Subliminamilly

Now Glorfindel said, “lords of the Council, now that the site has been settled, there remains the matter of arrangement.”

He unfolded a drawing and smoothed it on the stone table before the Council.

“Behold,” he said, “here the flowers shall frame the approach. Under this arch shall sit the pipers and the harpers, and the minstrels behind them. The main host shall be ordered upon the swards, and upon the central terrace shall stand the high tables.”

Penlod leaned forward in his chair and studied the drawing, and frowned.

“Traditionally, Lord Glorfindel,” he said, “the seating is arranged by House.”

Glorfindel gave a little sniff.

“Certainly,” he said, “And thus have we the very same conversations, year after year. I had hoped to devise a feast, and not a faithful reproduction of last year’s feast.”

Before Penlod could frame his reply, Ecthelion spoke.

“Let us not overlook a matter yet more pressing,” he said.

The Council turned toward him.

“Lord Glorfindel,” he said, “have you never climbed to Gar Ainion toward the falling of the day?”

If Glorfindel sensed a snare, he gave no sign.

“Many times,” he answered, smiling, “I have walked the Road of Pomps with another errand in mind, only to find my feet turning toward the stair, and wandered to that high and blessed square, having forgotten my original purpose altogether.”

“Then you know the western walk,” said Ecthelion, “where the long grass bends to the evening wind, and the hawthorns are laden with blossom upon its gentle crest. Below, the Fountain of the King catches the last light, its streams dancing aflame, and the mountains glow like embers, and the King’s Tower is lit like a beacon in answer. For that brief hour, all things are in harmony.”

The lords nodded in reverence.

“The fairest sight in all Beleriand,” said Glorfindel softly.

“Then I beg you,” Ecthelion said, reaching across the table to tap the far corner of the drawing, “do not conceal it with this… shrubbery!”

Glorfindel stared at the place Ecthelion’s finger rested.

“Shrubbery,” he repeated faintly, “shrubbery— the Valar try me, Lord Ecthelion, it is a pergola!”

“It obscures the view of the Fountain.”

“It frames the Fountain.”

“Its northern stream would be hidden!”

At this moment, Rog spoke.

“My lords,” he said, “decorations aside, shall we not first consider the question of remembrance?”

He rose and began to pace the chamber.

“When the hosts of the Noldor first came into Beleriand,” he said, “they found no peace awaiting them. The smoke of Angband shrouded the sun and moon at their first rising. Dark were the lands, and dire.

But the princes of the Noldor gathered from their many realms. Their horns were sounded, and they raised their lordly standards, and the spears of the Eldar surged forth like the wrath of Ulmo’s own sea.”

With a brief glance toward Maeglin, he added, “The Sindar were there also.”

Maeglin gave a hesitant nod.

“To the plain of Ard-galen,” Rog went on, “rode many of our kin who came never back to our halls. By their blood was bought the long peace wherein Gondolin yet flourishes. By their valor alone do we keep our flowers and our fountains.”

The chamber fell silent, and the lords bowed their heads. Egalmoth brushed away a tear.

At length Rog stopped pacing and now turned once more to the Council.

“Therefore,” he declared in his great ringing voice, “let the tokens of their glory be displayed openly, that the might and courage of our kindred may ever remain first before our eyes!”

For a moment no one spoke.

Then asked Ecthelion, “Lord Rog, what form would these tokens take?”

The lord of the Hammer of Wrath drew himself up to his full height.

“Noble helms crowning bright harness! Shields displayed upon their stands! Racks of swords beside the high tables, that the gleam of steel be never more than a glance away!”

Ecthelion slowly closed his eyes. But Lord Rog had not finished.

“And the great battle standards of every House shall line every path and terrace of Gar-Ainion, each borne aloft upon a tall spear-shaft!”

Glorfindel observed quietly, “There are some who would call the sight textorially unfortunate.”

Ecthelion, forgetting for a moment their recent dispute, hastened to agree.

Lord Salgant cleared his throat.

“The matter of the standards,” he announced, “falls properly under the jurisdiction of the Third Feast Coordination Charter, amended following the district revisions of–”

No one paid him any attention.

Then Lord Egalmoth rose. The jewels upon his raiment scattered light of many colors over the stone walls.

“Have none of you heard what Lord Rog has said?” he cried, “this feast should proclaim the inheritance of our people. For let us remember that the Noldor alone among the peoples of Beleriand beheld the Light of Valinor, save only a few of the Teleri; and the memory of that Light yet abides within our hearts.”

He lifted one hand skyward.

