much of it and we've heard your tale, yet I find myself curious. What is life like, outside of these walls?"
Tuor swallows. His throat his dry, but he doesn't reach for the glass, out of fear of spilling everything. His hands are shaking too much, so he folds them in his lap and takes a few deep breaths. He could never tell Princess Idril the truth. Perhaps she dreams of the ocean, wide empty grasslands where the wind is your only companion or swallow hills covered in a sea of flowers. Tuor blinks, slowly and lowers his gaze. There's dirt beneath his fingernails. His skin has a darker tan than any of the Eldar around him, thanks to all the hours he spends alone in the wilderness.
"I don't know what am I supposed to tell you, Princess," Tuor says. He wonders how he could get out of the situation. The princess belongs into a painting. Into a city like this, a golden sanctuary in midst of a cold cruel world. "The journey was hard. Despite Ulmo's blessing, we feared discovery at every turn."
He halts in his speech. Is he supposed to tell the Princess he has suffered from the hands of slavers already?
Before he can think of a solution to his dilemma, the images of the three horrible years are close to his mind, yet Tuor knows he cannot utter a single word about that in these golden halls. A male voice interrupts them.
"Dear cousin, would you please leave the poor soul alone? Coming to Gondolin is overwhelming for anyone, who has not spend centuries living in it and the Atan should not serve as newfound sources for gossip."
The princess pulls a face and Tuor thinks it's the first real emotion she has shown in the entire last three days. Then his gaze wanders to his rescuer. He's tall, looks a lot like King Turgon and yet stands out, compared to the other Eldar. For one, his clothing his dark. Not completely black, but Tuor discovers a lot of grey and earth tones. Dirt as well, much to his surprise. There's dirt on the Eldar's hands, his hair is messy and barely held together in a braid. He looks more like a miner than a knight.
"Maeglin, I just intended to make the Atan more at ease in our beloved city," Princess Idril says in their own language.
She probably doesn't know that Tuor understands her very well. Among the Grey-Elves had been a few Noldor as well and they had been eager to teach Tuor their language. It had been the only way to pass the time, sometimes.
With a polite bow the Princess gets up and leaves, disappears between the high pillars and Tuor exhales in relief. Lady Idril is beautiful, probably kind as well, but in his opinions, she might not understand the trails he suffered. She lives in a dream and Tuor does not want to shatter it.
"Do you wish to retreat to somewhere more private?" The other Elf asks him and Tuor thinks he sees something like understanding in his eyes. "My uncle will spend the next few weeks discussing your message and they might actually forget to attend to your needs in the meantime."
"It'd be great, thanks," Tuor says and makes the effort to repeat the sentence in Quenya. He's more comfortable with Sindarin, but he does not wish to deceive his hosts by pretending he doesn't understand what they're whispering about him behind his back.
"I'm Maeglin," the Prince says and offers Tuor his hand. It's such a simple gesture that he shouldn't break into tears over it.
Yet he's so far away from home. So far away from the people, he loves that Tuor doesn't even know if they're alive, running for their lives or suffering the worst of all fates in the hands of Orcs. His shoulders shake and Tuor knows he should be embarrassed as Maeglin guides him through a small door, away from prying eyes. The hallway is empty and Tuor is glad for it as they reach a part of the palace, which actually looks like someone is living there, not like the grand statues which look so real that Tuor actually greeted one before he realized his mistake.
No, there're books scattered over a desk. He spots loose papers, an unmade bed on a comfortable looking sofa and a half-eaten dinner. The tea is probably cold as well.
It's still more luxury than Tuor has ever known in his life, but at least it's real.
"I'll apologize for dragging you away, but I had the feeling you needed a break," Maeglin says in Tuor's direction while he fumbles to make more tea. "I remember how I felt when I came to Gondolin and wish to spare anyone the experience."
"I gather it wasn't pleasant?" Tuor says and sits down on a chair. He feels too dirty, far too wrapped in travel clothes to go anywhere near the sofa. "And yes, I'm immensely grateful. It feels like I've been living in a dream. I still expect to wake up and be back in the caves with my family."
