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crack_van2005-01-17 09:50 pm
espresso-addict.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2005-01-17 09:50 pm
Entry tags:
The Prince by Tyellas (PG-15)
Fandom: SILMARILLION
Pairing: Maeglin/Aranwë
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tyellas
Author Website: Ansereg
Why this must be read:
A very different tale of Gondolin, this time predominantly set during a single day, as Maeglin -- the Machiavellian Prince of the title -- schemes to ensure that the bad news Tuor brings to Gondolin will be ignored. The story also gives delicious hints of the ripples of change throughout the entire Hidden City proceeding from Tuor's arrival.
Tyellas has a real gift for creating characters & settings, and this is one of the most convincing pictures of Gondolin society I've seen, complete with politics & gossip, romance & rivalry, and a whole host of characters. She also knows her canon backwards, but you don't need to share her depth of scholarship to enjoy the life she's breathed into the various minor characters Maeglin encounters. I also loved the occasional flashes of ironic humour.
Thus it was that Maeglin stood at Turgon's right hand and heard Ulmo's prophecy delivered. Many in the hall gasped to hear the god-touched mortal, clad in a cloak of enchanted shadow and Turgon's own mail, saying impossible words: that Gondolin was vulnerable and should be abandoned. Maeglin stayed impassive. One raised in the uncanny wood of Nan Elmoth was not dazzled by one so spirit-touched, nor by the shadow-cloak that melted away when Tuor's rede was told. Maeglin frowned at the last word. He thought of his forges, the precious mines in the encircling hills, the white glory of the city's stonework, the bright garb of its hosts who bowed before him; and he stiffened his spine in denial.
A quick glance at Turgon showed nothing. He was not the king of Gondolin for naught, and stayed close outside of counsel. Maeglin turned his baleful glare upon the mortal who, divested of Ulmo's benefice, was reeling bewildered before the throne. Then he noted Idril also staring at the mortal, her blue eyes wide, expression thunderstruck. She was, Maeglin thought, probably horrified, having seen only mortal youths, not a man in his crude prime, like this one. The raw-looking mortal had bushy blonde whiskers, like one of the Dwarves, and was clad in rancid tatters beneath the silver mail of Turgon's making. Inspired, Maeglin leaned back and spoke to her. "Idril. Tomorrow, I was bounden to go to the tailors, and submit to their measuring a time. I will give my place to this guest, that he may be clad as is fitting."
Idril nodded, still speechless. Maeglin felt twice over he had done well in that. Properly clad, the mortal would be less alarming. And, knowing the precision of the tailors, the mortal would be fixed in one place for a day, at least.
That would be enough time for him to act.
The Prince
Pairing: Maeglin/Aranwë
Author on LJ:
tyellasAuthor Website: Ansereg
Why this must be read:
A very different tale of Gondolin, this time predominantly set during a single day, as Maeglin -- the Machiavellian Prince of the title -- schemes to ensure that the bad news Tuor brings to Gondolin will be ignored. The story also gives delicious hints of the ripples of change throughout the entire Hidden City proceeding from Tuor's arrival.
Tyellas has a real gift for creating characters & settings, and this is one of the most convincing pictures of Gondolin society I've seen, complete with politics & gossip, romance & rivalry, and a whole host of characters. She also knows her canon backwards, but you don't need to share her depth of scholarship to enjoy the life she's breathed into the various minor characters Maeglin encounters. I also loved the occasional flashes of ironic humour.
Thus it was that Maeglin stood at Turgon's right hand and heard Ulmo's prophecy delivered. Many in the hall gasped to hear the god-touched mortal, clad in a cloak of enchanted shadow and Turgon's own mail, saying impossible words: that Gondolin was vulnerable and should be abandoned. Maeglin stayed impassive. One raised in the uncanny wood of Nan Elmoth was not dazzled by one so spirit-touched, nor by the shadow-cloak that melted away when Tuor's rede was told. Maeglin frowned at the last word. He thought of his forges, the precious mines in the encircling hills, the white glory of the city's stonework, the bright garb of its hosts who bowed before him; and he stiffened his spine in denial.
A quick glance at Turgon showed nothing. He was not the king of Gondolin for naught, and stayed close outside of counsel. Maeglin turned his baleful glare upon the mortal who, divested of Ulmo's benefice, was reeling bewildered before the throne. Then he noted Idril also staring at the mortal, her blue eyes wide, expression thunderstruck. She was, Maeglin thought, probably horrified, having seen only mortal youths, not a man in his crude prime, like this one. The raw-looking mortal had bushy blonde whiskers, like one of the Dwarves, and was clad in rancid tatters beneath the silver mail of Turgon's making. Inspired, Maeglin leaned back and spoke to her. "Idril. Tomorrow, I was bounden to go to the tailors, and submit to their measuring a time. I will give my place to this guest, that he may be clad as is fitting."
Idril nodded, still speechless. Maeglin felt twice over he had done well in that. Properly clad, the mortal would be less alarming. And, knowing the precision of the tailors, the mortal would be fixed in one place for a day, at least.
That would be enough time for him to act.
The Prince