Okay I adored this idea so I quickly drabbled something out - I haven't written for days so this was good inspiration xD
/
When he came back bearing the body, she went from him before he even had chance to open his mouth. Repeated petitions at her door had no effect. She reappeared for the funeral, and spoke to him afterward only because he blocked her door as she attempted to disappear back behind it.
“Move, Maeglin.” No clever insults for him now – now she simply looked exhausted.
“You must not seclude yourself so, cousin – it is unhealthy. And what’s more, the court wishes you to have a say in the crowning-”
“I have no interest in the crowning,” she snapped. “You are my father’s heir. The crown is yours. There is little more to be said. Now, move aside.”
He remained, and she stared him down until he looked away with a sigh. “As you wish,” he muttered, and moved away.
She stood on the dais as he was crowned with the look of someone detached from reality. When he spoke to her she did not seem to hear. She drew away from his touch as she ever had, and as ever, it cut him to the quick.
Eventually, slowly, she regained some of her vibrancy; the shadow of grief remained in her eyes, but she would go out into the world, and a smile and a laugh could be drawn from her with increasing ease.
Though not by him. Never by him.
He was the King of Gondolin. He could have forced her to give him her hand, but that would avail him nothing.
When the omen of Ulmo arrived, a message carried with ringing, unearthly voice by Huor’s heir, the people were in uproar. Good, some said. It is time we left. The people are stifled here.
No, cried others, Gondolin is safety. Outside is death.
“What will you do?” the lords asked him. Their faces were a kaleidoscope of emotions, from resentment to worry to neutral calm.
There were food shortages. Near all the green spaces of the city had been filled with buildings as the population grew. Lean-tos and tents in the streets were filled with those who could not fit inside the buildings. A few more every day migrated to the slowly building village of shacks and hovels outside the shelter of the city walls. If the harvest failed even once more, hundreds would starve. “I will think about it,” Maeglin said, though in his heart his course was set. He remembered the taste of the world beyond these white walls.
“And the messenger?” Rog asked this; his face dark and his voice tight.
Maeglin had seen the way she glanced at him. “He has delivered his message. Escort him back to the gate and send him on his way.”
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timeasmymeasure
Slipping The Traces
Date: 2014-01-19 06:53 pm (UTC)/
When he came back bearing the body, she went from him before he even had chance to open his mouth. Repeated petitions at her door had no effect. She reappeared for the funeral, and spoke to him afterward only because he blocked her door as she attempted to disappear back behind it.
“Move, Maeglin.” No clever insults for him now – now she simply looked exhausted.
“You must not seclude yourself so, cousin – it is unhealthy. And what’s more, the court wishes you to have a say in the crowning-”
“I have no interest in the crowning,” she snapped. “You are my father’s heir. The crown is yours. There is little more to be said. Now, move aside.”
He remained, and she stared him down until he looked away with a sigh. “As you wish,” he muttered, and moved away.
She stood on the dais as he was crowned with the look of someone detached from reality. When he spoke to her she did not seem to hear. She drew away from his touch as she ever had, and as ever, it cut him to the quick.
Eventually, slowly, she regained some of her vibrancy; the shadow of grief remained in her eyes, but she would go out into the world, and a smile and a laugh could be drawn from her with increasing ease.
Though not by him. Never by him.
He was the King of Gondolin. He could have forced her to give him her hand, but that would avail him nothing.
When the omen of Ulmo arrived, a message carried with ringing, unearthly voice by Huor’s heir, the people were in uproar. Good, some said. It is time we left. The people are stifled here.
No, cried others, Gondolin is safety. Outside is death.
“What will you do?” the lords asked him. Their faces were a kaleidoscope of emotions, from resentment to worry to neutral calm.
There were food shortages. Near all the green spaces of the city had been filled with buildings as the population grew. Lean-tos and tents in the streets were filled with those who could not fit inside the buildings. A few more every day migrated to the slowly building village of shacks and hovels outside the shelter of the city walls. If the harvest failed even once more, hundreds would starve. “I will think about it,” Maeglin said, though in his heart his course was set. He remembered the taste of the world beyond these white walls.
“And the messenger?” Rog asked this; his face dark and his voice tight.
Maeglin had seen the way she glanced at him. “He has delivered his message. Escort him back to the gate and send him on his way.”