"I sense a dark tale behind your words, which is probably also the reason why you looked horrified at the prospect at talking to Idril," Maeglin says and hands him a steaming cup. On Tuor's silent nod, who was too occupied with inhaling the hearty scent, revelling in something he hadn't been able to enjoy during the last years. Making sure that the man is listening, Maeglin sits down on the other side of the table, close enough to hold a conversation yet not crowding in too much. He says, "Lady Idril means well. It's just that she has spent the last four centuries in Gondolin and has lost perspective of what true suffering looks like."
"What about you?" Tuor can't help but ask. Voronwë told him that the King doesn't allow anyone to leave the city, with few exceptions like his father Huor and his uncle Húrin.
Tuor tries not to think about his father too much. He married Rían and fell in battle not two months later. His mother died not long after, so he barely has memories of her as well. Usually, he doesn't mind, Annael is his father, one he might never see again, even if it's his greatest wish. So it's strange that these Elves might know more about his birth family than anyone else.
Maeglin's mouth twitches upright. He sends him an amused look.
"I work as a smith and oversee the mines. No one asks too many questions if I'm gone for a prolonged amount of time." The prince shakes his dark head and Tuor thinks he might be the only real person in this dreamlike wonderland. "I don't know if my uncle thinks that the materials are just lying around or that Aulë conveniently placed gold, iron and jewel close to Tumladen. So yes, we might not be allowed to leave the city through the gates, but Rog and I have created a maze beneath the mountains that has several exits and none of our people would betray us."
"Good to know." Tuor can't help but smile. Maybe it's even a smirk.
Voronwë warned him that Turgon might not ever let him leave, but with someone like Maeglin as a friend, the prospect is not as disheartening as he initially feared.
-
As Maeglin predicted, King Turgon ignores his warnings. Thanks to Maeglin's guiding hand, Tuor starts to feel less uneasy in the city than he did in the beginning. It helps that they spend many hours talking to each other, where they spoke of each others' life. Tuor spoke of his years as an outlaw, carefully omitting the time as thrall though he's aware Maeglin's sharp mind picked up on the holes in his story. Yet Tuor is incredibly thankful that the Prince respected his silence and always manages to pick another, easier topic to talk about.
This is a great help, especially around the Lord of Gondolin and Lady Idril. Most of them are just as eager to hear about grand tales and the adventures that Tuor lived through, not quite getting that Tuor only ever tried to get by, to stay alive and save his own skin. He saw no heroic deed in practising self-defence.
Yet he also quickly realized Prince Maeglin feels just as out of place as he does. Perhaps even more so, given that Tuor is just a mortal man and Maeglin a stranger in his own family. Somehow the evenings spent over tea and tales grow into a steady friendship and Tuor is often seen at Maeglin's side. Going so far that he declines Lady Idril's invitations over cutting firewood for Maeglin's forge. It helps, working hard over the day, doing something that has meaning instead of arguing with King Turgon over and over again.
Unlike Lady Idril, where he softens his tales into something less gruesome, Tuor hides nothing from the King. He speaks of the ruins, slavers ruling Hithlum and the Orcs that freely roam the land. Turgon's pride is great and Tuor always leaves the throne room grinding his teeth.
"It's no use," Maeglin says one evening. It's a warm summer evening and they have retreated to the house Maeglin keeps near the forges.
While the Prince has his chambers in the palace, he doesn't sleep there often. Tuor wholeheartedly understands and has taken to following Maeglin around. Like a puppy, as some say. Like a servant, according to the whispers of others.
Not that Tuor minds. He learned how to bow and show respect while he was Lorgan's captive and while Maeglin can be gruff, he's always honest and never cruel. It's more than Tuor gets from the Ladies at the palace sometimes. Since the King still hasn't declared his status, most people in Gondolin don't know what to do with him. It grates on his nerves if he's honest with himself.
He tells Maeglin as much.
It's not a surprise that the Prince understands.
Raising an eyebrow, he gets the reply, "To feel like an outcast? Like someone, who studied and tried to very hard and yet only produced a meagre trinket, while everyone else talks about the fine craft of the merchant around the corner?"