“Therefore, let all who enter Gar Ainion behold the purity of our realm, fashioned in the memory of Tirion! Let the banners be white, for the unsundered memory of the Elder Days! White, for our halls of white stone, for our white trees, and for our white stallions!”

Duilin raised a hand.

“My steed is a bay,” he supplied, “and he is gelded.”

“Symbolically white!” said Egalmoth with some impatience.

Several of the lords exchanged glances.

At length the discussion turned to provisions, and Duilin and Galdor entered into earnest debate concerning whether Gondolin owed the greater part of its prosperity to the elk herds on the plain, or to the orchards on the slopes. Penlod began once more to consult the records of former feasts.

The sun climbed toward noon.

Then Maeglin, who had remained silent throughout these long hours, at last spoke.

“I have a proposal that may please the Council.”

The Council turned to hear him.

He rose and walked over to the plans that lay forgotten before Glorfindel. Taking up a slender stick of charcoal, he began marking them.

“You all contend for the same ground,” he said, “Let each purpose have its own place.”

He outlined the eastern approach.

“The procession shall pass here,” he said, “therefore the standards of the Houses may stand along this way.”

Rog leaned back, well content.

Maeglin then shaded the western edge.

“The white hangings shall stand here, catching the evening wind and the changing light.”

This seemed to suit Egalmoth, and Ecthelion found no cause to object.

“The flowers shall remain, save these few, and the fountain remains wholly unhidden. Nothing taller than a man shall lie upon this axis.”

He traced a line from east to west.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion exchanged a glance and smiled.

“The high tables shall occupy the central terraces, and the main host shall be ordered upon the swards. Though the companies be intermingled at each table, the Houses shall enter in their accustomed order.”

Penlod inclined his head in concession.

Maeglin said, “The herds and the orchards alike shall furnish the feast.”

Duilin and Galdor appeared equally satisfied.

Turgon regarded the amended drawing for a while.

“There is room for all of this?”

“Yes,” Maeglin replied, “I have measured it.”

The proposal was accepted with scarcely a dissenting voice, save Lord Salgant alone withholding his approval.

The lords gathered up their papers and made ready to depart.

“There remains one further matter,” said Maeglin.

They stopped.

Glorfindel whispered, “no.”

“The lower retaining wall,” said Maeglin.

A groan passed around the chamber.

“If it is not reinforced before the feast,” Maeglin insisted, “settlement may occur. As much as three inches within the next ten years.”

“Lord Maeglin,” Ecthelion said with admirable patience, “might these three inches not await another meeting?”

“Possibly four inches,” Maeglin said.

But even he conceded that the Council had sat long enough. He promised to have the matter examined by the House of the Mole before they next assembled.

So the lords departed.

@tolkiengenweek Day 5: culture, diversity, tradition

Long he circled in hope; yet all his labor came to little. At last he withdrew beneath Glingal, and there, finding the world not wholly ordered according to his desires, he sang a low lament.

The daughter of Turgon beheld these things, and because her heart was compassionate and wise, she began to imagine reasons for the bird’s sorrow more profound than any that had entered his own mind.

“Poor forlorn creature,” she said, “wherefore have you wings, and not wisdom to use them? Cruel indeed are the fetters of your desire.”

Whether the bird understood her speech is not recorded.

Idril cast another morsel of bread. There followed much frantic cooing and flapping.

If the Eldar possessed wings, she thought, Aredhel would not have been so unhappy.

Before she was lost, Aredhel often stood long at the white walls of Gondolin, gazing eastward. Though her sight could not pierce the Echoriath, her thought passed beyond them into the boundless wilds beyond them, and to the sons of Fëanor, her kin, who once rode with her beneath the Trees.

In those days Idril could no more imagine Aredhel as a mother than she could imagine herself one. Her aunt seemed scarcely able to remain seated through a game of Chancery, much less endure a wailing child clinging to her skirts.

Perhaps Maeglin had been an unusually quiet child.

Of her own mother, Idril remembered little.

Elenwë had perished in the crossing of the Helcaraxë before Idril had learned to speak, and thereafter she knew of Elenwë only ever as an empty place where once a woman once stood.

Sometimes dreams came to her, of bitter cold and black water; of a gentle embrace slipping away, replaced by her father’s strong arms carrying her to safety.

Elenwë had been of the Vanyar. To Idril she had passed on her golden hair, her face, her voice, a cloth pouch containing a set of of Chancery pieces…

And, so it seemed, little else.

Yet Gondolin itself was filled with her memory.

There was golden Glingal, and the hawthorn blossom that Elenwë had so loved, and the white walls that had been raised so high because once she had not been saved.

It happened by chance that Idril began to suspect her mother had left something more.

