Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tuor had a destiny. Of that much, he was certain. He had a message to bring to the King of the Hidden City, a message that could save the world.

First, however, he would need to find the unfortunately well named Hidden City.

His instinct suggested he find a river, which made sense, as cities tended to build up around sources of freshwater. He tried to determine where a river might be, but when he turned to gain his bearings, he saw an inn before him.

Oh. Inns were good places for adventures to begin, too.

The inside of the inn was exactly as an inn should be: warmly yet dimly lit, inviting yet mysterious, crowded yet spacious. A minstrel in the corner played a familiar tune on his flute, though Tuor could not think of its name. At the bar, three servers chatted amongst each other and the customers while filling, serving, and washing plates, bowls, and mugs with impressive efficiency.

Tuor made a move towards the bar, ready to order one of the many tasty-looking dishes, when he realized he didn't have any money on him. He didn't have much of anything on him, come to think of it, besides some old, worn out armor.

At his hesitation, a beautiful woman moved past him and called out to the nearest server.

"Your finest wine," she ordered, before glancing back at him, her glowing eyes looking him up and down. He stood a little taller, hoping to appear as the handsome and noble knight he hoped to be.

"And a second glass for my friend," she added, giving him a meaningful smile. Tuor smiled back, happy to have made a friend so quickly. She gestured for him to follow her to a table in the corner, a little ways away from everyone else. Multiple heads turned towards her glimmering beauty as she passed, and though she gave them each a brief smile, she stopped for none. With uncanny grace, she slid into a seat at the corner table, patting the spot across from her. Tuor took the hint and the seat.

"So, what's a man like you doing in a place like this?"

Tuor blinked at the question. He didn't think he looked that out of place in the inn, although now that he looked around, most of the patrons were either elves in ragged finery or heavily armed men. He supposed walking around unarmed in some kind of rusty, antique armor was pretty odd.

He shrugged, "I'm an adventurer."

"Indeed?" Her eyes lit up, almost painfully bright, "And are you on an adventure now?"

"Of course! I have an important, secret message to give to the King of the Hidden City. Only, I've hit a slight problem."

"Let me guess," she smiled with knowing eyes, "You can't find the city because it's hidden too well."

"Exactly," he agreed.

"It seems you're in luck," she replied, "For it just so happens that I am from the Hidden City and seek to return. I will gladly be your guide."

What a fortuitous encounter! And yet, Tuor found himself asking, "Are you sure?"

"I am," she answered confidently, "Every adventurer needs a companion eventually, and besides, what are the chances that you stumbled across the one person who could help you with your quest? It must be fate."

"I suppose," he hummed, "I knew I needed a companion on this journey, I guess I just imagined someone different."

"Few can imagine me before they meet me," she said with a charming laugh.

"True enough," he nodded, before holding out his hand, "I'm so sorry, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Tuor."

"A pleasure to meet you, Tuor, I'm called Silverfoot."

Instinctively, Tuor glanced down and was surprised to find, "Your feet aren't silver?"

Silverfoot laughed again, "I suppose it would sound that way, but no. I am so called because I prefer to walk shoeless, showcasing my power to render any ground comfortable and harmless to walk upon. Of course, it is also said I leave silver footprints behind, but that would be ridiculous."

"I see," Tuor answered, though he wasn't entirely sure he did.

"Now that we are acquainted," Silverfoot began after a long sip of wine, "We ought to discuss our journey. Tell me about your message."

"I'm afraid I can't," Tuor said, "It is a secret which can only be revealed to the King. I do not even know it myself."

"Ah, how wise, the bestower of your message must be. And powerful. What do you know about your quest, then?"

Tuor was about to answer her when a crash sounded from across the inn. He turned just in time to see the unusual sight of a drunk elf stumbling around his recently overturned seat.

"I'm telling you, he's a prince!" The elf insisted loudly. His companion was too quiet for Tuor to hear at this distance, but he could guess the gist of it from his derisive sneer. Curious, he stood up.

"Tuor?"

He glanced back at Silverfoot and said, "Hold on, I'm just going to check this out real quick."

"Surely that isn't as important as our quest!"

"No, no, of course not, but I should help if I can," he replied distractedly, already heading towards the disturbance.

"Who ever heard of a prince in a tower?" A third member of the party was reasoning, "Towers are for princesses and sorcerers."

“Not where he’s from,” the first elf insisted, “They’ll put anyone in a tower in the cursed forest, if they think they can get anything out of it.”

“And what are they getting out of this? Doesn't seem worth it to me."

"You don't understand," he waved one arm wildly enough that he almost unbalanced himself, "It's a political… marriage… thing. They can't or don't want to offer material goods to make a good match for him, so they're offering the glorious reputation that comes with rescuing royalty, or perhaps a rich nobody in search of a title or something. But my point is… my point is , it’s a terrible thing to do. I mean, what if the prince doesn’t like the fellow who rescues him? Rich nobodies looking for glory probably make horrible spouses.”

“You mean they’d just make him marry a guy for rescuing him? That’s awful!” Tuor interrupted, too astounded to hold his silence. All three elves turned to look at him, but only the drunk one answered, “Precisely!”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“The Lord of the Cursed Forest, of course,” the elf answered, swaying dangerously as he approached Tuor, “They say he kept his wife in that tower, you know—as jealous as can be. But she escaped—or died, depending on who you ask—and so he put his son there in her place, to await a spouse powerful enough to rescue him.”

Tuor was appalled.

“Here,” the elf said, pushing a scroll into his hands, “Here’s the information that his father has put out about him, for anyone who wishes to try.”

“Sounds like a waste of time to me,” one of the others scoffed, “All that effort and for what? Getting to marry some whiny prince? I’ll pass.”

“I dunno,” said another with a grin that Tuor wanted to punch, “I wouldn’t mind marrying into royalty. Sounds like the prince might be a bit useless, but at least he’s pretty, and really, what more do you need? Besides, having royal heirs is a nice thought.”

The paper crunched slightly as Tuor tightened his fist, but he restrained himself from starting a bar fight. A hand laid on his arm and he turned to see Silverfoot watching him with a confused smile.

“What’s all this, Tuor?”

He showed her the scroll, which included a sketch of this Prince Maeglin (he was pretty, but Tuor did his best to ignore it), a challenge to rescue him (with very few instructions, but he supposed that was part of the challenge), and a description of the reward (people, Tuor thought viciously, are not rewards. Something like cruel laughter emanated from the scroll, and he growled at it).

“Hmm,” Silverfoot said, “Fascinating.”

“We should rescue him.”

“Should we?” she asked, “I don’t like the look of him.”

“That’s not what matters!” Tuor insisted, instead of disagreeing with his new friend, “He needs our help. They’re planning to make him marry some stranger just because they rescue him. It’s not right! But if I can get to him first, I can free him.”

“I suppose it isn’t. Well, I’m sure the King of the Hidden City will bestow some powerful weapons and armor upon you in thanks for delivering your message, and that will guarantee your success in rescuing this prince.”

“No, no,” Tuor shook his head, “We must rescue him at once!”

“But your message! It is critical to the survival of many, is it not?”

“True,” he bit his lip, “But I’m sure the Cursed Forest is on our way, and what if someone gets to him while I’m off delivering my message? The message can probably wait a week or so extra.”