"Something like that. Perhaps it's just ... I expected more of your uncle," Tuor grumbles and thinks back to the moment, where he met the Valar. He still can't believe it truly happened. "Afraid as I was, I could still sense the urgency behind the words of the god. I was a leaf, helpless in midst of a storm, and it seems I haven't touched reality ever since. Perhaps, if I had gone to Nargothrond and seen the horrors for myself, I might've been able to convince the King."
Maeglin shakes his head and with a flick of his wrist, the fire in the hearth burns higher, hotter. It fills Tuor with warmth that chases the dreaded cold away, a cold hasn't left him since the day he encountered Ulmo.
"Nothing you say will convince him, I fear. The eagles bring news to all of us, but my uncles spends his days in denial. If the broken body of his own father is not enough to rise him to action, what hope do you have?"
"Damn this stubborn bastard," Tuor curses and tries to fight the helplessness that takes hold of him. "Am I supposed to die here? Kept behind these walls like a rare pet to be looked at? I've grown up without a father unless you count the Grey-Elves who were content to hide in caves until is was too late. My own mother could not find the strength to survive without her husband. By now I wish I had ignored Ulmo's words and gone to find my cousin Túrin as I intended. Maybe both of our fates would've been kinder, had we stuck together."
Clothes rustle as Maeglin scrambles closer. Usually they kept a polite distance, but there were occasionally brushes that confused Tuor to a great deal. A lingering hand on his shoulder, Maeglin leaning over when they pour over books and maps, fingers that touch as he hands the prince tools as he works in the forge.
It takes his breath away to have Maeglin so close. Tuor has not forgotten the years he spent as Lorgan's thrall. The years he spent in Lorgan's bed and he took a bloody revenge after he escaped. Yet he never imaged he could develop want towards another man. During the last years, he drifted towards women, thinking them kinder and not capable of the cruellest he suffered from Lorgan's hands.
Yet as Maeglin takes Tuor's hand into his own and swipes silent tears with the other, he can't help but think of the giggles that follow him through the palace. The maidens that come to talk to him, ask him questions he cannot answer or invite him to dances he's too clumsy to master. They seem friendly, just like the Lords and the Knights, but Tuor doesn't feel welcome.
He only ever feels at ease, when he's in Maeglin's company.
Tuor does not dare to move as a rough calloused thumb brushes over his lips.
"I promise you, my friend, you'll not spend your life in vain," Maeglin says and one look into his dark eyes is enough to make Tuor's breath hitch.
Desire pools in his stomach and it's a foreign feeling. Aside from the bare necessities, Tuor has not even touched himself in years. Let alone looked at other people with lust or desire, which is probably one of the reasons why Turgon feels no need to keep him away from his precious daughter. The King must think Princess Idril needs a new hobby for a century, a distraction that keeps her from wandering too far from the palace.
"Kind of you," Tuor manages to say. Having Maeglin so close makes him a little dizzy.
He may not have dreamed about having a lover in recent years, but he's confident that the Prince will feature in his dreams from now on.
Suddenly Tuor realizes he has seen Maeglin in various states of undress before. His kin prefer heavy cloaks and long, colourful capes. He has seen noble Ladies wear a veil while they walk down the streets, combined with gloves that not a fraction of their skin may be seen. All while Maeglin throws his coat over the next chair. He also prefers to work in shirts that show his bare arms, since he claims that the sleeves distract him as he works. When he comes out of the forge, Maeglin likes to get rid of the sweat-soaked shirts as well, drying himself with the dirty, ruined cloth and walks to the bath bare-chested.
The memories excite and frighten him in equal measure.
Tuor can't tell if his quick, shallow breathing is caused by fear or desire. He can read Maeglin's intentions, but his mind must lay open to the Eldar like a well-known book, because the Noldor retreats a bit. He doesn't let go of his hand, but the thumb caressing his cheek vanishes.
A part of Tuor mourns the loss, the other overwhelmed by gratitude.
