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What a great hall. Vast, endlessly vast, or at least so it seemed… And so, so empty. Empty enough to eat you up from head to heel, completely consume you with its spaciousness, way too large to keep sane. Too open, and too revealing, stripping one off all sense of safety and security as he walked, alone, along the intricate patterns of white and blue tiles on the floor. They were like rippling waves, and like sharp peaks of rock at once, veined with little cracks and openings in the polished stone. And they were, as always, meticulously clean. This hall had not changed for decades.
And he honestly supposed that it never will, either.
Gondolin was a memorial, a sight, stuck in an age long since past and gone, captured in nothing but tale and word of the tongue. And those that had lived within it knew that… Or did they? Did they really know?
His long, noiseless steps rushed to cross the large hall as soon as possible, while his hands fumbled with the little strings and buckles of his attire, leaving a faint line of snow in his footsteps as he shook off the winter’s chill. The morn was still merely at its beginning, and yet, he was already awake; as always. As always. Only those with too much peace of mind and hand would idly loiter around their chambers until noon, and he had many other concerns that ruled lying within the soft pillows and blankets out, oft for many days on end, even. Today, too.
The rise of the sun found him very much awake and submerged within metalwork and smithing; and he clothed himself and left the study only grudgingly at the request of Turgon himself.
The sound of his feet was thunderous despite how light they were in a walking pace, and how thin and smooth were the soles of his boots, or at least to his ears it sounded so; loud, and every one of them had him stifling a cringe, feeling a chain of shivers run down his back like a creeping hand. It was too early to be here… Though it was not an unusual place, it was simply too early, and the bright glow of lanterns could not make the shadows that lurked around the feet of columns and in every nook and cranny take their leave.
He frowned.
But he walked on, towards the end of the hall, where a large door, so beautifully wrought in many strands of silver, much like the branches of a tree, suddenly cut the trail of alternating patterns of white and grey-blue marble short, and replaced it with a heavier trail of soft, reddish white. Like blood, so were the veins in stone.
Beyond the hall, a soft bustle replaced the deafening silence and vastness, something that he found himself pleasantly surprised himself by while he stacked his gloves into his belt and unpinned the simple brooch at his throat, hanging the fur-lined fabric of an exquisite cloak over one arm. But every single one of those he passed by was not spared a single glance. He walked quite hurriedly, yes, and garbed in dark shades of charcoal, he was like a broken, gaping hole in the harmonic color schemes of the beautiful city. Many thoughts had coursed within his head, but not a single one was mirrored within his face, perhaps save for the deep eyes that saw a lot, and betrayed little of it.
In that manner, he had come to Turgon’s door, and patiently waited until the passage to the smaller chamber will be open and free for him to pass through.
And he breathed in the warm air… Stepped inside, hesitantly, though, threading as softly as if he was walking through a field of blooming clovers. One could easily say that the manner of his movement was close to being fearful, but it was not the truth; rather, he treated the King’s personal premises with an almost worshipping respect, and his heart was in awe every time he set foot within them, breathtaken and thunderstruck with a sense of something skimming just past his senses, of his form not being enough to appreciate the majesty of the place, though it was not the highest on the posts of grandeur. Rather, it was the spirit the walls were soaked through and through with… This place had a soul.
And he would be loath to disturb it. Despite all the other things he would never hesitate to do, he would detest stirring this evanescent atmosphere, lifting this veil of golden dust and smoke and revealing the dull reality underneath it. And for that, he would become like a cat in moonlight, and only proceed forwards at a very slow pace, eyes drinking from every sight as if it had been fine wine. Oh, if he could only remain for a little while, undisturbed in silence, he would perhaps think back, and perhaps forget all but-
“Well met, Maeglin. I had not heard you enter, have you been waiting for long?”
Turgon’s voice, in all its kind, yet still audible tones laced through with his typical sternness, startled him, if by nothing else, then by the sheer virtue of catching him off-guard and deep in thought. At first, he was to frown, but he stayed himself, producing a small smile and a slight bow instead.
“Well met, uncle. No, I just entered, I had not been waiting at all.” he assured him, in a voice as measured as a cut of fabric, straightening his already quite rigid posture to seem taller in the face of the towering king. Trying oh, oh so hard to be more than just enough, more than merely sufficient, trying so hard to be good, admirable, useful…
With a slight shake of the head, he had taken off the stiff coat of black wool and leather, revealing more charcoal-colored garments underneath it with an elegant motion of the arms, which placed the shodden garb close to the door, and upon the King’s invitation followed him inside.
Still, his steps were light when he reached the chamber he had been invited to, a grand hall, the cover of the gentle, spine-like arches of the ceiling almost like the caverns and tree-tops of his childhood hovering overhead; only that they were white and gleaming in the warm light of the dawn instead of harboring darkness and shadow like the nooks and pathways of Nan Elmoth. And there, amid it all, was set a low table, laden with food of all kinds and sorts, the thick wood burdened by the great weight of the mass. Dried fruit and meat alike, bowls of pickled goods, fresh pastries and pies, jars of honey and jars of milk, filled up nigh to the brim; sweet and salty, well-seasoned and mild alike, sliced thin or in large pieces, all of it placed on the rectangular board, laid out with a nonchalant precision that made the scenery look so natural, one would have said the Valar themselves had designed the space with the thought of this meal in mind.