“This is a terrible idea. What if he causes problems? What if he prevents you from completing your quest?”

“Why would he do that?” Tuor asked, but didn’t wait for a response, “I’m going. You can come with me if you’d like—I would welcome the company!” he gave her an earnest smile, “But I’m going to free the prince and then I’m going to deliver my message, and it will all work out. You’ll see.”

Silverfoot shook her head at him but followed when he exited the inn.

~ ~ ~

The forest was dark—very literally so: the trees had bark in dark shades of gray and darker shades of brown, and little light filtered through their canopies. Strange mushrooms glowed—on fallen logs and up in the branches—but the glow disoriented more than it illuminated. Similarly enchanting yet unhelpful dots of light fluttered about the air.

The streams they passed were murky, and Tuor was unable to tell if the waters genuinely were purple or merely looked it. They rippled in ways that made him wonder what, if anything, dwelt within. For all his love of water, he hesitated to investigate.

"Is this really worth the delay?" Silverfoot asked again. Tuor smiled gently at her and insisted, "Of course! Besides, we may encounter something useful in these woods, or learn something about ourselves which will save us later."

"I suppose," she answered doubtfully. Tuor knew she didn't understand, but perhaps she had never seen the cruelties he had. He felt confident that she would understand when she saw the prince and the life that had been thrust upon him.

When they had been walking for what could have been hours or days, they happened upon a strange woman. She was clad all in white and shimmered as a ghost, though her hair was dark and free.

"Halt, fellow travelers. These woods are perilous and conceal much. What brings you so willingly within their shade?"

Tuor saluted the lady, ghost or no, and replied, "We seek one who we are told is trapped within."

Before the last word left his throat, her hand was upon it—strong for a ghost, if indeed she was one.

"For what purpose do you seek him?" She hissed, and her teeth—which had been normal elven teeth—turned sharp and wicked. Tuor felt himself hoisted into the air, back slammed against a tree, and Silverfoot made an alarmed sound.

"I," he gasped, straining for enough air to explain, "save him… from cruel… circumstance. Free him."

He crumpled to the ground gulping down air. The lady—ghost—creature stepped back, teeth returned to normal and her appearance as pristine as ever. In the edges of his vision, he saw Silverfoot subtly re-sheathe a knife.

"In that case," the lady said, her voice perfectly friendly, "you should take this."

From Ulmo knew where, she produced a bow of silver and a quiver with three matching silver arrows. Cautiously, he accepted the gift.

"The tower in which he waits is surrounded by these streams, which will enchant those who drink them and pull those who step in them to their graves. There is but one bridge, and it is guarded by a great hound who will eat any who try to cross. But if you slay a shining stag with this bow, give it to the hound, and he will let you pass," she explained.

She walked away before he could respond, and when he looked for her in the trees, he saw nothing.

"That is a beautiful gift," Silverfoot admitted, "Perhaps you are right that this journey may prove fruitful."

Tuor smiled at her, she smiled back, and they continued deeper into the forest.

There was nothing to indicate how much time had passed when Tuor heard a rustle of leaves. He turned and caught a glimpse of shimmering fur and gleaming antlers. The shining stag! With a meaningful glance at Silverfoot, he took off after it, as silently as he could.

The stag led him on a winding path, deeper and deeper into the forest which seemed to close in behind him, and Tuor might have been afraid of getting lost had he not been so focused on his hunt. When at last the deer entered a clearing and he saw his shot, he drew one of the silver arrows. He could not remember ever favoring a bow before, but the bow and arrow seemed almost possessed, positioning themselves without his aid save as a pair of hands. Almost without his realizing it, the arrow released, a sharp and swift trajectory towards his prey, bringing with it an equally sharp and swift end.

Tuor knelt at the side of the stag and paused to thank it for its sacrifice, sending a quick prayer to Oromë and Yavanna each for their assistance and creations. The arrow, he noticed, had vanished upon hitting its mark. How strange.

The stag was surprisingly light to carry, and as he lifted it onto his back, he found that some of the glimmer of its fur remained on the forest floor. He stepped gently upon the shining grass and startled as the light unfurled a path in front of him.

Following the path, he soon found himself back where Silverfoot was, and she congratulated him on his successful hunt.

“It looks like quite a powerful animal,” she mentioned as they walked—for the path did not stop when he reached his companion, “I think it must possess some magic.”

Tuor didn’t know much about magic, so he only shrugged. Much of the magic in this forest seemed hostile, but then, he seemed to have an abundance of good luck around him which may have been magic as well.

The shining path led them to the edge of the trees—though the forest plainly stretched around this space. They were not out, they had merely reached a very large clearing.

Purple waters bubbled around them, twisting and turning, and Tuor supposed they must form a circle around the clearing. Ahead of them was a solitary bridge, upon which lay a hound larger in size than two horses together.

“Tuor,” Silverfoot said, alarm obvious in her voice. Tuor stopped, turning to her. She had not stepped beyond the trees.

“What is it?”

“That creature—how can we be sure it will be content with just one stag? It is so large, it may wish to eat us, too.”

Tuor frowned. She had a point, he supposed. The hound was truly massive, and for as large as the stag was, it was also light. Would it really satisfy the bridge’s guardian?

“We must trust in the lady’s words,” he decided, “After all, there isn’t much else we can do.”

“You do still have two arrows left,” she reminded him, and Tuor considered her words. He looked to the beast, and found he did not like the term. There was something stately about the hound, something sophisticated. There was an intelligence in the watch it kept, far more than the usual loyalty of a dog.

“No,” he shook his head, “No, I do not think he will attack us.”

And then, though he thought the words were a bit harsh, he found himself saying, “It isn’t right. You ought to be kinder.”

Silverfoot gave him a strange look for a moment, but he blinked and she was smiling at him, “I suppose I can try to be. For you.”

He smiled back, then hefted the stag and strode confidently out of their cover towards the hound. It spotted him easily and stood, blocking the entirety of the bridge.

“Hello!” he called out, “Mighty hound, I should like to cross your bridge, so I have brought you a gift in the hopes that you will let my companion and I pass!”

The hound lowered his head, sniffing the offering, before taking it and crossing to the other side of the bridge. He curled up to the side of it, leaving a clear path and—his heart leaped—a view of the tower. Tuor waved for Silverfoot to follow him across.

They reached the other side, only to find a gate of iron blocking their way.

“What do we do now?” he wondered aloud.

“I can help,” spoke a deep voice he did not recognize. He turned to find no one… except the hound, who was staring directly at him.

“You can?” he asked, hoping he looked more sensible than he felt, speaking to a giant canine.

“Yes,” the hound said, “Many have tried to cross my bridge, but they all tried to attack me or trick me. You brought me food and spoke to me with kindness. For this, I will help you open the gate. There is a small gap in the rocks at the side of the bridge, and the edges of the stones there are jagged. I use it to sharpen my claws. Take these antlers from the stag and sharpen them there, and you will be able to use them to pick the lock on the gate.”

He pushed the antlers forward, and Tuor took them.

“Thank you,” he said, then went back onto the bridge. Just as the hound said, there was a small gap, one he might never have noticed, and in no time at all he had fashioned the antlers into lock-picks. Soon enough, the iron gate swung open before them.

They walked forward across the field, to the base of the tower, and Tuor looked up. In the window, watching them, was the most beautiful elf he had ever seen—tied only with Silverfoot. If this was the prince, the sketch Tuor had seen didn’t do him justice.