"Thank you," Tuor chokes. He tries to breathe into his stomach, like Annael taught him during sword practice. It helps him to calm down somewhat. "Thank you, Maeglin. It's not that I don't ... appreciate ... the attention. It's ... it's just that."
He has the inner drive to make clear he's not disgusted by Maeglin's advance. Among Men the practice is frowned upon, though it doesn't keep the slavers from taking whoever they want. Yet the Grey-Elves he grew up with cared less about gender. Annael had a lover who had a wife, who sometimes joined them, but Tuor had stayed out of that. He never asked Annael how it worked between two men. If worked between Elves and Men as well.
Later he had no opportunity to ask. Lorgan and his companions simply did as they wanted. Tuor still tries not to think about it too much, but in retrospect there's a reason why he became an outlaw, retreated into the wild and lived in a cave for four years instead of searching for a settlement further south.
"It's alright. I'll not pressure you into anything you don't want to do." Maeglin's voice is soft. Understanding even. "I'll confess that I've come to love you, since you possess a kinder heart than anyone else in this light forsaken city. Yet if it makes you uncomfortable, we will remain friends, brothers in arms, and shall never speak of this again."
Tuor feels on the verge of breaking. He had been nothing but a boy, when Annael decided to flee south and he had never known such horrors before as the Orcs ambushed them. The three years after that he spent in a daze since Lorgan liked his pretty face and always found new ways to torment him. The time after that wasn't much better, he had acted like a hurt, frightened animal, shying away from any human contact.
No wonder that Ulmo picked him for the task. The god must've thought a broken man like him would lap up the chance to see meaning in his suffering, that his journey so far would be worth it, if the reward was a golden kingdom and the gratitude of an immortal being.
And it's not as if you had someone to mourn or miss you in case Turgon decided not to have unwanted visitors in his city, Tuor realizes bitterly.
For if Ulmo cared so much, if the state of Beleriand is that urgent, why not go himself? Why not act earlier before Hithlum had fallen.
We're nothing but playthings for the gods.
Not that Turgon acted much differently. The power and authority were the same. Maybe he even was, here in his golden city where the King's word was law. More than that, maybe. A religion. The wise benevolent man who sat on top of a mountain and occasionally sent his messengers through the gates to let his will be known.
Suddenly the prospect of getting closer to Maeglin doesn't seem to be as frightening any more.
"I don't want to go back as it was," Tuor finally says, though his words are nothing but a brave whisper. "I don't want to be alone and waste my life away in bitterness or false hope."
He reaches for Maeglin's hand again and squeezes. It feels warm beneath his fingers.
"It could be so easy to take up Princess Idril's offers to walk through the gardens beneath the moonlight. I could learn to dance with the ladies and practice swordplay with the Lords. I could pretend that the world outside doesn't exist, but that wouldn't chase the feeling of empty horror in my chest."
For there would be never a life after Lorgan. Not if he chose to run away and bury his fears beneath a mountain of denial.
Tuor can see it clearly in front of him. Warming up to Idril, falling in love with the perfect image she portrays. Joining her concerns and doubts about Maeglin, out of different reasons. For the dreams would stay with him. He'd still dream about a broad naked chest at night, yearn for a sensual touch of calloused hands and deny it all in the morning.
With more bravery than he thinks himself capable of, Tuor leans forward and kisses Maeglin. It's chaste, soft. Barely a peck on the lips, but it makes his heart hammer against his chest.
And oh so worth it, when Maeglin sends him a brilliant smile.
"See, you're better than that," the Prince says. It almost seems like as he's glowing and excitement bubbles in Tuor's stomach again. This time the fear seems far, far away. Like a ghost fleeing the rising morning sun. Perhaps the young boy he once was and called himself Annarion is still in there somewhere.
"Can you teach me how to make it feel good?" Tuor asks.
His hands tremble, but for the first time in a long while, he doesn't mind his own weakness. In front of Maeglin, it doesn't matter. Maeglin rescued him from the clutches of a bored princess, maybe he can save him from Lorgan's shadow as well.
