Chapter Text
The day was drawing to its close, and in the uppermost chambers of the Tower of the King, the light poured red and gold through tall windows carved like leaves of fire. The western sun bled across the stones, casting long bars of light, and in that ruddy glow stood Turgon King—high, noble, and wearied as one who has borne crown and sorrow far beyond mortal reckoning.
The guards parted without a word as Maeglin approached. He came clothed in silence and in garments darker than a starless night. Shadows seemed to coil around him, though none followed. His face was pale and proud, sharp as obsidian, and his black eyes gleamed with that strange light that comes only to those who have spent too long in deep places beneath stone.
He bowed low, without warmth.
“Uncle,” said Maeglin, voice smooth as polished steel.
“Sit,” Turgon said, not unkindly. “We must speak.”
And Maeglin sat, not out of obedience, but of calculation, folding his long limbs with the grace of one who knew his presence unsettled most who beheld him.
There was a silence between them, deep as the gorge below the northern cliffs. Then the King of Gondolin laid down the scrolls in his hand and looked hard at his nephew.
“I have ruled this city for near four centuries,” said Turgon, his voice quiet, but clear as a horn-call in snow. “I have outlasted storms and spies. I have spoken to gods and withstood griefs that would break the hearts of kings. And yet, this week alone, I have received seventeen letters.”
Maeglin blinked once. “Is that remarkable?”
“Seventeen complaints, Maeglin,” said Turgon. “All from House Golden Flower.”
The faintest twitch at the corner of Maeglin’s mouth. “Their scribes must be truly starved for activity.”
Turgon raised a brow. “Oh, I assure you, they are plenty occupied. One letter included medical sketches. Another had a diagram of Glorfindel’s hair loss. There is a petition, Maeglin. A petition requesting I assign him a personal guard whenever you’re in the same room.”
Maeglin made no reply. His hands rested, motionless, upon the carved arms of the chair.
Turgon stood, slow and deliberate, and came to the wide windows that looked over the hidden valley. His hands were clasped behind his back.
“This season alone Glorfindel has received three punches. A hundred and nine threats. One—one scroll of alloy properties annotated with the words ‘this is how you will be reforged’ in red ink.”
“Red is for clarity,” Maeglin said with a touch of pride.
The king turned, and now there was power in his gaze, as when the sun breaks through cloud at the edge of storm.
“Do you understand what this means?” he asked, his voice soft, yet thunderous. “Not only have you assaulted a fellow lord, but you have stirred discord between houses. There are whispers now in the halls—of grievance, of outrage. House Golden Flower has begun to question whether peace is possible while you remain unchecked.”
Maeglin said nothing. But a shadow passed behind his gaze.
“You’re still young, but you have to understand that there are political consequences to these altercation and i cannot permit this,” said Turgon. “Gondolin is bound not by stone alone, but by the peace between her peoples. You, Maeglin, son of Aredhel, prince of Gondolin, have brought greatness to this city. You have shaped her spires. Strengthened her bones. But I will not see her cracked by civil war.”
Turgon exhales, “If tensions rise between your houses—if Glorfindel is injured again, or threatened again—it will be taken not as jest, nor even as lovers’ quarrel, but as political aggression.”
Maeglin’s voice was low and dark. “You would take their side.”
“I take Gondolin’s side,” Turgon said. “I stand for peace. And for justice. And I will not allow your quarrel to become the spark that undoes all we have hidden and built.” He stepped forward, each word ringing like a bell struck in winter.
“People exaggerated. I have never truly harmed him,” Maeglin snapped. “Not seriously.”
Turgon gave him a long, exhausted look. “Last week you threw a shoehorn at his head during a lecture on copper alloys.”
“He was talking nonsense and it missed!”
“You threatened to forge his bones into lamp-posts—plural.”
Maeglin muttered, “It would have been symmetrical.”
Turgon pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I cannot believe I am saying this,” the King said, “but Glorfindel lead the second powerful House in this city, he has the full support from other Houses, he is also greatly beloved by people, and they are considering to submit an appeal if something is not done.”
Now Maeglin looked up. “I see,” he said darkly.
