A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

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Chapter 15- Turgon

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Smoke. Fire. Battle.

He had been so naive. Ulmo had warned him, had he not? And Tuor, and Idril. Had he listened, though?

Well, he could save himself the time to answer even in his head, for had he considered their warnings to be relevant, he would not stand locked in his burning tower now, with his household dying around him. It may of course well be that Turgon could not have prevented his city’s fall in any case, but he could certainly have saved more of his people, had he listened to the counsel of his daughter. He could be with her and Tuor now and aid in their attempt to get as many citizens as possible out of Gondolin, rather than being trapped in here.

The mere thought made him pace the room once more in agitation. Oh, he would give much to see them succeed. And even more to be sure that neither of them made any effort to try and save him, for that was quite blatantly impossible. He would not leave this tower in his living body, not with its lower levels already ablaze. There was no getting out. And even if it could be done, getting out would be of no use whatsoever, with the Balrogs and the dragons that circled the square.

Pain streaked over him like one of their fiery whips as the thought of the Balrogs made him think also of Ecthelion and his valiant fall. He had been more than just his captain. He had been his friend. And what for had he cast away his life? For the honour of being remembered into all eternity in song? Slaying Gothmog would not change the outcome of the battle in the slightest. But Ecthelion’s surviving would have changed things. It would have made all the difference in the world for Eärendil. The boy had so adored Ecthelion. And then there was Glorfindel, of course. The two of them had been so close, the only ones among his lords that Turgon could at times just be friends with. Did his brother-in-law live still? Did he help protect Idril, as Turgon had bidden? Or was he as dead as his friend? Well, Turgon would soon know. Maybe all three of them would be reunited in Mandos, and Turgon would be just Turgon again, no High King, and they would be just his friends. He found he rather liked the idea. At least for a while.

At first, he did not heard the soft footsteps over the raging clamour of battle and the all-consuming grief for all that he loved, but as soon as he did, he turned, his sword out of its sheath and held high once again. The hooded figure halted, a sword in their hand as well. This was no orc.

“Who is there?” Turgon called, though it hardly mattered.

No-one would live.

The figure still stood unmoving, not answering his question.

“Show yourself!”

Again, his command went unanswered. But Turgon still lowered his sword. Whoever this was, whoever had chosen to disobey a direct order from their king, this was not the time to turn his sword on another elf.

Then the figure moved at last, drawing back his hood, and Turgon felt hot, sickening wrath boil in his guts.

“You!”

Turgon’s voice rose with his sword-arm, anger momentarily drowning out all fear and despair. That his nephew had the nerves to seek him out here, after all that he had done, to disturb his final moments that he really rather would have taken to himself, when this was all Maeglin’s fault, when he had betrayed them, had betrayed Turgon’s love and trust, when he had treated him as a son…

“Have you come to finish this? Have you come to take down the King? Help yourself, then. I daresay dying through a sword is less uncomfortable than suffocating, or burning to death, or being crushed as the tower tumbles. But is that not a high price you pay for the satisfaction of personally taking my life, Maeglin? For there is no escaping this place, not unless you trust in your master to rescue you!”

Turgon’s words seemed to have struck a nerve, for Maeglin screwed up his face as though in agony, and yelled back:
“He is not my master! How… how can you say… he tortured me! He snatched me out of the mines, and imprisoned me and tortured me and threatened to… to kill everyone!”

Pity stirred in Turgon, though it did not as yet surmount his anger.

“And what difference does it now make? Everyone is dying right now. Did you expect him to show mercy? Did he promise you rule over my city, once I am dead? Idril’s hand against her will, once her husband and son are gone?”

Maeglin raised his arms above his face as though Turgon had aimed a blow at him, which again made Turgon wince. What use was it to vent his feelings at his nephew now? Maeglin would pay for his betrayal with his life, just as Turgon would, so was it not now time to be the wiser of them, and lay aside his wrath, and comfort his nephew when comfort was due?

He therefore sheathed his sword again, and stretched out a consoling arm towards Maeglin.

“Is your mother safe?” he asked hoarsely.

Fear still shimmered in Maeglin’s eyes, but he nodded nonetheless, which sent waves of relief through Turgon.

“I think so. I saw her with Idril and Glorfindel last, after Tuor had carried Eärendil away. I think they all… they all went to safety. The way that Idril designed.”

Now it was Turgon’s turn to nod, both to signal his understanding and his approval at Maeglin not talking aloud about Idril’s tunnel. No-one could know at this stage what the enemy could hear, where all his ears were hidden. Somewhat to Turgon’s surprise, Maeglin did not seem consoled by Turgon’s gesture at all, rather the contrary. Tears were flowing freely over his sooty face now, and he tore at his hair, looking utterly, utterly forlorn.

