The edge of the curtain slipped from Ecthelion’s hand. “They are lighting candles on the balconies of the House of the Hammer.”
“A child is born this night,” came the obvious reply. Laiqalasse smiled. “A joyous occasion, to be sure, in these uncertain times.”
“Can you tell the color of the candles?” asked the room’s third occupant.
Ecthelion lifted the curtain again and peered down from the great height that was offered those in the top floor of the tower. “White,” answered Ecthelion without squinting. He dropped the curtain in place again. “A daughter for Erestor and Aranel.”
“She thought it was going to be a girl,” came the mumbled response.
“Mothers are usually right about these sorts of things,” Laiqalasse explained, in case they did not know. “And so, it should be blue candles then for Voronwe’s wife in a few weeks.”
“And for Tauniel in a few months,” added Ecthelion. “Glorfindel is so certain of her prediction, that he has already commissioned clothing and blankets and all sorts of things in expectation of a son.”
“Many little lights for the little children of Gondolin,” said Laiqalasse. He was settled in a large leather chair with a glass of wine comfortably held in his right hand. The other was settled upon the wooden instrument that was in his lap. Ecthelion’s flute was on the table, set there upon their arrival. They had been summoned by Turgon, though their host had yet to arrive. Instead, his nephew entertained them, having offered spirits and broken, distracted conversation. “Might I inquire as to his majesty’s expected arrival?”
Maeglin gave Laiqalasse a sideways look. He was wary of most everyone, but Laiqalasse especially put him on edge. Anyone whose demeanor was that calm and neutral was, in Maeglin’s mind, obviously up to something. Not that Maeglin showed his unease, of course. “He will arrive when he gets here,” answered Maeglin as coolly as possible.
Laiqalasse tilted his head and smiled.
Maeglin held back a sneer. How he had been granted such misfortune as to not only have to entertain the two most unbearably happy Elves in the realm, but also to have ended up having to watch half of the worst written play in the history of Middle-earth earlier in the evening to him was a sure sign he had unknowingly pissed off more than one Vala in quick succession. Perhaps if it was only these two, it would be one thing, but the play was simply sickening.
He shuddered at the mere thought of it.
“Is something wrong, your highness?” queried Ecthelion. Despite Maeglin not quite being in line for the throne (Idril was still, despite all rumors, second in line after her father), Ecthelion paid him all due respects, and then some.
“I think the wine has gone bad,” he lied as he set his glass aside.
Laiqalasse studied his own glass. “My palate must be flawed this evening, for it tastes quite good to me.”
“Then you shall have no trouble in acquiring another glass, for I shall not stand in your way.” Maeglin picked up the bottle and set it on the table beside the chair Laiqalasse was sitting in.
“I must decline,” said Laiqalasse politely. “I must not over-imbibe if I am yet to perform for his majesty.”
“Right.” Maeglin stood up and walked across the room to the window that Ecthelion had been standing at. The chief captain was now perched on a footstool, watching the main door intently like a dog awaiting its master. Maeglin rolled his eyes at the unrivaled loyalty of Ecthelion, unseen by either, and pushed back the curtains to both sides. “How long does it typically take for people around here to name their children?”
“A day or two, at most,” said Laiqalasse.
“Good. Fathers still choose the first name?”
“Yes,” answered Laiqalasse carefully.
Maeglin twitched a little as he nodded, still looking out the window. “What do you think of Erestor?”
“Oh, he is a brilliant Elf.” Laiqalasse fondly recalled the earliest years of his childhood. “He was as close to an uncle as I may ever have had. Children adore him, and he adores children.”
“So he should make a fair parent, then.”
“At the very least.” Laiqalasse set aside the wine and his clarinet so that he could stand. “Have you worries that he will not?”
Maeglin realized what a fine line he was treading and was mindful not to cross it and expose himself or his deeds. “I thought only, that it might be wise to watch him, knowing his... sudden flaring temper.”
“He might have a temper,” agreed Ecthelion, still watching the door, “but his character is to remain unquestioned. No harm will come to his child through him, nor shall he allow anyone else to harm his child. If you want to find a future father to watch, keep an eye on Voronwe.”
Maeglin tilted his head to the side and smirked. He loved it when tidbits were unknowingly dropped. “I thought Voronwe to be very even-tempered.”
“Try playing poker with him some time.”
The door opened, but it was not Turgon who walked in. Instead, Idril entered and immediately Ecthelion was on his feet. “Good evening, your highness.”
“Good evening, everyone,” answered Idril happily. “Cousin... Minister... Captain...” She only briefly acknowledged the first two with glances, but with Ecthelion her eyes lingered and she smiled for him only.
“That is a lovely shade on you,” complimented Ecthelion of the dress Idril wore. “I would have commented upon it earlier, but your seat at the theatre was a bit too far from mine, and I doubted it would have been appreciated for me to shout down from the balcony.”
“You noted my presence from the balcony, captain?” asked Idril with a wider grin.