The king stood before him, “You must do something to assure them he is safe. That the House of the Mole is not preparing to wage war over the council floor’s seating arrangement. That you will not, in fact, sharpen the bones of their lord into a chandelier.”
Maeglin was silent for a long moment.
“…What would you have me do?”
Turgon turned back, and now there was a glint of steel behind his gaze.
“You will show public display of peace by inviting Glorfindel to tea.”
There was a silence that seemed to still the air.
Maeglin looked up very slowly. His face was carved stone.
“…Tea.”
“Yes,” said Turgon, without a trace of mercy. “You will ask him. Kindly. You will speak to him as one elf to another. There will be no weapons, no curses, no threats written in blood or ink. You will smile—not showing the expression that made Voronwe weep openly last council.”
Maeglin said nothing, but a faint tremble passed through the hand resting on the arm of his chair.
Turgon’s voice softened, though iron remained beneath the silk. “I know you dislike being pressed. I know you value your solitude. But the city is beginning to murmur. Do you understand? There are whispers of division. Of danger. If something more serious were to happen—”
“And if I refuse?” Maeglin asked coldly.
“If you do not,” the king continued, now walking slowly, like a general setting out terms of surrender, “I will strip your forge commissions. I will take your blueprints for the underground citadel and hand them to Duilin to decorate with ornamental swallows. I will reassign your apprentices to flower arrangement under Lady Lalwen.”
“You are jesting.”
“I am weary, Maeglin,” said Turgon, and now his voice truly was that of a father. “And I am near the end of patience. I have endured great exiles and bloodlines. But I will not endure one more song from any members of Golden Flower about Glorfindel’s fragile heart or his latest black-eye at your hands.”
The younger elf’s lips curled, but not into a smile. “And if I accidentally threaten him again?”
“If i hear one more report that you hiss at Glorfindel one more time during council, if you so much as sharpen your knife while making eye contact, of any ‘accidental intimidation’ — I swear by the Valar, I will confiscate your wardrobe and only allowed you to wear pastels.”
Maeglin blanched. “…You are a cruel man.”
Turgon steepled his fingers, “I will be plain as his brother-in-arm. Glorfindel is a fool, but he is a bright one. His heart is pure and known, and I do not believe he would pursue you with such persistence were it not true. He has charm, but I know his type. He would not endure a scowl unless he believed there was something warmer beneath.”
“I am not–”
“You push him away because you don’t believe you deserve what he offers.”
Maeglin laughed softly — bitter as old ash.
“He offers foolishness,” he said. “He is…”
Turgon raised an eyebrow. “He is devoted. Because he sees light where you only see shadow,” the king said. “Do not mock him for it. Be kind,” said Turgon. “Not for his sake. For yours. Try to be kind and you'll be surprised.”
“…Kind.”
“A gesture. A word. A moment of softness. If you cannot give love, give space. If you cannot smile, do not sneer. For once, Maeglin — do not wear your hate like a badge.”
Maeglin looked at him for a long moment. His face betrayed nothing. His voice was even.
“Very well.”
And then, slowly — slowly — he smiled.
It was the kind of smile that should never appear on a diplomat. Or a noble. Or anyone standing within sword’s reach. It was a smile with too many teeth. The kind that might precede a knife in the dark or a subtle political assassination. It was elegant. Controlled. And wholly terrifying.
Turgon exhaled. “I said kind, not like a serpent offering poisoned apple”
“That was kind,” Maeglin said, and bowed low. “I shall extend a gesture. A warm, cordial invitation to Glorfindel.”
Maeglin turned on his heel, black cloak sweeping behind him like stormclouds parting for doom, and left without another word.
Turgon leaned back in his throne and covered his face with both hands.
“I should've stay in Nevrast.”
Glorfindel, newly freed from a particularly dull inspection of tower defenses, had sought solace in a quiet bench, half-draped in the shade of ivy, humming to himself with the infuriating ease of a man who had never once known discomfort unless he had invented it for dramatic flair.
He was in the middle of composing a poetic line about how “the granite of Maeglin’s gaze sears hotter than dragon’s flame” — third revision — when a shadow shifted unnaturally behind the ivy wall.
