Now you gotta write a Taeglin fic. For science.
[anon you can’t tempt me like this!! i have other fics to write…!!!]
The king’s daughter smiled, and Túrin’s breath caught; her gaze alighted upon him…and rested on the man beside him. His cousin, Tuor.
It was an echo of his time in Nargothrond; only this time, something within him told him that her heart would not turn to him as Finduilas’ had. Ah, Finduilas! lost and slain! Tears sprang to his eyes unbidden at the thought, and he gripped the hilt of Gurthang with a trembling fist.
From the shadows to the right of the King crept a man. His hair was dark, his eyes sharp; he seemed to be shrouded in twilight even in the brightness of the sun. The elven lord, for surely he was of noble birth to stand so close to the King, watched the golden-haired princess with the same bitterness that pricked Túrin’s heart, moving to gaze upon Tuor with a cool distrust…only to settle his eyes on the man beside him. Túrin.
They locked eyes and at the behest of some inner foreboding Túrin unsheathed his blade in the same moment as the elf lord; around them the guards stiffened, drew weapons of their own, but Túrin stood stupefied as he gazed upon the brother-blade of his own sword in the elf’s hand.
“Why have you my father’s sword?” demanded the elf.
Túrin had no answer.
“Who are you?” the elf hissed, stepping forward. “This man is the messenger of Ulmo, or so he claims, but you are no pawn of the Valar.”
Túrin drew himself up. The elder cousin from the elder son ought not to be forgotten in the glory of Tuor’s triumphant message! His father, also, had walked in Gondolin; his father, also, had broken bread with the King.
“I am Túrin, son of Húrin, cousin of Tuor,” he declared, “and this blade I carry in remembrance of my beloved—” he flinched at the memory, saw the King’s eyes narrowed, and added hurriedly— “my beloved friend Beleg Cúthalion, marchwarden of Doriath.”
“Thingol dared not even wield the blade he wrested from my sire,” the elf lord said scornfully, but a guarded respect shone within his piercing eyes as he lowered the sword. “That is Anglachel, mate of my sword Anguirel, forged of a star by Eöl my father. I am Maeglin, sister-son to the King, child of Aredhel Ar-Feiniel and the Lord of Nan Elmoth, and that sword is mine by right.”
Túrin bowed formally, his gaze steadily matching Maeglin’s own. “I have fought many a battle with this blade at my side, and have dubbed it Gurthang,” he warned, “and I will not give it up without struggle.”
“Then let us duel!” Maeglin exclaimed, and Túrin could not halt a smile from creeping across his face; at last, an opponent worthy of himself! The princess’s favor for Tuor over him was forgotten as he assessed Maeglin—he was darkly handsome, swift in mind, the same height as Túrin himself if more lithe in the elven manner.
“Stop!” exclaimed Tuor, and he rushed to stand between the warriors. “This is a momentous meeting; surely we can reach an agreement in peace?”
“Yes, cease your fighting,” spake the King, lifting his voice at last. “Tuor son of Huor and Túrin son of Húrin. You are both welcome in the city of Gondolin as your fathers before you, but I ask that you reserve your quarrels for the practice court. We shall discuss the ownership of the sword at a later date.”
Túrin and Maeglin sheathed their blades reluctantly, but Túrin did not break eye contact with the elf lord. There was something about him that was familiar, akin perhaps to Gwindor in his nobility and the shadows in his heart. Túrin was no elf, but he was attuned to the music of the world in a way that many were not, and there was a foreboding in his mind that the fates of he and Maeglin were wound together beyond the kinship of their swords, though in harmony or discord he knew not yet.
Maeglin at last looked away, but glancing back again, Túrin could tell he felt it too.