-
Tuor prides himself in facing the road of recovery heads on. If there's an advantage to forcefully living in Gondolin, it's the amount of resources the Eldar have at their disposal. That, and time. Before Tuor felt ashamed and useless, when the afternoons wasted away with doing nothing in particular, now he's grateful that he can spend the time he can't accompany Maeglin in the Royal Library.
So far they haven't done anything ... improper. Certainly not in public, Maeglin told him such activities don't fit into the King's ancient world view. Apparently there are quite a few, who prefer their own sex for bed activities, but no upstanding citizen of Gondolin would admit to such a thing.
"Thankfully the death of Lady Elenwë plays in our favour in this regard," Maeglin had instructed him early on. "He believes in love, the one and true kind, despite his own grandfather's remarriage and would never pressure anyone into marriage."
The only person suffering from this stance on sex and marriage was apparently Idril. In the eyes of her father, no suitor is good enough and so far no had yet managed to win Turgon over.
Which had led to a quite eye-opening confession.
"I'll admit that Idril was once desperate enough to marry me," Maeglin had told him with an embarrassed smile on his face. "I played along to make her happy. She isn't a bad person, just horribly bored and suffering under the firm hand of her father."
"I take it that it didn't work out?" Tuor remembers asking.
He still doesn't know what he's supposed to make of Maeglin nearly courting his own cousin, yet it's to be expected that Maeglin had lovers in the past. He is far more experienced in this regard than Tuor, despite the fact that Lorgan liked to rent him out, whenever he thought that Tuor forgot his place.
As answer, Maeglin had only shaken his head and had not elaborated further. Though Tuor senses it didn't end well or else the relationship between the Prince and the Princess wouldn't be so strained. The library answers some of these questions. After Maeglin points him toward the protocols, Tuor reads through the council sessions the King has with his Lords. He learns a lot about the history of the city, for someone went through the trouble to neatly summarize the most important discussions.
In one of the many books, Tuor finds a paper, which discusses who inherits the throne in case the King suffers an unfortunate accident. His daughter or his sister's son? Especially since the latter should be favoured according to Noldorin law as long as Idril remains unmarried and without a son to call her own.
Tuor thinks it says a lot about the King that the question was never answered. It got simply, firmly delayed with the verdict that Gondolin is the safest place in Beleriand and that its citizens should not prepare for the unlikely event of Turgon's own death.
Though it says more about what he should expect regarding his own quest.
Nothing, probably.
Yet he deems the question of inheritance slightly less important than the warning of a god. Tuor might not be pleased about Ulmo's message, about having been deliberately chosen to carry his word to the deaf ears of a King, yet he has to respect the power the Vala embodies. He has been schooled in history enough to know how rare a sighting of a Vala is. What it means for the Noldor, though Turgon is rumoured to have been a recipient of Ulmo's cryptical messages before.
Will I be punished, should I fail to carry out my task? Tuor wonders as he turns the pages. How far does my responsibility go? Is it enough to have brought Ulmo's message to Turgon or should I press until the people of Gondolin have relocated to the Havens of Sirion?
Of course, there's no obvious answer. While Tuor has rallied slaves together before, those were willing to risk everything for the chance of a better life, the people of Gondolin don't want to leave and no amount of studying is going to chance this.
"Master Tuor, what a pleasant surprise to find you in my library," one of the Lords greets him one day. "I fear we had not much contact before, my name is Penlod."
"It's a pleasure." Tuor tries to be polite, yet he can't shake the feeling that Penlod is humouring him.
Is the Elven Lord surprised that the Atan can read at all? Let alone the heavy lecture sitting on his lap?
"If there's anything I can help you with, please mention it. I'm aware that the library is extensive and many texts are kept out of habit, even though no one ever comes back to read them."
Tuor shifts in his seat. It makes him uncomfortable, but in the past weeks, he has found that he needed advice. Maeglin is a great help and extremely patient, but Tuor gets the feeling there're hindrances that he must conquer alone. For the peace of his own mind.
"If it's not too much of a bother, I'd like to ask if you have any texts about ... survivors."
At Lord Penlod's raised eyebrow Tuor gets more specific.
"People, who've survived thralldom," he says quietly, afraid that someone might be listening. He can't keep Penlod from running to Turgon, yet as far as his explorations through the library tell him, there are no such texts to be found at all.
