Chapter Text
Maeglin, it seemed, was determined to test his uncle’s limits.
“What has he done?” Turgon asked, looking at Maeglin who looked quite put out to be sandwiched between Glorfindel and Ecthelion. They were not restraining him, not even touching him, but it was clear they had led him there.
Although Maeglin didn’t look sorry about whatever he had done, in fact, Turgon thought he looked rather smug. The lords on either side of him, however, looked exasperated.
“He spat in my face,” said Ecthelion, although to his credit he didn’t appear as angered as most people would in his position. Frustrated seemed to be a better word for it.
“You insulted me!” Maeglin shot back.
“I merely inquired about your tattoos,” replied the Lord of the Fountain, amazingly calm for someone who was within spitting range. Turgon would be amazed if Maeglin got through this without spitting on Ecthelion a second time. “I have never seen anything like them before.”
“You called them exotic.”
“That is not an insult,” Glorfindel pointed out.
Maeglin rounded on him, “You’ve never been called exotic then, have you?”
“No, but-”
Maeglin surprised Turgon by not spitting on Ecthelion, instead, he hit Glorfindel square in the face with a wad of spit.
“That is enough,” the Lord of Gondolin said, standing.
All three of them fell silent, although Maeglin was still seething.
“Maeglin come and sit,” Turgon said, motioning him to a smaller desk in the corner of the room. The Lord of Gondolin had his own desk, large and grand, at the room’s center, but the smaller one often played host to his assistants or Idril. On that day, it was empty and the perfect place to corral Maeglin.
“Make me.”
Glorfindel seemed ready to take him up on the offer, reaching to grab Maeglin’s arm, but Turgon waved him off. “You may leave us.”
Neither of the lords looked pleased about their dismissal, but they left regardless. Turgon waited for the door to close behind them before saying, “Maeglin, come and sit.”
Maeglin stalked past him, pulling the chair from the desk with more noise and force than was necessary and sitting down in a huff. His eyes dared Turgon to say anything about it.
“Maeglin, we do not spit on people.”
“We should not insult people either, but I see that does not trouble you.”
“I will speak with Ecthelion about his phrasing, but that is not what we are discussing.”
“Then you should have that discussion with Egalmoth as well, he called me an oddity at supper last night.”
“Did you spit on him as well?”
“No. Only in his tea when he was not looking.”
Turgon resisted the urge to point out that there was a reason people did not like Maeglin, and it had nothing to do with his birth. He could hardly blame his nephew for having a difficult time adjusting to his new life, although it was clear he could not continue to indulge him.
“What did your parents do when you misbehaved?” It was a passing thought, one he had not meant to speak out loud, but it slipped out anyway.
Maeglin was quick to answer, “Father would have tied me to the stable wall and bullwhipped me.” As usual, Turgon could not tell if he was being truthful or not. At times it seemed like he exaggerated his stories of Eol because people paid attention to him when he did. Not that Turgon thought Eol had not been cruel, it was just that he preferred to think he was not so horrible. It was almost easier to sleep at night.
“Would you like to see the scars?” He was almost gleeful when he said it, as though challenging Turgon to whip him.
“No thank you, Maeglin.”
Turgon pointed to the desk. “Top drawer, open it. Take out a quill and some paper.” Maeglin ripped the drawer open with no small amount of force and removed the writing supplies.
“Good. Now I expect you to write an apology for spitting on Ecthelion, and one for Egalmoth’s tea as well.”
“Do you not think Egalmoth would be happier never having known what happened to his tea?” Maeglin challenged.
Turgon closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You shall write the apology but that one you will not be delivering. Ecthelion’s you will deliver in person, however.” Turgon was silent for a moment, then he added, "And one for Glorfindel as well. That one you shall deliver when you deliver Ecthelion’s."
Maeglin scowled. “Yes, uncle.”
Turgon turned his back on Maeglin, sitting back down at his desk, determined to ignore him and leave him to write his apology in peace. He waited to hear the scratch of the quill across the paper, but it remained silent. After a moment of waiting, he said, “Maeglin, why are you not writing?”
“I have no ink.”
“It is in the drawer.”
“You did not tell me to fetch it,” Maeglin retorted, and Turgon was grateful that his nephew could not see the expression he made. “You merely told me to get a quill and paper.”
“Maeglin,” he said, a note of warning in his voice. “Stop being smart and write the letters.”
Maeglin didn’t respond, but he heard the drawer open and a moment later the lid being taken off ink, followed by the scratch of the quill.
The two did not exchange any more words for the duration of Maeglin’s letter writing. Turgon did his best to focus on the missives and reports in front of him, rather than worrying about the boy at the desk behind him.
Finally, the sound of the quill stopped and Maeglin said, “Uncle, I am finished.”
“Bring them here.”
Maeglin did as he was told, surprisingly, without protest, dropping all three letters in front of Turgon.
The smith watched as his uncle scanned the letters. “Are you going to send me to my room?” he asked.
“I think not.” Although if he did send Maeglin to his room, it would cut down on the amount of trouble he could get it, he also knew about his nephew’s anti-social ways. “It seems, for you, that would be a reward.”
Maeglin's grin was almost frightening.