“Maeglin…”

“I don’t deserve your comfort, uncle!” he screamed “You know not what I have done!”

“Of course I know what you have don…”

“No!” Maeglin screeched, looking quite deranged. “No, you do not. I… I tried to kill the boy. I thought… I thought that if I could get Tuor and Eärendil out of the way, I could…”

Dread filled Turgon’s insides like lead. Yes, he had long known about Maeglin pining for Idril, but he had largely ignored it, especially since his daughter had so clearly rejected her cousin. And if Maeglin had been a little cool towards Eärendil, well, Turgon had just assumed that his nephew was simply not comfortable around children. But never, ever, would he have thought Maeglin capable of murdering a child.

“Is he…”

Turgon’s voice failed him. He could not bring himself to ask.

“He is safe, I… I couldn’t. I saw Amil approaching with Idirl, and couldn’t. I set him down, and Tuor snatched him up and they all disappeared. Which surprised me. I thought Tuor would kill me for sure.”

“I am glad he did not.” Turgon whispered, his voice all but failing him.

It was getting ever hotter and more difficult to breathe through the thickening smoke. It would not be long now, and he was getting weary. This idle wait for his death was worse than seeking it in battle. Turgon therefore let himself slide to the floor by the window, hoping that the little bit of fresh air would make suffocating a tad more bearable. Maeglin still stood unmoving, and Turgon held out an arm in a silent invitation, and sighed in relief when Meaglin tentatively accepted it and sat down beside him. He could really do with some company just now.

“Why do you do this? Why are you not shouting at me, or duelling me or… have you not understood what I have just told you?”

“Because I meant what I said. I truly am glad that Tuor did not lay hand on you.”

“How though? Don’t you wish I had never come to Gondolin?”

The incredulity in Maeglin’s voice made Turgon’s heart clench.

“No. I am glad you are here now, and I am glad that you were and are a part of my life. You made a mistake, a huge and costly one, but I am still glad to know you. How could I not be, with you being my sister’s only child? Írissë and I were always close. We fought. A lot, in fact, driving your grandparents up the walls. But… I would always help her sneak out with Tyelkormo’s to hunt, and she would make sure that nobody made fun of my drawings and buildings of stone.”

“You enjoyed designing cities even as a child?”

“Oh yes. I do not remember it, but my mother always said that I would leave small towers of rocks throughout the house when I was but a babe, under the table, on the stairs. She could track me by them. And as I got older, my buildings became more complex. And your mother, regardless of how mad she was at me, would never touch my designs.”

“Was that why she came with you to Gondolin?”

Turgon sighed.

“Yes. And you know, had I been a little less selfish, I would have discouraged her. I planned this city, this kingdom, to be hidden, secluded. And Írissë is the person who least likes to be confined, or just live in one place for longer. She could never have been happy here. That was why I let her go in the end, even if it was with great forebodings.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The shouts and screams from inside the tower were getting quieter now, as people were overcome by smoke and fire in the lower levels of the tower. Turgon found he did not care much. He feared Mandos not, and neither did his household, and they would meet again very soon there, after all.

Beside him, Maeglin tilted his body ever so slightly, so that he could lean against Turgon. He smiled. If he had to die here, locked in his own tower, then comforting his nephew in his final moments felt like a very good use of the time he had left.

“She was never really happy in Nan Elmoth, either.” Maeglin said, his voice thick “I don’t think she ever loved my father, nor he her, not truly. And she longed to be gone, to make her way back among her own people, which my father denied her. So when the Dwarves offered to aid us in our escape, we gladly accepted.”

“And I in return was so glad when she returned, but grieved when she told us of the unhappy marriage she had led, and the son she had had to part with. All the happier I was when I found you in the battle, and could bring you home at last.”

Maeglin nodded, etching still a little closer to Turgon, who put his arm around his nephew at last.

“I did not like Nargothrond much, so when Finrod died and Celegorm was ousted by Orodreth, I went with him. But I was still happy to part with him. I never enjoyed hunting much. Surely, Curufin could have taught me much, but not with the wandering life we lead. A smithy needs time and space to flourish.”

Turgon snorted. He could clearly see how little Celegorm and his nephew had in common, but was equally certain that Celegorm had harboured honest love for Aredhel’s son. The two had always been close, after all. Quite like him and Finrod.

“I am sorry to hear that you disliked Finrod’s city. I should have loved to see it.”

“It was not the city I disliked, for it was marvellous indeed. But I never felt safe there, neither from my father, nor from scheming within. I felt like I could never let my guard down. It was… strange.”

