#maeglin

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