“Are you the prince?” he called up to the elf, who flinched and moved out of sight.

“Are you attempting to rescue me?” the elf yelled back, confirming his identity. His voice was soft and strong at once, higher than Tuor had been anticipating, and yet there was a grittiness to it, an earthiness that captured his attention. He wanted to hear that voice read poetry, although such a voice could render the driest instruction manuals poetic.

“Indeed we are!” he answered, and the elf laughed harshly, “You have come far, but it will all be in vain. If you so much as touch the handle of this tower’s door, every bird you see circling above will descend upon you.”

Tuor glanced higher and saw that, sure enough, hundreds of crows circled overhead.

“Is there nothing we can do?”

“The birds are well-trained by my father,” the elf told him, “There is but one thing that can distract them from their duty: they crave the taste of the Fae Queen’s pomegranates. But I would not risk stealing from her orchard if I were you. If she catches you, death would be a mercy. She prefers to enchant thieves to forget their former lives, becoming nothing but mindless servants in her halls for the rest of their days.”

Well that didn’t sound pleasant.

Still, Tuor was determined to rescue this prince. Secure though the tower may be, he couldn’t in good conscience leave the prince at the mercy of a father who would lock him up, marry him off against his will, and—apparently—train a murder of crows to, well, murder people.

“I will do what I must,” he said in the most reassuring tone he could muster. The prince did not respond.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Silverfoot asked as they headed back into the woods, looking for a way into the realm of the Fae Queen, “He is safe from any unwanted suitors, I am sure. We should go to the Hidden City, and then we may come back to save him once we have the support of my father. He will provide us with more than enough resources to rescue this prince with ease.”

Her words made sense, but before Tuor could respond, he heard a shriek from nearby. He turned, pushing through some underbrush to find a mole trapped inside an iron box.

“Oh, the poor thing,” he murmured. He still had the antlers he had used to pick the iron gate’s lock tied to his belt, so he sat beside the trap and made quick work of opening it. When the mole was free, it didn’t immediately run off. Instead, it paused and turned to him.

“Thank you, my friend,” it squeaked, “One good turn deserves another. Is there anything I could do to help you?”

“I need a pomegranate from the Fae Queen’s orchard,” he said, “Could you show me the way?”

“I can do better than that,” the mole replied, “For the Fae Queen is very powerful, and she would notice a man entering her realm. But moles go unnoticed everywhere, for soil is as powerful as it is humble.”

Without further ado, the mole dived into the ground within a ring of mushrooms and disappeared. Tuor waited anxiously, perched on a fallen log, and after about half-an-hour, the mole emerged. To its back, the mole had tied a large piece of bark like a sled, and to that was tied a pomegranate. The fruit looked delicious, but Tuor knew better than to taste it.

“I cannot thank you enough,” he said, but the mole shook its head, “You saved my life. No thanks are necessary. I do not like to be above ground for too long, but before I go, I will offer you some advice: my power comes from moving unseen, using anything I can as my cover. Without my cover, I would quickly whither and die in the light.”

With that, the mole disappeared, leaving the pomegranate behind. Tuor put it in a pouch on his belt.

“That was strange advice,” Silverfoot remarked, and Tuor nodded, “I’m not sure how helpful it will be for me; sunlight does not harm me. But I’m sure it was kindly meant all the same.”

As they made their way back, a man appeared, walking down the path towards them. Tuor was surprised at how many beings seemed to be moving through such a cursed forest, but then, he supposed, cursed forests were a prime location for quests.

The man—or elf? Tuor couldn’t tell—had ragged golden curls and his clothes clung to him in bloody tatters. There was an old, patched cap on his head. He looked like he had just lost a fight—or won by the skin of his teeth.

“Greetings,” Tuor called to him, and he stopped. He looked upon them with haunted eyes and said, “Are you friend or foe? I cannot always tell anymore.”

“Friend, I hope,” Tuor answered, “But what has happened to you?” A thought occurred to him, and he added, “You have not been trying to reach a certain prince, have you?”

“A prince?” the man blinked, “I know of no prince, though I once knew many. I—oh! You carry arrows of silver.”

“I do,” Tuor acknowledged, reaching back to touch them.

“Would you give them to me? I have little I can give you, but if I could, I would give anything for them.”

“Why do you need them so desperately?”

“I have long been hunted by a werewolf,” he confessed, his voice conveying immeasurable weariness, “And as everyone knows, only silver can stop a werewolf for good.”

“Then you may have them, and my good will with them, for I have need of them no longer,” Tuor said, handing over the bow as well as the arrows, “You need them far more than I do.”

“I cannot take them for nothing,” the man replied, “Once I was a friend to many, though I think I have lost them all. I do not remember which one gave me this, but it has served me well in days past. Perhaps it will help you.”

He took the cap from his head and tossed it to Tuor, who caught it.

“I thank you, friend, but I do already have a helm,” Tuor tried to say, but the man was already off down the path and did not seem to hear him. He sighed and tucked the cap into his belt. If his luck continued, he would probably stumble across someone else who needed a cap more than anything in the world.

However, there were no more encounters along their road. They reached the bridge and nodded to the hound, who was dozing contentedly in a small patch of sunlight. Heavy clouds covered most of the clearing, and the circling crows covered most of the small gaps, but there was one warm spot, right near the bridge. Tuor was glad to know the hound was enjoying himself.

They reached the base of the tower once more and the prince looked down in surprise.

“You cannot have returned so quickly—or indeed at all! Or have you simply decided to try your luck against the birds? I would recommend against it, if so.”

“No, we have gotten the pomegranate, and soon you will be safe!”

“Impossible!” the prince exclaimed, although it didn’t seem to be directed at Tuor. Shrugging, he gestured for Silverfoot to wait beside the door while he opened the fruit. He grabbed a handful of seeds, then nodded for her to open the door. Before it had even cracked, there was a great shriek and a flapping of hundreds of wings. Tuor cast the seeds out as far as he could, scooping up more and tossing them out even as he dashed for the door. The birds turned sharply, descending upon the field instead of the two adventurers, and Tuor and Silverfoot slipped inside to safety.

Inside the base of the tower was gray and uninviting, decorated only by a rather concerning amount of dried blood splattered across otherwise blank walls. Tuor hoped Prince Maeglin's rooms were more pleasant. A tall, winding staircase led upwards and with a glance between them, Tuor started up it, Silverfoot just behind him. At the top was a narrow door of iron, but it was not locked. When Tuor pushed on it, it swung open.

Prince Maeglin stood at the window, but he was facing them. Backlit by the greyish light of the clearing, his features were obscured, but he was still unmistakable. For one thing, though his elvenness was apparent, Tuor had never encountered such a short elf before.

As Tuor watched, he appeared to grow even shorter, and it took the adventurer a moment to realize he was kneeling.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” he assured, “I couldn’t be happier to rescue you!”

Tuor stepped forward and reached out a hand to help the prince rise, only to startle when he felt the unexpected softness of Maeglin licking the pomegranate juice from his fingers. At once he realized the prince must have misconstrued his intention, and he rushed to set things right.

"No, no, you mistake me!" He cried, stepping back with his hands raised. The prince only bowed his head, keeping his gaze firmly on the floor. Tuor crouched down in the hopes of looking less intimidating and spoke softly, "I do not mean to rescue you for myself. I mean only to free you from this tower, to rescue you from this fate."

