The two figures stood side by side, wrapped in their cloaks against the adversity of the winter gale. It seemed that their faces were frozen, their bodies motionless, except for the slight movement of their hair in the wind. The taller of the two, the Elf-man, would occasionally blink or shiver, or glance backwards at his companion. Her eyes were closed, her whole form exuding a kind of serene calmness. She seemed lost in her own thoughts, and barely noticed as the wind began to howl between the spires of the gleaming city.
The Elf-man turned, unnerved by his companion's absolute stillness. In appearance he was her opposite - while his hair was black as a raven's wing, she was golden as the sunrise. While he clad himself in the sombre colours of his house, she remained radiant white, gleaming like a star on the city wall.
"Idril?" He said quietly. Her eyes opened, revealing tones of brilliant blue that contrasted with his own, shadowy and almost black in colour. Her eyes were unfocused, staring straight ahead. If she was aware of his presence, she gave no sign of it.
"Celebrindal, it is time to go. Your father will be worried." He said, more strongly this time. He touched her arm gently, and slowly she awoke from her trance.
"What did you see?" She asked. He shook his head.
She sighed softly, her breath coming as a cloud of steam in the frigid air. "I am truly alone, then. Not even you, Maeglin cousin, shares in my curse."
"Come back to the palace, Idril." Maeglin said, and reached to grasp her arm, but she stiffened suddenly and pulled away, and when she spoke, the voice was not her own.
"No... wait, it's coming again, it's... stronger this time... I cannot see - ah! Help me, they come! They come and they would take the city, but... no, the light is dawn, it must be dawn that stains the clouds with blood..."
Maeglin grasped her shoulders firmly and shook her, his face full of worry. King Turgon had often spoken of his daughter's strange sight and mysterious dreams, and his regret that even the finest doctors of his city could not find a cure for the madness of Idril. Maeglin had occasionally seen his cousin thus, but thought little of it, deeming it a product of the sickness that had fallen on her since the day she first beheld Tuor. The Mortal. Maeglin could not yet bring himself to call him by name, preferring, "My mortal friend", or "The King's noble guest". In his heart he had many such names for the fair sun-child. Usurper of love. Thief of Gondolin's treasure. Thrall of the Valar.
Maeglin realised his fingers were exacting an iron grip on Idril's shoulders, and quickly released her. For a moment she was small, no longer the high princess of Gondolin, but a trembling frightened Elf-child in need of protection. She did not resist Maeglin's embrace, nor the soft feeling of his fingers in her hair.
Maeglin had always wondered at the delicate beauty of Idril, and how she reminded him of his gems. The only difference was that she was perfect. Gems were flawed. His keen eyes had picked out many a tiny fault in stones others deemed pure. He loved everything about Idril - her gentle voice, her river of golden hair, her fair face, her far-seeing eyes. Yet she seemed so frail, so fragile, so easily broken. Just like the mortal who had taken her to wife.
When at last they pulled apart, Maeglin's smile was grim.
"Come on, Celebrindal. I expect your husband will be waiting."
A/N (again): Don't ask me where that came from. I really don't know.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.