He had just enough time to register the sudden cold, the faint prickle at the base of his neck, before a low voice emerged directly behind his left shoulder like a curse whispered by an abandoned forge.
“Glorfindel.”
“Ai Elbereth—!” He did not shriek. Not exactly. But he did jump half a foot and dropped his stylus. He turned.
There, standing in a shaft of shadow too dark for the hour, was Maeglin. Still as death. Dressed entirely in black as if mourning the sun itself. Pale. Immaculate. Radiating the energy of a man who had considered murder once today and wasn’t against a second try.
Maeglin said nothing.
He merely stood, dark and perfect and wrathful as a crow upon a ruined tower, dressed in sable and silver, his black mantle trailing behind him like a fragment of night that had refused to flee the sun.
When he spoke, it was the voice of buried tombs and sealed vaults.
“You will come to tea,” said Maeglin, “tomorrow. The Swaying Elm. Sixth bell. Precisely.”
Glorfindel blinked.
There was a pause, during which a bird might have dared to sing—only to think better of it and flying instead.
“…Tea,” Glorfindel repeated.
“Tea,” Maeglin said, as if the word had the weight of a death sentence.
And truly, in that moment, it did not sound like an invitation.
It sounded like Mandos had arrived personally to deliver the Second Doom of the Noldor, and had chosen tea as the medium of execution.
“I… I see,” Glorfindel managed, one hand braced against the balustrade, the other clutching his chest. “Do forgive me, My Molehill. For a moment, I thought you said ‘tea,’ but the tone rather implied ‘trial.’”
Maeglin tilted his head.
His eyes were very black. Too black. They were not eyes one should gaze into unprepared. They were the eyes of old caverns, of echoes that did not end, of gems buried too long.
“I have selected a table,” Maeglin said. “And a pot. There will be… items.”
“Items,” Glorfindel echoed.
“There will be no poisons,” said Maeglin. “Only snacks, Bread. Possibly jam.”
Glorfindel stared at him, “So it’s an invitation...”
“It is a conditional allowance. You are permitted to occupy the same space as I for a duration not exceeding an hour, during which we will consume infusions and small cakes. You shall not speak of nonsense. You shall not arrive in embroidered attire that shimmers. And you shall not recite verse. Or sing. Or look too pleased with yourself.”
“…it is a date then.”
Maeglin tilted his head, just slightly — the barest angle, as if testing the weight of a knife in his mind. “If you’re too early, i will see it as an invasion. And if you’re late,” he said softly, “I will assume you’ve abandoned the treaty, and Gondolin shall mourn.”
“Is that a threat?”
“I do not make threats anymore. It is a prophecy.”
“I’m honored,” Glorfindel said at last, standing and offering a theatrical bow. “And I shall arrive on time. Dressed modestly. Without music or verse. And with the most obedient expression ever worn by an elf.”
And then, in a whisper colder than silver drawn from the deep earth, Maeglin said lowly, “I have cleaned the east arbor and prepared everything.”
“…That’s very kind of you?”
“I am,” Maeglin said, with a smirk too wide. “Extremely kind.”
And then—he stepped back. His cloak twisted like a living thing in the windless air. One more glance he gave—dark, unfathomable, not unlike the gaze of Mandos when he speaks a doom that none can avert.
“I shall await you…Bring the honey if you wish. But only if it is wildflower.”
Glorfindel stood there for a long while afterward, hand pressed to his heart. He whispered into the empty garden, “I knew he has sweet tooth.”
The sunlight, filtered through vines of starflower and trailing gold-laced clematis, fell softly upon the little garden where doom had come to take tea.
Or at least, that was how Maeglin felt.
He sat, proud and black-robed, at the far end of a narrow marble table so pristine it might as well have been a sacrificial altar. Atop it, arranged with deadly precision, sat the accoutrements of polite society: delicate porcelain cups, a silver kettle etched with dragon-ivy, and a small plate of what appeared to be perfectly rectangular slices of something dark, dense, and faintly terrifying.
Glorfindel, of course, arrived in a tunic of golden embroidery that seemed to laugh at Maeglin’s entire aesthetic. He bounced in as if the world had no corners.
"Good morning!" Glorfindel beamed, taking in the garden decoration. “How very… ominous. And delightful!”