Maeglin said nothing, so Tuor pressed onwards, "I have defeated the challenges, and now we may depart, and when we are out of these cursed woods, you will be safe from all scoundrels who think they can win a person like a prize."

"But I am a prize," Maeglin countered, his voice far too calm for Tuor's comfort, "I have seen the notice, the quest. I am to belong to whomever rescues me from this tower. That would be you."

"People may choose to refer to each other with belonging, but if it is not a choice on both sides, it is despicable!"

Maeglin looked at him with what could only be fear and asked, "Am I not pleasing to you?"

Tuor hesitated, neither wishing to lie nor to speak the truth. At last he settled on, "It matters not. I am here to save you, not to take advantage of your situation. Now please, please trust me to guide you to safety. I promise I will not harm you."

"As you like," Prince Maeglin answered with an even deeper bow before cautiously rising. Tuor smiled reassuringly at him, but he didn't even seem to look.

Together they descended the stairs, Tuor helping Maeglin while Silverfoot followed silently. Tuor hoped she wasn't still annoyed about the delay, but he suspected she was.

As they stepped outside the tower, however, the clouds parted as if on cue, and glaringly bright sun burst forth. Tuor put a hand up to shade his eyes, but he jumped as Maeglin screamed, then collapsed to the ground, curling up and fruitlessly attempting to protect his eyes from the sunlight. Tuor's heart wrenched before he remembered his uncommon good luck and pulled the floppy, old cap from his belt, placing it as gently as he could over Maeglin's head so that it would cover his eyes.

Maeglin froze, but his pain seemed to ease. Tuor's eyes adjusted to the bright light and he wondered if the prince had lived beneath the heavy clouds of this forest his entire life.

When he was comfortable enough, Maeglin rose again and bowed again and said, "There, it is all as you wish. You have caught me in your cap, so I am now yours to keep, not by my father's choice but by your hand. Are you pleased now?"

Tuor's stomach churned at this prince's horrifying ideas of the world and he shook his head, "I am not upset, but you still do not belong to me, for you have not chosen me."

"It is not for me to choose. If I were stronger than my father, perhaps, but as I am not, it is for him to decide my fate, and as he chose to gift me to my savior, it is now yours to choose for me."

"Fine, then, as your savior, I choose that you should be free to make your own decisions."

Maeglin flinched, "Please do not tease me. No, I apologize, it is your right."

Tuor cast about desperately for a counterargument, but Silverfoot intervened, "We have a long road ahead of us. Perhaps we may continue this discussion on our way?"

They agreed—or rather Tuor agreed and the prince meekly accepted his fate, and began the long journey out of the woods. The hound at the bridge congratulated them and remarked that he would enjoy traveling again now that his duty was complete.

"You could accompany us," Tuor suggested, though Silverfoot looked uncomfortable. Before she could voice her concerns, the hound replied, "I must decline, for I have certain friends I must seek out before it is too late. I wish you well."

So they parted ways, and the party of three ventured back into the woods. After a time, they paused for the night, and Maeglin protested that they did not tie him down.

"We have no need nor desire for such brutality. You are safe with us," Tuor did his best to explain calmly, and though Maeglin stilled, he looked more frightened than ever before. Tuor attempted to hide his growing frustration at himself; why could he not say the right thing to make Maeglin feel comfortable?

Silverfoot pulled him aside with a grim look after they ate, and Tuor waited with trepidation to hear her thoughts on the prince.

"I don't trust him," she said, "I don't trust this act of his. There are many people who wish to reach the Hidden Realm for malicious purposes, hence why its location is such a closely guarded secret. What if he is a spy?"

"A spy whose master plan is locking himself in a nearly impenetrable tower?"

"But think about how easy it was for us to clear each obstacle, almost as if it were designed for us. I don't like this one bit."

"He needs our help. If this is all the world's most elaborate trap, then we'll figure it out, but I'm not leaving behind someone who is so… so… vulnerable just because there's a slight possibility he's plotting against us in some elaborate way."

"Well if you are so charmed by his vulnerability, I will take it upon myself to keep an eye on him. But either way, we have delayed too long already. We must reach the Hidden City."

"Of course," Tuor agreed, then added more softly, "I just want to help people."

"I know."

~ ~ ~

They continued back the way they had come, but for some time, the forest seemed to fight them. Every familiar path turned strange the further they went and every time Silverfoot seemed to catch sight of a break in the trees and directed them towards it, they found only a clearing. She grew more distressed the longer it took, and Tuor had to admit he was also growing nervous about the urgency of his message.

If there was any benefit to the delay, however, it was that he found himself with more time to convince Maeglin that they were not, in fact, trying to force him into marriage. Tuor wasn’t sure where Maeglin would go when they left the woods, or if he would accompany them to the Hidden City—despite Silverfoot’s concerns—but he didn’t want to leave the elf until he was sure he would be safe on his own… and not just throw himself on the cruel mercy of the first traveler that would cross his path. He seemed to fear them both, but it was only Tuor he believed he would be expected to wed. Perhaps he had picked up on Silverfoot’s distrust.

Each morning, Tuor gave Maeglin food, for he had learned early on that the prince would not eat unless it had been offered. He took these opportunities to break his own fast with Maeglin, speaking to him about whatever topics came to mind.

“Have you ever seen the sea?”

“No.”

Maeglin liked to keep his answers concise, but Tuor did his best to draw out something of his character.

“I am not sure how to describe it, but there is a vastness to it that ought to terrify me, yet I know it would never harm me. It is like a home to me. Is there anything like that for you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Another morning, he had received a more interesting answer when he asked, “What are your favorite foods?”

At first, Maeglin had shrugged, but at a second prompting, he replied, “When I was very little, I would forage for mushrooms and berries and herbs with my mother. She would hunt deer, every now and then, and could make one last months. All of those were good on their own, but when my father left on business trips, she would make the most delicious mixture from all four. I’m afraid I haven’t really eaten anything that cannot be found in these woods, though.”

“Oh, how interesting!” Tuor had tried to get even more details, but when Maeglin dodged his questions again, he decided not to push his luck further that day.

Having no idea how to address Maeglin’s unfounded fears, Tuor instead determined to be friendly and respectful without bringing them up at all. Hopefully, what he could not convey through his words, he could show through his actions. Indeed, Maeglin looked less tense and fearful with each passing day.

Shortly after Tuor noticed his success in this matter, they achieved success in another: around midday one day, Silverfoot spotted another gap in the trees, and though the forest seemed to twist and turn about them as they walked towards it, they prevailed. Silverfoot looked as pleased as Tuor felt to be free of the oppressive weight of the cursed forest, and even Maeglin looked around in wonder before recalling his fear.

Risking Silverfoot’s disapproval, Tuor could not help but extend an invitation to Maeglin, “If you would like, you may leave us and be free, but you are welcome to continue on with us, as well.”

To his surprise, Silverfoot only smiled blandly when Maeglin quietly said, “I will follow you.”

He hoped that meant she was warming to him.