“Please, do sit.” Turgon instructed him with a gesture of the hand, encompassing the table, the pillows and furs around, the walls and the supporting pillars, the structures of the windows, the hills behind their glass, and the cool morning sky - and all that was beyond it.
He obeyed without a word.
Obeyed. But his mind was far from the food, even when he watched Turgon take up a knife and begin placing things on his slice of bread. The motion had different sights spiralling through his mind, none quite as pleasant as the tranquil and almost fatherly figure of the king. No, not a single one was something he wanted to think of at the moment, but they would not be banished…
He was strong. No one would see a thing. No one could see a thing.
Winter kings, oh beautiful winter kings. They were so pleasant to the eye. The embroidered details of Turgon’s gown were, in the end, what divided his attention from the depths of his ponderous mind, and brought it back, binding it to the fabric of reality. Hesitantly, he begun eating, too, taking no more than a little piece of meat that he placed on the smooth clay of a plate.
“You are very quiet, Maeglin. Is anything the matter?” And when the grey of his eyes met that of his uncle’s, his heart skipped a beat with surprise - and, partly, with fright, fright that the king knew something he should not know. But he had no way of knowing, for Maeglin had told no one.
He shook his head, his hand sinking to remain propped up against the plate.
“Nothing. I have been merely busy in the forges overnight.” he replied in measured words, only now taking a moment to examine the meal in hand. It was dry, and heavily salted; a jerky of some kind, most certainly, hard to chew and stringy once so was done. Probably the least he could have taken from the heavily laden table, from which the smell of poultry pies and roasts drifted in thin strings.
He was not hungry. He did not burn with the desire to sink his teeth into a thin slice of gammon, nor did he wish to taste the sweetness of honey on his tongue; when there were desires and wishes within him, they rarely encompassed food and drink.
For the longest of whiles, there was silence.
Neither of them spoke.
Until Turgon stirred once more, covering another thin slice of bread with a series of hams and melting butter.
“I have heard more and more praise regarding your successes in smithing lately, besides other things, too. Well done.” A slight smile had managed the feat of curling the Noldo’s lips upwards, a commendable feat indeed. An honor, to be the source of it, really an honor.
“Thank you.” He averted his eyes again, looking downwards, feeling the warmth of the blood, running up to his cheeks.
If only…
He was torn apart. He was torn apart by his wishes and by his deeds.
So many years of trying to be just what Turgon wanted and so many years of striving for success. So many years of aiming for the Moon that he could never reach. But he’d have it, one day, he’d have it. He was reaching further, he was building a staircase to reach the heavens’ dome so high above.
His hands lifted up a small pastry, and broke it in half, revealing juice and soft meat which almost flowed out of the crevice inside the flaking dough down, onto the pale porcelain.
And who was he, really?
What exactly was he doing?
The sun was rising above the sharp ring of mountains that encircled the white city within their safe embrace. He was carrying a burnt-out torch, pretending to be a flame-bearing messenger, and only daylight reminded him of that.
With an inaudible sigh, he picked the pastry up, and took a small bite out of it, his eyes inadvertently running over Turgon’s figure at the other end of the table. He was flooded in that very moment, flooded by memories. Food like this, he used to eat it when he was a child, too, only the meat was a little more gamey. Amil would eat it, too, and she would tell him how she used to go on hunts back in Valinor, how they would eat the self-same sort of pastries… And he would ask so many questions, so many questions. Questions about her and-
“What is the reason behind your request of my presence this early in the morning?” he swallowed the meat in all its warm juiciness, pushing the small bite down his throat as he picked a glass up and, with a delicate movement of the hand, put it near his lips. He was curious, really. It was not a frequent happening that someone would choose his company, even less so that they would call for it.
“No grave matters, Maeglin. I merely wished to spend a morning with my nephew, that is all.” The king’s tones grew gentler, and the young elf could feel blood rushing to his cheeks with a rarely-recorded warmth that had him straightening his back and stiffly placing his hands in his lap.
Paranoid?
“Though, on the subject of grave matters… Orcs have been sighted in the mountains, and I would like that you and your people are careful while looking for ore outside of the immediate vicinity of the town. It is dangerous, and the time grows direr by the moment.”
Very much so.
Did Turgon know anything? No, he couldn’t have found out, no one knew…
A shiver ghosted down his spine. Though his garments were warm, and the room had been far removed from the cold of the winter’s morn beyond the tall windows, he felt intensely cold in that very moment.
And yet, he nodded, wearing a blank mask of an expression on his pale face.
“I will keep your advice in mind and heed it.”
His voice sounded very flat and empty to his ears.
He stared down at the halved pastry on the plate. He had only taken a bite, and already he had lost all appetite. How queer, that something so small could have an impact like an arrowhead, piercing into the mind and shattering all promises of peace. He wished he had not come, or at least that he had refrained from touching the food.
It made him remember other things than his mother’s tales of hunts and her kind voice. Inadvertently, his mind had drifted away from the bright memories, taking hold by an iron grip and forcing sights he would have rather forgotten before his eyes. And he wondered, do the depths eagerly await his beating heart, too?
“I would be loath to see any harm to you.”
Would he really?
Turgon laid his thin knife down, across the plate of polished porcelain, and for a moment, the king’s gaze entertained little but his hands and the cutlery. Only at last, a deep breath of his could be heard, and he shook his head.
“I love you like my own, Maeglin.”
He pursed his lips, biting his breath in half.
“I love you, too, uncle.”