Maeglin nodded once, stiff as a spear left out in the frost. “Sit.”
“You’ve arranged the tea quite beautifully,” he said, with genuine cheer. “Everything looks so—symmetrical.”
“I measured it,” Maeglin replied flatly.
“Of course you did.”
A pause. Maeglin’s fingers tapped the table once, then stopped, as if ashamed of their lapse into expression.
Glorfindel lifted the kettle with grace. “May I pour for you?”
“No. I will do it.”
It took great effort. Maeglin’s fingers itched for a blade, not a teapot. The act of serving someone filled him with the kind of dread usually reserved for siege warfare.
Maeglin moved with grim purpose, as if performing a sacred rite or summoning a spirit from beyond. He reached into a lacquered box and withdrew a folded sachet of strange herbs.
“I selected this blend myself,” he said, voice soft and almost reverent.
“Oh?”
“It’s made with fireleaf, ironroot, and dried bittergourd,” Maeglin continued, sprinkling each ingredient into the pot with the solemnity of a warlock crafting a doom-spell.
Glorfindel blinked. “…Sounds delightful,” he lied with the ease of a diplomat staring down a siege.
Maeglin poured the steaming brew into both cups. The steaming liquid filled the cups precisely three-quarters full. It was a shade of unrepentant brown, with a scent that hovered somewhere between charred regrets and the memory of burning bridges.
“It tastes bitter,” Maeglin said matter-of-factly, “like philosophical agony and unspoken childhood trauma. But it is considered medicinal in the South.”
“What does it cure?” Glorfindel asked warily, lifting his cup with the hesitant grace of someone handling a live grenade.
Maeglin stared directly into his soul.
“Excessive talking,” he said. “And overbearing cheerfulness.”
“…Ah.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to slice. Glorfindel took a cautious sip.
Immediately, his left eye twitched.
The flavor was indescribable. Somewhere between disappointment, and metal filings. If melancholy had been boiled and strained through a blacksmith’s apron, it might have resembled this tea.
Maeglin sipped his cup and watched him drink, expression unreadable.
“Well?” he asked, voice devoid of hope.
“I believe it’s trying to escape back up my throat. That’s how you know it’s working." Glorfindel cleared his throat, smiling with eyes crinklng at the edges, "But thank you.”
There was a long, awful pause.
Then Maeglin… made a sound.
It was not a cough. Not a word. It may have once been a sigh, but it came out sharp and brittle, like something escaping through clenched teeth.
Glorfindel blinked. “Pardon?”
“I said,” Maeglin intoned with the careful inflection of one walking barefoot across blades, “you are… welcome.”
Glorfindel’s mouth parted slightly. Then curled upward.
“My dear dark jewel,” he murmured, “are you trying to be polite?”
Maeglin’s left eye twitched.
“I am attempting,” he said through a jaw set tighter than a drawbridge in siege, “to be diplomatic."
Then he opened another box, “Sugar?” he asked, it came out like a threat.
Glorfindel’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, please.”
Maeglin spooned in two lumps with such force that one bounced out and landed in Glorfindel’s lap.
He did not apologize.
He did, however, very slowly—like a man walking to the gallows—turned his face fully toward Glorfindel.
There it was.
The Smile
It came suddenly. It came unnaturally. It stretched across Maeglin’s face like a faultline opening beneath a mountain. His lips curved, yes—but stiffly, like iron bent against its will. His eyes did not follow. They remained cold. Too cold.
The result was not comforting.
The result was a death-mask with teeth, the rictus grin of a particularly polite fox demon who has just decided which limb to gnaw first.
Glorfindel stared. For a brief, unworthy moment, he wondered whether he had finally driven Maeglin into a psychotic break.
The blacksmith-lord's smile twitched wider, and it was a terrible sight. Were the Valar to descend from the heavens that very moment, they might well have recoiled and declared: "Put it back. It wasn’t meant to smile."
And then—then—Maeglin spoke, through that grim, barbed simulacrum of warmth.
“I am,” he said slowly, “so very… pleased… that you came.”
Glorfindel nearly choked on his tea. And gods bless his reckless soul, grinned back.
“Your smile,” he said cheerfully, sipping his tea, “is very… intense.”