The scenery of their journey changed, but otherwise it continued much as it had. Maeglin could not help but express fascination at many of the places they passed, from new plants, to the immensity of open ground, to his favorite—unfamiliar minerals. Tuor encouraged him at every turn and found himself struggling to contain an admiration he was sure the elf would not feel comfortable receiving. There was something that tugged at his heart—a longing, a desire long suppressed—every time he saw Maeglin smile at yet another grayish stone that Tuor couldn’t distinguish from another.

The discovery of this interest brought something else, as well: a topic on which Maeglin would talk endlessly, if he felt he could. Tuor did his best to ensure he always did feel he could, and he spent many a day listening to hours of explanations of mineral properties that he could barely recall by the time they sat down to eat their evening meal. Though Tuor suspected he would never know even a fraction of what Maeglin did, he was pleased to realize his initial analysis of Maeglin’s voice was correct: he could turn the driest facts into nothing short of poetry merely by speaking them.

They traveled a plain that seemed just as endless as the forest, but as they proceeded, Maeglin stopped flinching at sudden movements or light touches and even cautiously reached for Tuor when he needed something.

As the ground grew rockier and rockier and mountains loomed closer, they found themselves alone once more. Silverfoot had scouted ahead for a place to stay for the night, as a storm gathered in the distance.

There was one question that had haunted Tuor for a long time now, and at last he felt that Maeglin might trust him enough to answer. He hoped with all his heart that was true, at least, and that he was not about to break what they had built so far.

"May I," Tuor began haltingly, "May I ask why your father decided to lock you in that tower?"

Maeglin scuffed at the dirt with his boots before answering, "My father always wanted an heir. A son who might be almost his equal in smithing and in sorcery. Unlike most elves, he believed more strongly in gender influencing one's abilities. Ellons are better at material work, like smithing, he believes, while elleths have greater control of magic. Given his own magical heritage, he believed a son would be more powerful, as any child of his ought to be naturally good at sorcery. I believe he threatened my mother over it."

Maeglin's hands were clasped before him, trembling, so Tuor gently laid a hand over them. Maeglin glanced at him swiftly before looking down again.

"When I was born, my father was away. He did not consider it as important as his business. This gave both my mother and—though I was too young to realize it yet—myself a great opportunity, for while my fëa is indeed that of an ellon, my body is not, in the traditional sense. My mother has little magic, but she can be very intimidating. She threatened her healer into helping her ensure that my father never knew about this discrepancy. To my happiness, my father's hope, and my mothers safety, I was simply a son, nothing more or less, for the first half of my life."

"And that is what you wish to be, yes?" Tuor wanted there to be no mistakes on his part, for he sensed some impending in the prince's story.

"Yes. While I have known some to be one gender for years then gradually or suddenly change, sometimes once, sometimes many times, for my part—and I have examined my fëa many a time—I have always been my mother's son."

Tuor didn't miss the other implication in Maeglin's identity, so he waited for the elf to continue his tale.

"At twelve, I showed real promise, seeing through my father's impenetrable enchantments with ease while showing early signs of a passion for minerals and craft. For many years, my father warmed towards both myself and my mother. But peace was not to last. My father was growing irritated with me, for while I am a capable smith, I prefer mining and exploring the properties of minerals. Worse, a few years after he proudly named me for my magic, my abilities seemed to vanish. He became increasingly angry at us both, until one day, I made the greatest mistake of my life."

He tensed, and Tuor instinctively wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Maeglin tensed further, but before he could withdraw and apologize, the elf sank against him, face half turned against his shoulder.

"My father made some sort of comment about how perhaps he had needed a daughter after all, perhaps my mother's lack of magic was interfering with mine, and as a boy, I didn't have the strength to overcome it. So I told him about the secret of my birth, lied to him, even, that I could be his daughter if he wished. Perhaps, I thought, an elleth's magic is different, and if I pretend to be one, I can be taught properly. I have never erred more completely. My healer was executed, I believe, and my mother vanished—in my despair, I sometimes hope he killed her, for she craved freedom above all else, and to be locked in a tiny room forever as I was would be the worst kind of torture for her," Maeglin sobbed against him at these words, and Tuor did all he could to provide physical comfort, though his stomach churned in nausea and rage at the picture Maeglin was painting.

When he was recovered enough to finish his tale, Maeglin continued, "For my part, my father told me that the strength of an ellon rests in his body and the magic of an elleth rests in her fëa, so it made sense at last why I was so lacking in both. He declared me too weak to inherit his realm, but he came to the conclusion that, with the right partner, I might produce a worthy heir. At once, he locked me up and set about finding the right way to tempt worthy spouses into seeking me while eliminating those who were lacking. After long years of waiting, here you are. Though," here he looked up at Tuor nervously, "If I may be so bold, you are far more as I had wished than as he will like."

Upon saying it, he blushed and lowered his gaze once more. On impulse, Tuor reached out and lifted his chin, shifting slightly so they were face to face. Maeglin stared at him with eyes that should not have been so piercing for how wide and artless they looked.

"I could not ask for a greater compliment," he said, keeping his fingers softly but firmly on the prince's jaw so that he would not look away, "And I am so very proud that you said it. I would never wish you to feel frightened of me, or worse that you must show me deference and demureness. It brings me joy to know you are comfortable being bold around me."

For a moment, Maeglin looked frightened, before something equal parts soft and determined settled on his face and he asked, "Would you kiss me?"

"Do you want me to?"

"I," Maeglin's eyes darted around as if the answer could be found floating about in the air, or about Tuor's person, "I would not want to impose. I know there is little desirable about me, though I was deemed pretty enough to attract worthy suitors. But I know, now, that is not why you rescued me, so I wouldn't want to assume."

"But would you want me to kiss you, if I did want to?"

"I… yes," he whispered, gaze low, "You are handsome and brave and kinder than I could possibly imagine. You are the first person I have met whom I like and trust enough to dare to want such a thing. But do not worry, I know you do not wish it, so I will keep it to myself from now on."

"No," Tuor said quickly, "I do not want you to accept a kiss from me out of obligation, but if you desire it also, I will gladly kiss you."

Maeglin looked at him with shining eyes and whispered, "Thank you," which was not the most promising response but not the most concerning, either. Then suddenly, quick as a striking snake, Maeglin leaned forward and pressed his lips to Tuor's. Tuor embraced him with a warm heart and kissed back, taking care not to hold the elf too tight or push for more than he was willing to give.

When they parted, Maeglin looked uncertain, but Tuor only smiled at him and stroked his cheek tenderly until he relaxed.

Shortly thereafter, Silverfoot returned, a radiant glow about her that Tuor hadn't seen since they met. He smiled back at her as she informed them, "There is a cave ahead which looks safe. We may wait out the storm there."

Tuor offered a hand to help Maeglin up and was pleased when he accepted it. Together they walked towards the cave, which turned out to be roomy and decently ventilated, for the air was fresh.

"I will make a fire," he suggested, and his companions both agreed. Maeglin quickly became lost in examining the cave itself. Silverfoot glanced at Tuor with a gleam in her eyes but said nothing.

"I should investigate some more," she eventually said, "I want to make sure we have a clear path ahead."

"Now? Surely it isn't safe!"

"I am well attuned to the workings of the world, I will be fine. If I have not returned when the storm hits, rest assured I will be weathering it easily enough."

Tuor didn't want to see her in danger, especially unnecessarily, but she was powerful and wise. He trusted her to know her own abilities.

"Alright. Be safe."