“Aye, but then, the moon is easily seen for her beauty among so many stars,” he said, caring very little that he would playfully be harassed later by Laiqalasse for his sappy lines.
“The moon is visible among the stars because it is fat,” countered Idril as she opened a closet door and slipped out of her shoes. These were kicked into the little room, and a pair of slipped taken out.
“I would beg to differ, and say that it is because the moon far outshines the stars with her glorious light.”
Maeglin rolled his eyes again, and this time was seen by Laiqalasse – who would have mirrored the expression, had he not had the manners he did.
“You may be interested in knowing that there is a man in the moon, from what I have heard,” said Idril cheekily back to Ecthelion.
“Nay, nay, the man in the moon is a lady,” argued Ecthelion gently as he finally approached. “Silver curls, and a wink in her eye.”
Idril paused to think of a reply, which allowed Ecthelion time to admire her curved body, draped in thin satin and adorned with sparkling crystals at her throat and in her hair. “Should I be jealous of the moon, captain?”
“Nay, nay, my lady,” drawled Ecthelion as he came close enough to take hold of one of her hands. “Nay.” He lifted her hand and kissed her gloved palm.
Laiqalasse shifted uncomfortably upon hearing the slight moan Idril made. Still at the window, Maeglin looked upon the couple with true jealousy. He hid his emotions as he heard the door opening again, and Turgon entered the room.
“THAT was a royal waste of time,” announced the king as he swung his cape from his shoulders and threw it in the direction of the closet. Ecthelion managed to catch it with his free hand before it hit the ground, and Idril gracefully opened the closet and found an open hook for the cloak.
“Where were you, uncle?” asked Maeglin, mustering up a voice of concern.
Turgon picked up the open bottle of wine and took a fresh glass from the shelf that was set into one of the walls. “I went to the theatre, to find someone who could explain what happened in the second act that we missed, and everyone refused to tell me! They were either too drunk, or in a few cases, too ashamed.”
“Perhaps they were afraid,” reasoned Idril. “One would assume, considering the laws of the realm, that you would punish them. From what I gathered from the first act, there were act least two sinful things happening on stage.”
“It is just a play,” said Turgon. He sat down heavily in his favorite chair. “Do I seem to cruel that I would hang the thespians for their performance, or the playwright for his work?”
No one answered this question.
“Is that so?” Turgon asked, receiving his answer anyhow. He sighed heavily and took a sip of wine. “Not everything we do in Gondolin is because I wish it so.” His second line was said softly, nearly a whisper, as if his inner voice was compelled to speak out.
“Sire?” asked Ecthelion, who had not been close enough to hear.
Turgon drank again and looked at the idle flute. “I still desire to hear you play, but indulge me first in a synopsis of the play.”
“You could go tomorrow, your majesty,” suggested Ecthelion. “There are surely tickets for the matinee.”
“There are, but I cannot,” said Turgon dryly. “No one would sell me a ticket.”
“How rude – there should be a law against that or something,” declared Maeglin. “Tell me who it was, and I shall make them—“
“Maeglin, calm yourself,” said Turgon kindly. “They... misunderstand. And, maybe it is better this way. I say I do not agree with Gondolin, but then, I am Gondolin.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Forgive me, I am tired and I speak in riddles. But, tell me, Ecthelion, and worry not—I have no desire to see anyone punished over political theatrics.”
“To what detail do you wish, your majesty?” asked Ecthelion carefully.
“What do you mean?”
Ecthelion shrugged. “I would think your majesty would be... offended by some of the... more... carnal bits of the play.”
“What did they do, fornicate on stage?” questioned Turgon with the slightest bit of worry.
“Oh, no, sire, nothing like that,” Ecthelion assured him. “But, there were a few... intimate things... like... well...”
Idril rubbed her forehead and blurted out, “You all know my Uncle Fingon slept with his cousin, right?” When no one said anything to dispute this, Idril added, “You know, one of the male cousins—Maedhros, specifically. I am certain at least one of you has heard a rumor of it in the last hundred years. Well, every rumor I have ever heard on the subject has been true. So, is my father unfamiliar with seeing such behavior? No. Is he himself interested in such things? No, obviously not—and I am proof of that. Is he going to go and execute the House of the Harp because of it? No. Is he going to lift the ban in the city? No—because what happened tonight is absolute proof we still need it.”
Only Idril could have said what she did, for coming from anyone else Turgon might have denied some of it. Instead, he sat silently and sometimes nodded in agreement with his daughter.
“May I ask for a little clarification, your highness?” wondered Laiqalasse.
“About my uncle?” asked Idril, taking the glass of wine Ecthelion handed her. He needed to refill it for her in short order.
Laiqalasse shook his head. “No, I knew about that already,” he said nonchalantly. “However, I did not attend the play, so I am unaware of what occurred this evening.”
“People walked out,” said Ecthelion flatly.
“They stormed out,” corrected Turgon, looking across the room, eyes focused on some unknown point. “Some of them said some uncomplimentary things.” He looked toward the windows, and Maeglin refocused his view on the floor.
