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I.
"At the time it seemed only natural, but with each year, the wonder of the boon granted to your father and uncle grows. Few Gondolindrim are allowed to leave the city, and no outsiders." Pengolodh's glance shifted discreetly, and Tuor followed his gaze to a dark corner where Maeglin, the king's nephew, drank in silence, his eyes on the singing elves.
"Is lord Maeglin not of Gondolin?" It had seemed as if great regard subsisted between him and the king his uncle. The thought of king Turgon holding his own nephew captive seemed strange to Tuor, but these elves were nothing like Annael's folk. Or his own, he thought uneasily.
"He is not, but neither is he here against his will," said Pengolodh, as if reading his thoughts. "I meant his father, who came here uninvited by the king, years before your own. He was not permitted to leave, though it didn't matter much in the end. Alas, it is a terrible story, unfit for these halls. I should tell you more about it on another occasion."
Tuor lingered for a moment on the elf. Maeglin’s antipathy for Tuor and Ulmo's message, evident from the first, had made him wary, but he supposed a grudge was inevitable. He must feel that his own family had received less honor than a stranger's. Wounded pride could cut a man too deep to ever heal, as Tuor had learned very well after years of bondage.
"He must have been displeased when the king allowed my father and uncle to leave, then."
"Displeased is too mild a word." The look he received from Pengolodh was subtle, but full of meaning. "In fact, he argued that they should be kept here forever. As servants."
Tuor only realized his mind had gone blank for a moment when he heard sudden noises of distress from the elves. Looking down slowly, he saw that he had shattered the drinking vessel in his hand, dark red wine mingling with his blood and staining the bright blue of his tunic. He could tell there were many eyes on him, but when he raised his head, he only saw Maeglin's cutting gaze, sharp as a razor.
II.
Sleeping in a bed was comforting, but strange.
Voronwë's father, Aranwë, had apologized for depriving Tuor of the royal reception he had been granted since his arrival in Gondolin as Ulmo's messenger. Yet his chambers at Voronwë's family's home were no less grand than the ones he enjoyed at the palace. The mattress was soft as down, and there was a clean, soft fragrance coming from the feather pillows around him. Over the bed, the curtains were gossamer thin, and embroidered with many shapes that seemed to tell complex stories. His hands tried to help his eyes uncover them, feeling the fabric and making out the shapes, as the restlessness inside him kept sleep far from his mind. Could this be a story of the exile of the Noldor? Voronwë had told Tuor about it in detail, but hadn't mentioned whether his own family had experienced firsthand any of their kindred's griefs.
They hadn't seen each other often since their arrival, and after a year of wandering and fighting and eating and sleeping together, Tuor felt his absence. He wondered what Voronwë had told his family, for them to treat Tuor with such kindness and regard.
Restless, he reached for a night robe, and left his chambers to pace and look for the moonlit sky. Instead, he ended up at the other end of a short corridor, finding the door to Voronwë's chambers slightly open. Peering inside, he saw Voronwë himself sitting up, two glasses of wine untouched on the table as if expecting a visitor. He looked directly at Tuor with such affection in his eyes that Tuor started. He blurted out a question without thinking too much, and Voronwë shook his head, then invited him in.
"It's not that I was expecting you," he said, "but I was hoping you would come. I know you have been busy and tired, meeting so many and doing so much. I hope my parents weren't too forceful, bringing you here."
"Everyone has been exceptionally kind, my friend, but I have missed you tremendously," he admitted. To his surprise, color rose to his friend's cheeks, and it was Tuor's turn to smile. "Hah! Voronwë!"
"Hush! I have missed you as well, that’s all," he said, but the smile on his face seemed to overpower any wish of self-control. It never left his lips, not even when he offered Tuor the wine cup and took a sip of his own. "Then let us speak together, dear friend. How do you find Gondolin? Have I done it justice in my tales during our journey?"
They talked about everything and nothing, until the sun finally began to rise. Then, tired and pleasantly light-headed, they laid together not on Voronwë's ample bed, but on the furs on the floor right next to it, and Tuor dreamed of the sea.
III.
Idril joined him on the balcony, leaving—for the first time that evening—the high harp that stood in the middle of the hall.
"That song you just sang," he said to her. "It sounded different from all the others that I have heard you sing."
"I learned it from my mother." Her gaze was fixed not on him, but the darkening horizon. He looked at it as well, the white mountains in the distance and the vast sky beyond them. "She was of the Vanyar. They use different melodies and words from ours in their songs and speech."
He knew of the queen's fate: dead, like his own mother.
Idril explained the song to him, even though he had understood most of it. It was a very simple song about open fields and things that grow.
"Maybe not adequate for the moment," she remarked, but she didn't sound unsure at all. That was just as well: Tuor did not think any song could be inadequate if Idril sang it, and he told her as much. She smiled at that and thanked him, looking into his eyes and not at the mountains. He felt himself colour, feeling an equal measure of embarrassment and pleasure at the realization of how bold his comment had been. An agreeable quiet fell between them, and moments passed in silence until Idril asked him if he knew any songs in his own language.
He did not.
"Annael told me that my mother was a singer. A great maker of songs, so he said. But I don't know any. Maybe the slaves of Dor-Lómin remember something, but I—I imagine they're lost to me. I suppose."
Another moment passed, and then another. A cold breeze brought with it the fragrance of the valley. His mind wandered, until it was brought back by the feeling of Idril's hand resting on his forearm.
"Forgive me if I'm bold, my lord, but I know some songs... your father and uncle sang some of them here, and were kind enough to teach me some of them. They cannot have been composed by your lady mother, but... Perhaps you..."
He nodded vigorously. He suppressed a shiver: perhaps the wind and her warm hand on his arm, perhaps her hesitation. Perhaps it was the strain of his mind trying to conjure images of parents he had never known, or perhaps the overwhelming kindness the princess kept offering him so freely, with so much regard.
"They are simple songs, too," she added quickly, "and I'm not so sure … Well, if you would like to listen, I would love to sing them to you. And teach you, if you so wish."
"I do!" Tuor said almost immediately. "I want to learn them. You are very kind, lady, I... "
Silence fell between them again, and Tuor blessed the darkening sky that did not reveal the blush that rose to his cheeks.
IV.
The thought crossed his mind like lightning, one morning, as he shaved in front of a mirror. His mouth moved before he even stopped to think.
"Love, did my father have a beard?"
Idril looked quizzically at him. "He didn't. Are beards dependant on age for your people as well? Your father was much younger than you are now when he came here."
He knew that. He knew that. But it felt so strange.
He looked in the mirror again. He could not put an age to the face in front of him. He tried to remember how old he was, but that line of thought escaped him like water through his fingers. All he could think of were bearded slaves and beardless masters, and Annael's face in the middle of all that.
A soft touch startled him back into reality. In the mirror, Idril's eyes directly met his, a concerned expression on her face, searching. He pulled her into a gentle but firm embrace, and they went to bed and stayed there, talking about inconsequential things and making love for the rest of the morning.
Tuor stopped shaving his beard.