She smiled at him and even winked before exiting the cave. Tuor's feelings were thoroughly confused.

He continued his work on the fire, roasting a small meal for them all. Smelling the food, Maeglin peeled himself away from rock and soil to share some with Tuor. Neither of them spoke, but they shared many warm glances.

Soon after eating, Maeglin curled up to sleep. Tuor kept watch over both him and the fire.

He was still awake when Silverfoot returned from her investigations and sat beside him, leaning against his side. It was a gesture of closeness, overly familiar, but Tuor found he trusted her and let his head fall upon her shoulder.

"I worry about him," she murmured, looking over to where Maeglin slept fitfully.

"I know, you've said he could betray us many times," Tuor sighed, ready to reiterate how much he didn't regret saving the prince.

"What? Oh, yes, I suppose I have said that, but I just mean… I feel sorry for him sometimes, even though I know he hates that."

"You what?" Tuor blinked in surprise. Silverfoot glanced down at him, her brow furrowed, though the light shining from her eyes remained warm and bright, "Just because he annoys me doesn't mean I want him to suffer. Most of the time. A little bit might do him some good," she snorted before relaxing into a pleasant smile, "Besides, I know how much you care about him. That's enough for me to care about him, too. Even if I still don't understand what you see in him that way. I suppose I can be nice, though, and grant that he’s an excellent conversationalist for anyone who wishes to hear unique perspectives, as I do. So are you, in a different sort of way."

She fell silent after that, curling up closer and tucking her silver feet beneath her. Tuor held her close and watched the fire flickering gently in the cool evening air.

When they awoke the next morning, the intimate moment had passed. Silverfoot was already up and about, gathering their things and encouraging them to be on their way.

"We are close," she said with relish, "I can feel it!"

"Wonderful!" He replied with a wide grin.

Maeglin—who was usually a bit quiet—was noticeably silent as he dragged his feet packing his few belongings.

“How are you feeling?” Tuor asked, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on Maeglin’s shoulder. The prince flinched back, before his eyes widened and he quickly bowed his head, stammering out an apology, “I, I am sorry, my lord. I must have had a strange dream.”

It was an odd explanation, but Maeglin seemed torn between fright and obedience. Though it hurt Tuor’s heart to see the elf regress, he would do what he could to ease his fears. He stepped back, keeping a friendly smile in place instead of the frown that would have better showcased his feelings, and said, “No apology is necessary, my friend. After all you have been through, take what time you need.”

He tried not to be too hurt when Maeglin said nothing in return.

~ ~ ~

A familiar stretch of mountains rose before them, and something warm shifted in Tuor's chest, a sense of home.

"The Hidden City," Silverfoot grinned, "We're finally here."

Tuor had a moment to feel relief at her words, before a sharp voice behind them laughed derisively, "That's what you think."

He felt a hand grasp the back of his neck, slender yet strong fingers curling around to dig into the sides of his throat. With unfamiliar coldness, a familiar voice hissed in his ear, "I should thank you, I suppose, for freeing me from my father's curse. Only when I was free of the forest and the enchantment broke did I realize that it was he himself who had bound my magic, fearing that I would best him, only to accidentally bind too much of my power and render me useless to his own schemes. But I'm afraid I cannot return your favor, for I have unearthed your secret. You should have been more careful in constructing your caves; they were poorly designed."

Tuor tried to struggle, tried to ask "What secret?" or "Since when did I have a cave?" but the fingers around his throat tightened, and everything went dark.

When he woke, the first thing he felt was betrayal.

He was lying on a familiar cot. Maeglin's cot. From the tower. He forced himself to look up and saw Maeglin himself watching from a chair on the other side of the room, a steaming cup of tea in his hands to balance the cold expression on his face.

Tuor hauled himself upright, ignoring the dizziness in his head in favor of staggering to his feet to point an accusing finger at the prince.

"Traitor! Silverfoot was right not to trust you."

Maeglin's lips curled up in an angry sneer, but he said nothing.

Tuor stalked forward, letting his hurt and anger radiate through him for strength.

"I must reach the Hidden City. It is imperative! Let me out of here."

"Make me," Maeglin taunted. Tuor could hardly reconcile his harsh demeanor with the quiet and docile elf he had initially found here. Had it all been an act? Surely this couldn't be the act? Yes, there was something about the harshness which suited him, but…

Remembering the gentleness, the kindness, the quiet determination of the prince he had begun to know and care for, Tuor found himself growing angry at the mocking imitation before him. He had wanted to see Maeglin find his confidence, but to discover that his submission had been an act of pure betrayal? To be thwarted in saving an entire city, if not the world, because this sorcerer had tricked him with a pretty face and soft voice?

(To have believed, for a time, that their one sweet kiss had been real)

He would use that anger and do what he had to do to save the occupants of the Hidden City. Even if he might not be able to forgive himself later. Time was running out, and he couldn't save everyone.

Grabbing Maeglin by his robes before the sorcerer had time to dodge, he dragged him to the window and bent him backwards, over the sill. The prince's legs were too short to stay on the ground, but he got one good kick against Tuor's shin before the man managed to pin him properly against the stone.

"Take us back!" He demanded, but Maeglin simply spat in his face. Flinching away, Tuor's grip slipped. He felt Maeglin slide backwards and lunged forward to catch him, but his angle was poor and his momentum too great. As he pitched forward, Maeglin's fingers clenched around him in a sick parody of the way his heart clenched as they fell together, and he heard the prince hiss, "Monster," at him.

His heart twisted in guilt he didn't quite understand, and then he hit the ground and knew no more.

~ ~ ~

"How dare you!" Something sharp and white hot struck him across the face, "You absolutely unhinged, incompetent, pathetic, nauseating creatures! What's wrong with you?! Do you have no concentration? No dedication? A death wish?!"

Whoever was shouting let out a wordless, inhuman shriek of rage that lasted a full four minutes.

In those four minutes, Tuor managed to wake up properly, finding himself not at home in bed with his wife (which he wouldn't have expected) nor mangled at the base of a tower in a cursed forest (which he had kind of expected) but instead in an uncomfortably overheated iron cell with Maeglin's body slumped against him and a terrifying being of fire throwing a tantrum on the other side of the bars.

Well, mostly on the other side. In his rage, the creature—Gorthaur, if he had to guess—had melted a large section of the bars, leaving a gaping hole behind.

"I gave you everything!" Sauron screamed, apparently having remembered to use his words, "I gave you a mysterious woman, in the guise of your own wife—not that you remembered her at the time—who was interested in you and cared about your quest, but could you have focused on her? No! No, you had to go talk to the fucking drunk elf in the corner of the inn and go on some ridiculous, waste-of-time side quest just in case the useless, annoying, creep of a prince in an impossible-to-access tower accidentally got rescued by a stranger and had to marry against his will??? What's wrong with you? And, ugh, you were so sappy," he spoke in an affected, high pitched voice that sounded absolutely nothing like Tuor, "Oh, darling, I don't want to hurt you, I don't want to take advantage. As if he understands the difference! As if it matters!” he scoffed, “After what he’s done, he will suffer a thousand times worse.”

Maeglin shifted slightly, head lolling over his shoulder, and Tuor silently breathed a sigh of relief.

He hadn’t been entirely sure Maeglin had survived whatever had happened in… whatever place that had been. A dream? It had been too real, but he knew no other way to describe it.