Maeglin, with smile still plastered on his face, growled, “Thank you.”
“You're welcome, dear” Glorfindel said, far too brightly. “I can feel the effort radiating off you like furnace heat.”
Maeglin looked down at his own cup, as if contemplating drowning in it.
There was a long pause while a blackbird nearby sang a confused trill and then gave up.
Maeglin cleared his throat.
Glorfindel, who had just settled back into his chair, perked up like a golden hound catching a scent.
Then, with the tone of one reporting a natural disaster, Maeglin said, “It has been… unseasonably dry.”
Glorfindel blinked. “…has it?”
“I saw a beetle,” Maeglin added grimly, “It was struggling. In the dust. Possibly dying of dehydration.”
“A tragic fate,” Glorfindel said gravely.
“Indeed,” Maeglin nodded once, sharply, like a soldier confirming the death toll.
Silence returned, stretching awkwardly between them like a rope that might snap under strain.
Maeglin inhaled again. One could almost see him cycling through the phrases he had been advised to use by the King. Pleasant. Polite. Non-lethal.
Maeglin tried to redirect the conversation toward safer waters. He cleared his throat.
“The foliage,” he began.
Glorfindel turned to look where Maeglin gestured—a patch of roses, carefully cultivated.
“They are… existing.”
“Living,” Glorfindel offered helpfully.
“Unfortunate,” Maeglin replied, watching a bee with suspicion.
A tense silence followed. Glorfindel took a sip of tea, watching him over the rim
There was a long pause, broken only by the chirp of a bird outside the window, which immediately fell silent after catching Maeglin’s eye.
“We may also speak of clouds. Or… weapons. Or tunnels.”
“You skipped flowers.”
“They easily die.”
“I see...” Glorfindel smiled fondly.
Maeglin sipped his tea again—more forcefully than was necessary.
Glorfindel leaned forward, slow as twilight upon golden hills, and folded his arms atop the table, resting his bright head upon his hands as though the weight of affection had made him drowsy. “You’re trying,” he said, softly, gently—as one might speak to a startled bird.
Across from him, Maeglin sat stiff as iron left too long in the cold. Shadows clung to his shoulders like a mantle. His hands—always so still—lay folded near the tea, as if he feared that any motion might betray the wild storm behind his quiet eyes.
Maeglin did not answer at once. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His shoulders, normally proud as mountain ridges, seemed for a moment carved in tension.
Then, in a voice dry as old parchment, he said, “Yes.”
“Why?”
There was no malice in the question. No teasing.
Only the soft curiosity of one who had watched frost melt, slowly, under the first spring sun.
For a breath Maeglin said nothing. His gaze dropped—not in shame, but in the manner of a man who chooses his words as he would a blade, carefully and with consequence. And when he did speak, it was quiet, clipped, almost reluctant.
“The King,” he muttered.
“Ah,” said Glorfindel, with a sigh that was half amusement, half rue.
There was a pause, warm and aching, like the space between two verses of a song that dared not end.
Glorfindel tilted his head slightly, as if considering the horizon—and then, in the most casual voice he had ever used to ask anything that could cause a political catastrophe, he said:
“What would happen, do you think, if I leaned over this table and kissed you right now?”
Maeglin blinked.
The temperature of the room did not change, and yet the air grew tenser, denser, as if it had thickened around them in hushed anticipation.
“You,” Maeglin said, very slowly, “are insufferable.”
“Ah,” Glorfindel breathed, a grin breaking like dawn across his face. “There he is. I was beginning to fear you'd been replaced by some polite, agreeable doppelgänger. Possibly a ghost. Or worse, a diplomat.”
“I am trying,” Maeglin said through gritted teeth, “to be civil.”
“And you are,” Glorfindel said, utterly sincere. “In your own... nightmarish, trauma-infused, dagger-sharp sort of way. It’s truly quite touching.”
Maeglin leaned back, forcing another smile. It went even worse than the first, curling his lips into something that resembled the grimace of a man pulling a blade from his ribs and considering using it on the nearest person.
A gardener passed by, glanced at Maeglin’s expression, and immediately backed away, making a sign for warding off fell spirits.