One evening, while polishing her Chancery pieces, she discovered that one had gone missing. She searched her chamber from end to end, and at last, in desperation, turned the little cloth pouch inside out.

There, sewn into one of its seams, she found a narrow woven band unlike anything she had ever seen.

Idril could not guess at its purpose. For a long while she turned it over in her hands, half persuaded that longing had made her invent a meaning where none existed.

The band was woven in two colors. The darker thread appeared to have a pattern much like a script, though not Gondolinic rune, nor Tengwar, nor any other letters of Arda known to Idril.

In the end the missing Chancery piece was found beneath a chair, and the woven band was laid aside and forgotten. Yet now it returned to her thoughts, and she knew not why.

Just then another hen alighted in the shade nearby.

Immediately the cockbird abandoned his lament. He hopped forth from beneath Glingal, swelled his breast anew, and recommenced all the ancient arts of bowing and strutting.

Plainly his former grief, though deep, had not proved enduring.

Idril was astonished.

Then whether by chance or some ordering of the Valar, the cock discovered another morsel of bread lying nigh. He seized it and presented it to the hen, who accepted readily.

This delighted him exceedingly.

Idril, much scandalized, cried, “she desires your bread and not your person. And is your first love is utterly forgotten? Have you neither constancy nor pride?”

But pride was not among the concerns of doves.

The hen wandered on in search of further crumbs, and the cock walked joyfully beside her. Being a dove, he cleaved not to sorrow when sorrow profited him nothing, and so was spared many errors that beset wiser creatures.

@tolkiengenweek day 2: animals

Saelon gave him a long look.

“My lord, are you truly one of the Noldor?”

The morning sun streamed in from the window behind Saelon. Blackbirds sang in the ancient yew.

Maeglin wondered at what Saelon did not know.

“My mother was Noldor,” he said, “my father was Sindar.”

Saelon nodded in satisfaction.

“I knew you seemed more sensible than most,” he said.

But his smile faltered as he considered the full meaning of Maeglin’s words: was, and was.

A rare impulse took hold of Maeglin. He felt suddenly compelled to present a riddle of his own.

There was a certain tale often told in Gondolin, though in the telling much had been forgotten, and still more invented. It occurred to Maeglin that he had not heard it recounted for many years, and he wished to know how it had fared in the meanwhile.

He said, “Saelon, had you heard that when Lady Aredhel came to Gondolin in the year of the Great Spring Flood, that she brought with her the Doom of Mandos?”

Saelon’s response was even more perfect than Maeglin could have anticipated.

“Of course,” he said, swaying eagerly atop the archive chest, “The White Lady of the Noldor returned to Gondolin from the dread forests of Nan Elmoth, where dwell the fell spiders in shadowy ravines.

“And thence the dark elf Eöl, who had stolen her as wife, followed from his wicked realm—”

Maeglin gestured encouragingly, bidding Saelon tell on. Saelon took a fresh breath and resumed the tale with still greater ardor.

“Then Eöl, before Turgon the king, slew her with a poisoned spear— or perhaps it was a javelin? I have heard both.”

“A javelin,” confirmed Maeglin, “and Eöl had aimed not for Lady Aredhel, but for their son. She was struck in the shoulder while shielding him.”

Saelon considered this.

“Aimed for the son, you say? For what purpose?”

“King Turgon’s law is clear: those who come to Gondolin may choose to stay, or choose death. He will not risk betrayal of the city. Eöl thus took the second choice for both his son and himself rather than live under Noldorin dominion. Or, he tried to.”

This variation on the fable did not seem wholly convincing to Saelon.

“Are you certain, my lord?” he said, “My sister knew a quarryman who was in the King’s Hall that very day. He mentioned no such thing.”

Maeglin bowed in acknowledgement.

“Then I was mistaken,” he said, “please go on.”

Saelon obliged readily, displeased to have been interrupted in the first place.

“In any event,” he said, “Aredhel died of the poison. The next day, the guards took Eöl, and cast him over the walls, and he fell to his death, hating the Noldor to his last heartbeat.

“Well, as they say–” he looked at Maeglin meaningfully, “the mating of a marsh goose and a cave boar will bring only misery for supper.”

Maeglin, delighted, opened his arms in presentation.

“Indeed,” he said, “the dismal feast, himself.”

Saelon opened his mouth. Then he shut it again.

In the stricken silence that followed, Maeglin at last had a few uninterrupted minutes to calculate tunnel geometry.

Much though he loved Saelon, his thought was glad to return beneath Amon Gwareth. Since his youth, the deep places of Arda had revealed to him many things not easily learned from the speech of the Eldar.

For @tolkiengenweek Day 1: family/community