Sauron was still ranting and raging before him, and Tuor’s brain finally started to work properly. He wasn’t the best actor in the world—in fact, Maeglin had multiple times called him one of the worst—but he hoped that Sauron, in his fury, wouldn’t see through his bluff.

“Please,” he whimpered, pleaded, as loud as he dared, “Please, it hurts!”

“Good!” Sauron growled, but he actually paused long enough to ask, “What does?”

“Aghh,” he cried, bringing his hands up to his head half for show and half to cover his face, “My head… what’s happening to me? Oww.”

“Hah!” Sauron scoffed, “Is the mind of a man so weak that he cannot withstand dying in a manufactured reality?”

“Ohh, it hurts,” he whined, sniffing a bit, “Hnngh… water. I—I need water.”

Sauron made a noise of disgust, but Tuor pressed forward, “P-please… water. I would… do anything.”

Silence.

Tuor couldn’t let himself hold his breath, he needed to sniffle pathetically a bit more, but his heart pounded as he waited. Had Maeglin been conscious to witness this, Tuor knew he would never hear the end of it.

“Anything?” Sauron purred, “Well then.”

He was gone in a flash, and Tuor knew he wouldn’t have much time. It was probably a foolish move anyway, they’d be caught and tortured beyond salvation, but it was his only chance. He grabbed Maeglin and threw him over his shoulder, running as fast as he could out of the massive hole in their cell.

Morgoth and Gorthaur have made a mistake, he thought to himself. They had toyed with him upon his arrival, allowing him to make his way to Maeglin’s cell barely hindered, allowing him to think he had a chance. But in doing so, they had allowed him to see the path in… and the path out.

When he breathed the—well, not fresh air outside of Angband, but fresher air, Tuor almost wondered if it had been another trap. He had been able to dodge most of the orcs he’d crossed paths with, and the few who had spotted him had been alone and easy enough to dispatch with his free hand before they could sound the alarm.

However, as he ducked behind a jagged rock, gently setting Maeglin down to rest his arm, he heard a volcanic explosion resonating with a shriek of rage that made his ears bleed. He was already kneeling, but he pitched forward, trying to protect himself as best he could while still sheltering Maeglin’s body. The poor elf was overly sensitive to sound as well as light; at least he wasn’t awake to experience this firsthand.

As soon as the waves of anger faded into something bearable, Tuor hauled himself up and lifted Maeglin over his other shoulder. The search parties would be out soon, and he needed to reach one of the canteens of water he had hidden on his way there. Ulmo had happily agreed to help him in this small manner, and Tuor was grateful for that, for he would never have made it back across the plains alone, much less while carrying Maeglin.

After about a half hour of searching, just around the time he began to hear the chilling calls of a gathering warg pack in the distance, Tuor found one of the silver containers. It was warm, but not hot enough for the water to have evaporated, especially considering the spells that Ecthelion and his greatest enchanters had laid upon it. A growl sounded in the distance, but Tuor didn’t waste time looking up. He simply opened the canteen and—ensuring he had a strong grasp on Maeglin—overturned it above both their heads.

A strange sensation of melting without losing shape descended over him, and when he blinked, he was standing half-submerged in the backwaters of a river. The Sirion, probably. There was nothing in their immediate vicinity save a lot of trees, but that was proof enough that they were away from Angband by a considerable distance. They would have time to rest, and then they could simply follow the river until they found people.

Tuor laid Maeglin down on the bank, climbing out. He trailed his hand through the water one last time and whispered, “Thank you.”

The water stirred in recognition, but it did not take shape or give him any messages back.

So he was alone with Maeglin.

The small elf was pale, although he was always naturally quite pale as the result of a youth spent enshrouded in darkness and an adulthood spent avoiding the sun. His sleep was fitful, however, and Tuor worried. Maeglin had been their prisoner for much longer, after all, and even just within the dream-thing, he had not exactly had an easy time of things. Tuor had fully believed in the hero’s role he was assigned, so it was entirely possible that Maeglin had truly believed he was some sort of thrall-like prize—although Tuor still didn’t quite understand the whole traitor-sorcerer thing. He would have to ask later.

~ ~ ~

Tuor spent the next day and a half sitting at Maeglin’s side and stroking through his hair with gentle fingers, only feeling slightly guilty in his knowledge that Maeglin might still dislike him. It was merely a good bedside manner, he told himself, but it was a weak enough excuse that even he didn’t believe it.

At last, Maeglin stirred.

Tuor quickly scooted back, giving Maeglin the distance he would probably prefer.

“Wha—where am I?” Maeglin asked, groggy as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He glanced around and caught sight of Tuor sitting there. At once, his posture became tense. Tuor tried not to look too disappointed, but he didn’t have much time to school his expression before a force like a tidal wave crashed against his mind. He didn’t fight it, letting himself bob along on its path until it passed through.

When it was gone, Maeglin was slumped forward slightly, exhausted but awake and thankfully less tense.

“You’re real,” he said aloud, and Tuor suspected the words were more for his benefit than because Maeglin needed to say them. It was an uncommon kindness.

“Yes,” he confirmed anyway, mostly to have something to say. He held out a cup of fresh drinking water, which Maeglin accepted with a bit more of his typical gruffness. While he drank, Tuor gave him a brief overview of where they (probably) were and how they’d gotten there.

When at last Maeglin seemed properly conscious, Tuor asked the question which had been haunting him since their escape:

"Can you explain what happened in the—in the dream world? Why did you betray me?"

Maeglin stared determinedly at the ground some ways away, picking absently at the soil around him. He shrugged, "I knew there was some magic upon me, curses and tricks, but for a long time, I assumed that was simply part of my tower imprisonment. It is quite common to use disorienting tricks on prisoners or victims of kidnapping. I only managed to access enough of my memories to understand the real trick after Idril visited, though I didn't put it together properly at the time."

"What do you mean, after Idril visited?"

"Don't you know? That night in the cave, Gorthaur was distracted, and Idril—the real Idril—spent the night with you and loosened Gorthaur's grip on my mind. Only… I made a mistake. I didn't know what set off my memories at first, so when they returned, I took you for the false one. That's why I tried to trap you."

"Oh," was the only reply Tuor could manage. Idril had been there, if only for a moment? By Ulmo she was powerful! And brave, and wonderful, and so many other things he couldn't wait to tell her. But that was not the only mystery: Maeglin had mistaken him for Sauron, or at least some kind of impostor. What had he done to make Maeglin think that? Had he hurt or scared him despite his best efforts?

"That is precisely why!" Maeglin exclaimed suddenly, and Tuor remembered his ability to overhear thoughts, "If I couldn't feel your distinctly Mannish fëa and Idril's brightness through your marriage bond, I'd think this was another trick! Since when have you cared about hurting me? We’re enemies!”

“ What? ” Tuor asked, feeling horribly dizzy.

“I know Idril told you all about me, and you’ve been taunting me ever since! Nevermind that I tried to make it clear to you I don’t care, nevermind that I did my best to get you to back off! So I resolved myself to having a mutually despised rivalry and committed myself to the role you were so desperate for me to play. And now, what, you've decided to pretend you don't even remember all that?"