Maybe the King doesn't wish his people to know that the outside world is capable of committing such crimes at all. For it could lead a noble mind to the thought it'd be good to ride out and make Beleriand a better place.
"I'm afraid we don't have such accounts in our library," Penlod answers thoughtfully. "We're all of Noldoli descent and have crossed the Grinding Ice. You must understand that such cruelty did not exist in Aman."
"Beleriand is indeed a different world, though I'm glad I've nothing to fear for in such a beautiful city." Perhaps he's laying it on too thick, but what else is he supposed to answer? Penlod sends him a look full of pity.
"You're protected here in this city. The high walls, the secret location and our well-trained guards keep the enemy away," Penlod answers. "It's impossible to come to harm here in Gondolin, but if dreams still plague you, I can recommend you a healer who handles such matters discreetly."
"Of course. I appreciate it. Thank you very much, Lord Penlod."
Tuor goes back to his books. He doesn't quite believe the tale. He has seen quite a few Sindar among the citizens, those who lived in Nevrast long before Turgon settled there. They had to have tales and texts about Beleriand's darker history. When he grew among the Grey-Elves, there hadn't been a single person, who hadn't lost someone to Morgoth.
Besides ... what use does a perfect city have for a healer?
-
"Congratulations," Maeglin tells him a few days later. "You're now officially a member of my household."
Tuor grasps the paper the Prince of Gondolin is waving. It looks fancy. Expensive. It's also written in a language he can't read, but the King's and Maeglin's seal at the bottom of the page is very obvious.
"What brought on the change?" Tuor furrows his eyebrows. "Until recently I've still been declared as Messenger of Ulmo or as Honoured Guest."
Maeglin shrugs. He looks astonishing clean today. His hair is carefully braided and his coat is of a deep green colour today. Nothing compared the colour the other Lords dress themselves in, but the material is still worth of royalty. It's certainly not the usual work clothes Maeglin and Rog prefer during their daily work.
For Tuor, the sight is distracting. He has struggled to come to terms with his desire, especially since Maeglin doesn't bother to hide his own any more.
It's not much. Just a gaze that lingers too long, a smile that grazes Maeglin's beautiful face or a chaste kiss placed on the back of his neck. Each gesture makes Tuor shiver. It's slow work and he's still afraid where it might lead to, but the knowledge that Turgon can't order him around on a whim any more helps.
Now he can actually think of building a future.
The members of Maeglin's house are very like their Lord. Quiet, hard-working and honest. Tuor expected resistance or envy because Maeglin spends so much time with him. Yet the most got over it after they've seen that Tuor is not afraid to get his hands dirty and listens attentively to orders, whenever they enter the mines. He hasn't figured out yet how to make himself useful, but the House of the Mole don't seem to mind.
Tuor catches himself that he doesn't hold his breath quite so often when he's with them. Not like, whenever he's supposed to spend the day in the palace, where he fears that a single word spoken too loudly could shatter an expensive, irreplaceable artefact.
"If I've understood my uncle correctly, he fears for the state of your mind. Apparently Lord Penlod had a conversation with you which rattled him," Maeglin explains and throws the document on a nearby table. He turns towards Tuor. "I've spent the last months wracking my mind on how to accomplish this exact result and there you go and get it done in one single afternoon."
Tuor laughs, but it sounds hollow.
"I was just being honest. My uneasy dreams are not a lie and I'm certain that I'm not the only one, who must've had horrible experiences in the past. I only thought ... maybe there's someone among the Eldar, who could help me."
Maeglin reaches for his hands, taking them into his own.
"You're not alone," the Elven Prince says.
After reading the protocols about Maeglin's arrival in Gondolin, Tuor originally had only wished to know often it occurred that wanderers stumbled over the city, he knew about the fate of Lady Aredhel. About how Maeglin had been forced to watch his own father die.
"I know." Tuor leans in for a kiss. "I've you. That has to be enough."
It's not an I love you. Neither of them is ready for this kind of commitment, but Maeglin understands him anyway.