To this, Turgon said nothing, but only hummed. He had quite a good idea what may have upset Maeglin so. His nephew was, after all, not the most sociable person, and knowing Finrod as he had, he was sure that Nargothrod had always been a very bubbly place. That could hardly have been to Maeglin’s liking.

“He was my best friend, you know. Finrod. I was grieved when I learned of his death, grieved for my loss. Not for him. For him, I was glad, for he went back to Aman, and with the Valar’s grace, also back with his beloved. They should not have been separated in the first place. He should never have left, and neither should I. Then Elenwë would not have died, and Idril would have had her mother and…”
“But not her husband and son, uncle.” Maeglin interrupted gently, and Turgon looked at him in surprise. Maeglin was the very last person he would have expected to speak in Tuor’s favour.

“True.”

“And little love though I bear for the boy, you love Eärendil. So perhaps it was not a mistake to come to Beleriand after all?”

Warmth spread within Turgon’s heart, and a tender feeling of appreciation. It had been the right thing to swallow his pride and forgive Maeglin, for deep down, his nephew had admirable wisdom. He had just made a mistake, quite like Turgon himself had.

“You are right. And after all, we shall all see them again, soon. Elenwë, Finrod, Fingon and Argon and your grandfather. Oh, I missed them all so much.”

To his dismay, Turgon felt tears starting to run down his face, wetting Maeglin’s hair as he held him close. All the grief he had held for these past centuries now broke free, engulfing him in his dying hour like the flames of battle did his tower. Holding and kissing Elenwë, feeling her warmth. Laughing with Finrod. Childhood games with his brothers. His father’s comforting arms. Oh, how he longed for them all.

“What do you think will happen to Amil?” Maeglin asked almost timidly. “Do you think we will ever see her again?”

“I do. But not too soon, hopefully. I want her to live, to explore, to sate her longing for adventure. I want her to stay with Idril. They have always been close, and I hope…”

He could not say it. All his focus and hopes had been on Idril, Tuor and Eärendil escaping, he had until now not thought about how when the tower fell, Idril would have lost both parents. He remembered that dreadful day, when he had failed to rescue Elenwë from the icy waters, when he had come so close to dying himself. When nothing but Idril’s frantic pleas had tethered him to life. He could still feel her teary face pressed against his skin as he had held her and promised her to stay with her.

Did he want them to cry for him now, in his heart of hearts? Did he want them to mourn? The honest answer was yes, even though he knew it was also the selfish one. And if they did, then he was glad that Idril had not only her husband and son to support her, but also her aunt. They would be alright. Somehow.

“I hope they make it, too. But other than through death, there cannot be a reunion, can there? The Valar will not let any of the Noldor return to Aman.”

“The Valar are merciful, Maeglin, whatever you might have heard from Tyelkormo and Curufinwë. They have not abandoned us. I trust in them, and it will not hurt you now to do the same.”

There was a trembling rumble that went through the tower, one that told them both that its foundations were starting to give way under the heat and the force of the dragons’ bodies being thrown against it. Maeglin pressed himself even harder into Turgon’s arms, forsaking all pretence at dignity now, and Turgon was glad for it. It held his own fear at bay.

“Do you think it will hurt? Dying?” Maeglin asked in a thin voice.

“No. At least not for long. And I promise I shall hold you. I will not let go of you. Írissë will comfort my child, and I shall comfort hers. All will be well. It will be over soon.”

And Turgon kept his promise as the walls of the tower began to crumble, kept it through its fall, kept it until the very end.

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Chapter End Notes

Ok, for everyone who is still confused after that chapter (because there was a lot I have left out here, as I never originally planned on writing this chapter)- like in canon, Aredhel asked to leave Gondolin, just like in canon, she ended up in Nan Elmoth. Maybe after visiting Celegorm, maybe Celegorm was just as gone from his place in this fic as in canon. But no, being able to pass through the forests of Neldoreth and Region did not change that, nor do I think I would have. She and Eöl are still not happy together. She flees with the help of the Dwarves and makes her way back to Gondolin, where she lives, and then flees together with Idril.

Maeglin meanwhile travels with the Dwarves to Nargothrond, where he presents Finrod with Anglachel, that Túrin later receives. (Ha! I'm rather proud of that. Not that it's particularly witty, but (!) I spotted the plothole before it was too late. With a little help from a friend. But I tell you, the mental gymnastics involved were no joke). After Finrod's death, Maeglin follows Celegorm and Curufin into exile, and he fights at Celegorm's side in the Nirnaeth, where he is 'handed over' to Turgon. The rest then works basically like in canon.