Glorfindel laughed. "I believe you just convinced poor Lathron to write a will."
"He should not have walked behind me," Maeglin muttered.
"We are in a garden."
"That is no excuse."
Glorfindel rested his chin on his other hand, utterly amused. "You know," he said, voice low and warm, "for all your menace, I find you rather adorable when you’re valiantly resisting the urge to commit homicide."
Maeglin ignored him.
Mostly.
He had mastered the art, perfected it like steel forged beneath mountain stone: the art of pretending Glorfindel did not exist.
A lesser elf might be undone by the bright one’s smile, his irrepressible chatter, his warmth that poured into a room like spring sunlight through a window left foolishly ajar.
But Maeglin was of the deep earth. Of the dark halls and silent forges. His was a heart fire-tempered and shadow-wrought. And so he ignored him.
Until the moment when fate, in its capricious delight, made mischief.
He leaned forward to set the teapot back upon the tray. It was a small motion, without meaning, without drama.
But Glorfindel, ever helpful—ever maddening—reached for it too.
And their fingers touched.
Just once. Lightly. Briefly. Bare skin brushing bare skin.
Maeglin froze.
Glorfindel made a sound. A high, startled sound, half-laughter, half-gasp, like a lark startled by its own song. He turned pink. Then red. Then a color best described as “emotional maraschino.”
“I touched you,” he whispered, breathless. Eyes wide, pupils shimmering with what could only be described as spiritual disarray. He looked as if he had just been handed all three Silmarils and a warm blanket. “I—Maeglin, I touched your hand.”
Maeglin blinked once, very slowly.
“Yes,” he said. “Truly, a marvel worthy of song.”
“I saw your soul through your knuckle.”
“That is medically impossible,” Maeglin said, voice flat as slate.
“No,” Glorfindel insisted, breathless. “It was like lightning. But sad lightning. Lightning that writes mournful poetry in abandoned towers.”
“And also,” Glorfindel added, solemn as a priest, “moonlight. Gentle and aching. The sort that falls upon empty rooms and forgotten violins. Or when your horse turns its back on you in emotional defiance.”
“I am,” Maeglin said, very evenly, “increasingly tempted to end this conversation with violence.”
“Oh, but then you’d have to touch me again,” Glorfindel whispered.
“If you faint,” he said, not unkindly, “I will leave you there and auction off your boots.”
“They are very nice boots,” Glorfindel murmured, dazed. “I need help.”
“Yes,” Maeglin muttered. “At last we agree on something.”
“I need to lie down and scream into a cushion.”
“You may borrow one.” He gestured toward the velvet cushions with a vague flick of his wrist. “Avoid the ones with death-moths. Sentimental embroidery.”
“But most of all,” Glorfindel breathed, leaning in like the world's most tragic sunrise, “I need you.”
Maeglin looked to the skies, whispering an ancient curse. He lowered his gaze. Glorfindel had not moved.
“All you need,” Maeglin said softly, “is to leave.”
But there was no fire in the words. No bite. They landed like fallen leaves rather than daggers.
He remained.
And Glorfindel—brighter than common sense, bolder than fear—glowed like a lamp kindled from that single, accidental touch.
“Do I get another cup?” Glorfindel asked gently.
Maeglin said nothing.
He simply poured.
With quiet precision, the tea arced into the porcelain like the slow unfolding of mercy.
Glorfindel received it as if it were the Cup of Blessing.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “It tastes like trust. And very mild poison.”
“I doubled the fireleaf,” Maeglin said. “To calm you. Or sedate you. Either outcome is acceptable.”
“You care for me. Romantic,” Glorfindel sighed.
They drank in silence after that. The fire regained its voice. Somewhere beyond the room, wind whispered against the stone.
Maeglin did not speak.
But his heart—a fortress grown brittle with years—shuddered once more.
Something had touched it.
Just once. Lightly. Briefly.
But not forgotten.
And Glorfindel—still beaming, still foolish, still entirely sincere—knew in his soul that this was how a great love story began.
Not with grand gestures. Not with prophecy.
But with tea.
And the faintest, strangest flicker of maybe.
