#mersilisk

Gondolin was beauty given shape.

Never had Maeglin, accustomed only to the twilit canopies of his father's forest, seen so much white; the polished floors of white stone and the towering columns of white marble reflected the blinding midday sun like a mirror.

He had been afraid, at first, of the marvellous city upon which he could not gaze without pain blooming behind his eyes. Then he had been in awe, wondering at the exquisite craft of its architects, and then he had been fascinated.

Not at the sprawling markets or the splendour of the House of the King, or at the merry fountains bubbling away in the square, no. It was the armoury which caught his attention first, and from there the path led him easily to the smithies, beckoning him inside.

It was there he met Rog, Lord of the House of The Hammer of Wrath, an Elf of mighty build and stern of face clothed in the typical array of a blacksmith, who welcomed him gladly and humoured his request of touring the forges.

As Rog was informing him of the workings of the largest furnace Maeglin had ever seen, which belched fire and ash even as they used it, he opened his mouth to ask a question in the barely passable Quenya his mother had taught him.

There was a deafening crash followed swiftly by harsh words that grated on his ears, and Maeglin swivelled around, the hammer he had been inspecting slipping from his suddenly numb hands and clattering to the floor. The heat of the smithy grew around him and squeezed his lungs like a vice and his pounding heart sent a wave of blood rushing past his ears until it was all he could hear.

Rog's voice came through muddled, as if he was attempting to speak around a cloth.

"My Prince?"

Maeglin found it exceedingly difficult to breathe.

"My Prince, are you alright?"

"I have to hide." The sound of his own voice startled him, and the concerned face of Rog swam into his vision, his brow furrowed in alarm.

"You—"

"I have to hide," Maeglin repeated more urgently, hardly hearing himself, "I don't know why, but I have to hide. Now!"

Maeglin would have bolted towards the nearest exit had firm hands not grabbed him by the upper arms and shaken him vigorously, and that action alone shocked him out of his stupor, the scenery and bustle of the forge rushing back with crystal clarity.

Rog turned him sideways. Through the heat distorting the air around them, Maeglin spotted a handful of people bent over an assortment of scattered tools next to an upturned barrel; snippets of conversation in Quenya reached his ears and he realised that someone had accidentally tripped over the barrel and sent its contents tumbling onto the floor.

"My Prince."

Maeglin blinked and turned back to find Rog watching him stoically.

"Are you with me now?"

Maeglin went to nod, then blinked some more as he processed the words. "You speak Sindarin," he blurted out, and watched as the corner of Rog's lips twitched upwards.

Maeglin must have also spoken in Sindarin, reverting to his native language in his moment of panic.

"I do," said Rog, offering no explanation, "Are you with me now?"

"Yes," said Maeglin, then looked aside as Rog released him, "I'm sorry, I—"

"No need, my Prince," Rog interrupted, "Many of us who have crossed the Ice can't stand the cold. Some relive the horror of it at the slightest noise. Whatever you have endured is not my business."

As Maeglin turned over those words in his head, trying to make sense of them, Rog gave him a friendly slap on the back and began moving away, gesturing for him to follow. None around them paid them any attention, the people huddled around the tools returning to their posts once the mess was cleared as though nothing had happened.

"Come," Rog said simply, "I shall show you to the bellows."

Gondolin was beauty given shape. Perhaps his mother had been right, Maeglin thought while he followed Rog deeper into the bowels of the forges of the House of The Hammer of Wrath.

This could be his home after all.

*