"But I don't remember all that! I remember trying to be nice to you and you brushing me off and I thought you were just prickly so I kept trying… although perhaps I lost my patience on a handful of occasions—but surely not so much as to give you that impression!" Tuor hoped Maeglin wouldn't be able to sense the lie, small as it was; if Maeglin thought they were enemies, he did not need to know about Tuor's embarrassing misconception that insults were simply Maeglin's method of flirting.

Maeglin groaned, “You should have left me to die in Angband.”

“What? Why?!” Tuor cried out in alarm, but Maeglin only buried his face in his hands and muttered, “This is humiliating. Fuck you. I was being subtle. I refuse to accept that you’re observant enough to notice.”

Tuor tensed at the insult, almost snapping back, when Maeglin’s words unraveled into their true meaning. He gasped.

“No,” Maeglin said petulantly.

“You really are flirting with me,” Tuor spoke with amazement, “I can’t believe it.”

“Good. Don’t believe it.”

“Must you be so stubborn?” he sighed, then added, “I suppose I cannot complain; I do find your stubbornness attractive.”

Maeglin blushed to the roots of his hair and refused to look up.

“But in seriousness, what is there to be so stubborn about? You have been flirting with me, which implies you are attracted to me, and though you may have misunderstood me before, I will not hide that I have long found you beautiful. You intrigued me from the very first day I laid eyes upon you, and your harsh words and abrasive manners have only ever ignited passion in me. I tried to show you that passion with care and compliments, but you did not seem to accept them, so I thought perhaps you would prefer fire—and you seemed to. It does not come as naturally to me, but I did my best. Now that we finally understand each other, I will treat you however you prefer. I have plenty of practice now, and can be as rough or as gentle as you like.”

Maeglin glanced at him quickly, looking away just as fast, but it was indeed a sharp glance. Tuor felt it had pierced his soul, cleaving it in two as a knife through butter, and he could not resist reaching out to lift Maeglin’s hands to his lips.

“Please,” he whispered across Maeglin’s knuckles, “Tell me what you want, and I shall give it to you.”

Maeglin twitched in his grasp and visibly swallowed, but then he pulled his hand back, clasping it with his other and twisting them in his lap.

"What about Idril?"

"What about Idril? Oh! She made sure Turgon allowed me to be the one who rescued you."

"I know I'm not always aware of the courting customs of Gondolin—and perhaps you aren't either—but surely even you must be able to discern the difference between rescuing someone and courting them."

"Idril knows I love you. Otherwise, she wouldn't have agreed for me to rescue you. She would've insisted someone else do it."

"You what?"

"I thought we covered this part already?"

"No, I overheard you thinking about how attractive I am, and then you suggested we do something about it. That’s not the same thing."

Tuor took a deep breath, as well as Maeglin’s hands, and said, “Let me be very clear, then: I love you, Maeglin. I also love Idril. Idril loves me. Idril also loves Lady Dammrien, Rog’s sister, which might be less common knowledge than I supposed, though she and I have discussed it many a time. Dammrien is with her now, helping with the evacuation of the city and ensuring our little Eärendil doesn’t get into any mischief—or grow too curious as to where you and I are. Idril is equally aware of my feelings as I am of hers, though she instructed me to tell you that her feelings are ‘as they have always been, and that if you expect to stay in our house, you’d better learn some manners’—her words, not mine. I rather like your manners,” he blushed but pushed forward, “The two of you have such an unnecessarily complicated method of communication. Surely it would be easier on you both if you just spoke plainly?”

“The point isn’t for things to be easy,” Maeglin muttered, which was exactly what Idril had told Tuor when he’d asked her earlier. Maeglin, clearly overhearing that thought as well, made quite the show of scoffing and crossing his arms, but Tuor saw the spark in his eyes.

“You two are much better at all that,” he continued, “but even I could figure out what she means in this case. For my part, I will state plainly that I would very much love for you to move in with us. And so would Eärendil. He’s very fond of you, you know.”

Maeglin started, suddenly tense.

"What is it?" Tuor asked, hand drifting towards his axe.

"Eärendil," Maeglin said, voice quiet but strained, "I let slip that Idril had a son. He threatened that if I didn't speak, when he finally broke me, he would force me to kill him."

Tuor felt a rush of emotions, fear and anger and despair, but pushed them away. Instead, he pulled Maeglin into an embrace and said, "We have averted such horrors. It is probably best not to dwell on what could have happened."

"That's not all," Maeglin said, and Tuor felt worry creep back in.

"I concealed Eärendil's nature, but he clearly discovered you are Idril's husband. It will not take them long to put the pieces together. What if they target him?"

Tuor didn't like the thought of that, but he spoke determinedly, "Then we shall simply have to keep him safe. All of us. We are a family, after all… if you want to be, of course."

"Family," Maeglin mused, "It is a concept that has haunted me all my life. Some of my family died before I was born—a strange thing for elves, or so I'm told, though it doesn't seem like it from what I've seen. They talk about the kinslayers—monsters who would raise a blade against another elf. Against the cousin of their brother's wife's father or some such thing. Someone they spoke to at parties or when they passed in the market. How could they bear to take the life of one so close to them?" He snorted and fell silent.

"I don't trust myself to be a good part of any family," he admitted at last, "I want to be, I want to help raise Eärendil and debate with Idril and… court you. But that life isn't meant for me. It can't be. My life is defined by pain, especially when it comes to my family, and I don't want to harm you."

"Elves place entirely too much emphasis on Fate," Tuor countered, "And maybe a family of elves would be dominated by some grand destiny for good or ill. But I am a Man and Eärendil is entirely his own. Is it not one of the distinctions of Men that we are not bound as tightly to Fate? And though it is your decision to accept or refuse my offer—of courtship or of living with us—know that you are already foundational to all our lives. Perhaps being with us would bring about some harm, but perhaps not. Leaving us for fear of hurting us is guaranteed to break all our hearts: mine, Idril's, Eärendil's… even your uncle's."

Maeglin frowned at him and murmured, "I wouldn't know what I was doing."

"Neither do the rest of us," Tuor reminded him gently, "I'm not sure anyone does in all honesty, but while our situations are all different, Idril and I also know the loss of a parent. Part of her childhood was passed on the Grinding Ice, and you know my own history, I'm sure. We do what feels right, and we communicate. I know you don't enjoy the latter, but I'm sure you could learn," he added with a cautious smile. To his relief, Maeglin's lips twitched upwards.

"I suppose I could, for the three of you. Perhaps this moment shall mark a new beginning for me. I faced my father's curses in Gorthaur's world, perhaps their power is broken now. Alright. I think I would very much like all that you have offered."

Tuor's smile was as bright as could be at these words of hope from his cynical beloved.

"Is there anything you would like to do to celebrate, my loveliest Maeglin?"

"Call me Lómion," he answered, "It is what my mother named me in secret. Uncle Turgon knows it, but I could not bear to hear it from him—or anyone else—for a long time. But if this is to be a new beginning… I think I might be ready to hear it once more,” he swallowed before continuing with greater determination, “Yes, if I am to start anew, I will bear a new name that has long been mine, gifted to me by family lost and gifted by me to family found. I can think of no one I would trust with it more than you.”

There was nothing Tuor could say to that but a whispered, reverent, “Lómion.”

Lómion kissed him, and as he kissed Lómion back, they each felt a hope kindling in their hearts—a hope of love, of family, and of the future.

If only, Tuor thought, there were some way to share such hope with the world.