In the Hall of the Golden Flower
Ecthelion had, wisely, chosen to sit in a chair bolted to the floor. Across from him sat half the House of the Golden Flower—glorious, chaotic, and presently convinced that their lord had courted death and emerged with a lover.
“He touched Maeglin’s hand,” whispered one maiden.
“Touched it!” breathed another.
“And survived!” gasped a third.
A fourth swooned outright into the embroidery pile.
“Peace!” Ecthelion snapped, rubbing at his temples. “It was only tea.”
“With Maeglin!” cried someone. “That’s like saying you went swimming with a dragon and only got lightly singed!”
“And he smiled,” muttered one elf, still pale with disbelief. “Smiled. At Glorfindel.”
There was a long, shuddering pause.
Ecthelion stood abruptly, knocking over a pile of ribbons. “Very well,” he said grimly. “We prepare contingencies. Double the healing herbs, prepare a treaty of apology in case he is stabbed with a teacup, and—Valar help us—someone compose a love song in the event of betrothal.”
“But who shall sing it?” whispered one brave soul.
Ecthelion turned, eyes dark with foreboding. “You.”
And the elf closed his mouth in horror.
“O he of shadows and perfectly arched sneer,
Poured me tea with and touched with gloveless fingers dear—
And though he nearly ended my mortal coil,
I’d die again for his gaze of royal spoil.”
In the King's Tower
A door opened with barely a sound, and Mablon, captain of the garden guard, stepped forward, helm in hand, his boots damp with the dew of late morning. Behind him came two stewards of the Golden Flower, heads bowed and faces pale with the burden of curious news.
Turgon did not turn, but his voice rang clear. “Speak.”
Mablon knelt. “My lord, the tea has occurred.”
There was a pause. The King’s silence was heavy. “And?”
The captain hesitated—not from fear, but the manner of a man unsure if what he witnessed had, in fact, truly occurred.
“None are dead,” he said at last.
Turgon exhaled through his nose, slow and deep. “Praise be to the Valar. Continue.”
“My lord, the Lord Glorfindel arrived at the garden with a brightness like dawn itself. Tunic embroidered with sunbursts. Smiling. Radiant. He… complimented the décor.”
A stifled sound came from one of the courtiers behind the throne. Turgon raised one hand. “Let none interrupt. Go on.”
“The Lord Maeglin,” said Mablon slowly, “was already seated. In black robes. Alone. At the head of the table. He had arranged everything—meticulously. The tea was brewed with intent. There were herbs... of dark nature.”
“Was it poisoned?” Turgon asked calmly, as though inquiring about the weather.
“Not... quite. It was described later by Lord Glorfindel as ‘tasting of emotional trauma and fire-forged resentment.’”
“Ah,” murmured Turgon. “His usual blend.”
Then came another reports from different source.
The steward from the House of the Golden Flower stepped forward now, bearing a scroll. “My lord, we have compiled a brief report—compiled from the observations of six spies, two servants, and one extremely frightened young gardener who happened to pass by.”
Turgon’s eyes gleamed. “Read it.”
The steward cleared his throat. “To the Esteemed Majesty of the Hidden City, Lord of Gondolin, Second-born of the High King—”
“Skip the titles,” Turgon said wearily.
“Yes, sire. Ahem. ‘Report of tea proceedings between Lord Maeglin of the House of the Mole and Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, as witnessed in the Lower East Garden, beneath the vines of starflower and clematis, where doom did visibly tremble.’”
There was a pause.
“Doom?” Turgon asked mildly.
“That was a direct quote, my lord.”
“Continue.”
“Glorfindel greeted the setting with joy. Maeglin responded with a nod that several witnesses described as ‘sword-adjacent.’ They discussed symmetry. Tea was served. Glorfindel inquired about the blend.”
“Ah yes,” said Turgon. “The fatal moment.”
“It contained fireleaf, ironroot, and bittergourd, my lord.”
Turgon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told him not to use the bittergourd. Continue.”
“The tea was poured with grave solemnity. Witnesses report that Maeglin’s posture resembled that of a priest performing a ritual sacrifice. Glorfindel accepted the cup, sipped, and proceeded to smile as though he had been struck by a small and philosophical thunderstorm.”