“My opinion is no secret,” admitted Maeglin. “Had I known that was the topic, I would never have attended. I wish Salgant might have informed me of the plot ahead of time.”
“You were hardly offensive, compared to what others were saying,” said Idril in Maeglin’s defense. “Everyone should be allowed to have their own opinion, but there is a certain point where it is unnecessary to say things that are going to make someone feel horrible about their own feelings or beliefs.”
“On this subject, the beliefs of some are very strong,” Turgon reminded his daughter.
“Which is why such a volatile matter must be handled in this way,” she agreed.
Ecthelion waited to see if there was to be more discussion on the matter before sharing with the others the summary of the play – with many apologies to Laiqalasse for ruining the ending for him ahead of time. When he finished, he ended with, “I only wish I knew who the characters were based on.”
“They could be fictional,” said Laiqalasse.
“Writers write about what they know,” Ecthelion said.
Laiqalasse frowned. “I would suspect that some writers have the ability to write about that which they do not know, if they...” He trailed off and smiled.
“What?”
“I was about to say, if they know enough about it, but I guess that, too, means they write what they know.” Laiqalasse suppressed a yawn. “As to your question, though, the characters may still be fictional.”
“Who wrote the play?” asked Turgon, more relaxed now. In fact, everyone looked a bit more relaxed, for they were all sitting and drinking wine.
“This was one of Duilin’s,” said Ecthelion.
Turgon nodded. “Probably him and Salgant, then.”
Maeglin paled. “You mean, Salgant helped him write it?”
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose you could put it that way,” said Turgon.
“No, I—“ Maeglin looked ill. “You cannot mean...”
Turgon raised his brows, but said nothing.
“No... not... no...” Maeglin laughed uneasily. “You must be jesting—you cannot think I have had so much wine to believe that!”
Turgon crossed his arms over his chest and settled into his chair, doubting they would get to the music this evening. It was too late to argue with his nephew, so instead he asked, “Do you ever look out the window in the library?”
“On occasion,” Maeglin replied.
“Try looking down sometimes. You can see right into Salgant’s bedroom when Duilin forgets to draw the curtains.”
Maeglin set down his goblet and shoved it aside. His disgust turned quickly to anger. “How can you be so dismissive about something like that, if indeed it is true? Should you not worry that one of them might someday challenge the laws in council?”
“He would welcome it, actually.” Idril poured more wine for herself, and filled up the cups of the rest, except her cousin, who shook his head when she came around. “He tried to coerce someone to say something years ago, but it backfired.”
“How so?” asked Ecthelion.
“Silly Erestor, stood up and acted as if he was the one who was. And... well, it went badly. Not at all as father wanted.” Idril patted Turgon’s shoulder as she passed and sat down again beside him.
“I thought there was a chance that one of them would be brave enough to stand up and confront me on the topic. Again, I am Gondolin – just because I no longer see a need for a rule, that does not necessarily mean I can just start crossing them off. Unless there is enough support, it would be unwise. A quarter of the council, and not one stood up. And then Erestor... I should have changed the time of the meeting and not told him that day.”
“But, to be honest, what happened with Erestor seems to have been for the best,” said Ecthelion.
Idril frowned. “If you say so.”
“You liked him better when he was an unpredictable rogue?” asked Turgon.
Maeglin, who had been busy doing the math, interrupted. “Who was the other one on the council?”
Ecthelion tensed up slightly at the question that was asked, but Turgon shook his head. “It does not matter now. None of them wanted to step forward, and my temper got the best of me.” He finished his wine and set the glass aside. “I regret I am no longer in need of your musical talents tonight. Perhaps we might reschedule for—no, you have the play tomorrow,” remembered Turgon as he looked at Laiqalasse.
“I can certainly change my plans, sire,” Laiqalasse assured him. “In fact, I already know the plot, so I am not as eager to see it now as I was.”
“I am free as well,” said Ecthelion, “and ever at your service, your majesty.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Turgon stood, and said good night, and retired to his private chambers, while Laiqalasse also said his farewells and took his clarinet with him when he left.
Ecthelion waited until his friend had left and the glow of light beneath Turgon’s door faded before moving to the chair that Turgon had been in, so that he could sit beside Idril. Maeglin narrowed his eyes as the move occurred, but did not comment directly. Instead, he said, “It is late. Perhaps we should also retire.”
“Good-night, then, cousin, but I think the captain intends to stay a little longer, and it would be rude of me to dismiss him,” said Idril sweetly.
Maeglin squirmed a bit. “Maybe I shall stay, then, so that the conversation is more animated.”
“Indeed, you are welcome to, but the captain and I are going to retire to the library soon,” said Idril.
“The library? What for; to read?” questioned Maeglin.
“I, too, missed the second half of the play,” Idril reminded him. “I heard that there is a window—“
“Good-night.” Maeglin rose and gave Ecthelion a stern look before leaving. His walk back to his own house was slow as he made stops at both the House of the Hammer and the House of the Harp along the way.