“Did Maeglin smile?” the King asked suddenly.
There was a terrible silence.
“...He attempted to,” the steward said carefully.
The silence deepened.
“What... sort of smile?” Turgon asked, voice like snow falling. "Is it ironic or sardonic?"
The steward faltered. Mablon stepped in. “Sire, based of the poor young gardener description. I will say this with all due reverence to your kin: it was the smile of an ancient curse made flesh. It bore teeth. But not in joy. More in warning. Like a blade unsheathed.”
Turgon pressed both hands to his face. “That was his polite smile,” he muttered.
The steward continued bravely. “Sugar was offered. Though the tone was described as ‘lightly threatening and was hurled with intent.’”
A rustle passed through the chamber like wind through dry leaves.
“And after?” the King asked, his voice sharp now.
“They conversed. Of... clouds. Of beetles. Of death-moths and the disturbing resilience of roses.”
Turgon’s eye twitched. “Did they quarrel?”
“No, my lord.”
Turgon’s brow lifted. “They did not argue?”
“No. Glorfindel simply smiled and said things like ‘how charming’ and ‘you’re trying’ and ‘your murderous energy is truly endearing.’ And grateful because Maeglin's attempts not to commit homicide.’”
Turgon leaned back on his throne and stared at the ceiling. “The boy is trying. That counts for something.”
Then the other steward, younger, cleared his throat. “Sire. There was... touch.”
The room stilled.
“Touch,” Turgon repeated. “Be specific.”
“Their fingers brushed,” the steward said faintly. “Skin to skin. Just once. During the tea.”
“Voluntarily?” Turgon asked, thunder in his tone.
“Unintentional. But Glorfindel made a sound like a strangled dove and then sang four verses about soul-contact through a knuckle.”
Turgon groaned and pressed a hand to his brow. “Eru protect us. He’s writing poetry.”
“Worse, sire,” Mablon added. “He sang all the way back through the city. Loudly. In public.”
The steward nodded. “The hedgemistress of the Eastern Vale reports three maidens swooned into the rosebushes, and one pigeon fell from a rooftop, overcome.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Is it spreading?” Turgon asked quietly.
“Yes, my lord. Idril updated her betting chart before sunrise. She’s added new columns for public cheek-pinching, verse recitation, and first unauthorized hand-holding.”
“I will have to confiscate her ink,” Turgon muttered.
The steward cleared his throat again. “The markets are already buzzing. Some claim Glorfindel left the garden glowing. There is speculation of... betrothal.”
Another servant came, red-faced and breathless, bearing a silver tray with scrolls.
“Reports from the market, Sire. Gossip spreads like fire. The baker has named a new bread after them. It is bittersweet.”
Turgon took the scroll and unrolled it slowly. “'Golden Crust and Shadowed Core',” he read aloud. “Artisans are poets now.”
A guard entered, his armor clinking. He bowed deeply.
“Sire, a petition has been submitted by the House of the Golden Flower. They request a neutral observer for future interactions. Lord Glorfindel has returned singing. Again.”
“What did he sing?”
“Something about 'lips like wrath and tea like destiny'. I did not catch the rest.”
Turgon placed a hand to his temple.
“And Maeglin?”
“He has not spoken. But... he remained in the garden for some time. Alone. His hand, the one that touched Glorfindel’s, was held as though scorched.”
Turgon exhaled and looked toward the west window, where the sun dipped behind the hills in a blaze of fire and gold.
A page crept forward. “Sire, shall I cancel the peacekeeping meeting with House Golden Flower? They have sent no more complaints about Lord Glorfindel’s safety.”
The King gave a dry snort. “Only because they fear Maeglin will serve their lord’s severed head under a silver dome.”
The page bowed deeply. “Actually, Sire, they sent a thank-you basket.”
“Of what?”
“Tea.”
Turgon stared at him.
“With a note that read, and I quote: ‘If this prevents further punches, may the tea forever flow.’”
The King sighed. Long and deep.
Something has begun,” he said, as though to the air. “Something strange. And mighty. Like a new spring blooming in the deep places of stone.”
He turned to the servant.
“Prepare another tea.”
“For them?”
“No,” Turgon said. “For me. I must brace myself.”