Summary: Maeglin attempts to come to terms with the events surrounding his arrival at Gondolin.
Warnings: Mention of violence and future character death (Eöl's and Aredhel's respective fates).
A/N: Originally a project contribution for SWG's B2MeM 2010 project, for a story/piece of art in which a colour dominates. Thanks to Dwimordene for nominating this for the 2010 MEFAs!



Walls of White

Dusk was falling in shades of purple and red over the Hidden Rock. Maeglin's gaze swerved through the palace gardens where behind the high walls, the shadows were gathering across the pools of water and the flowers that studded the wild expanse of the meadow. Purple gentian, bluebells, lavender, and others that he could not name, nor did he care to. But at the edge of his vision and among the wisteria vines, always, glared the white marble that differed only from the woven trees of Nan Elmoth insofar that it had been built, not grown. For that they had the mountains ringing the valley like armoured sentinels even where a view beyond the walls was possible. Nightfall only softened the white marginally, and the mountains shimmered purple with some last vestige of the decreasing sunlight.

He paced the perimeter of the garden and crushed the fragile flower-heads under his heels. The first made him start in guilt, the next had him dig his sole into the turf, grinding petals into smears on the green. How much time he spent he could not have said, but as Maeglin paced, the evening darkened and the colours sank like a blanket on him. The shadows, where they were not true black, were purple at the edge, the colour of a fresh bruise, the colour of his mother's blood as it gleamed on the javelin. The specks on his father's clothes where some chemical had spilled and eaten away at the black dye. The wine he was offered in his uncle's chambers, the rims of his robes.

They were mocking him. The gardens, the purple flowers, the dusk, even the reflection on the water. He threw a stone at the pond, the water rippled, sloshed, and lay still again. Purple. It was the colour of death and grief among some people, he had learned from the dwarves that his father traded with, when in one of their mines he had procured a brilliantly purple, arm-length geode of amethyst, and they had murmured in their strange, sonourous tongue and shook their heads in disapproval. 'He will come to grief' they had said, and his father had scolded him for the proud discovery and made him watch as exposure to heat slowly turned his gemstone yellow. He had turned to metalwork, and solely that, afterwards.

He picked up another stone and hurled it against the walls, what right had they had to predict his future? What right had they had to foretell that he would be caught here, that his mother had taken sick to the point of near-death, and when morning came, he was to stand by and see his father die? The stone bounced back harmlessly. What right -- did they have to intrude on his life, what right had he had to believe he could live in peace with his mother? He marched up to the walls and drew Anguirel. He would show them that metal always, always triumphed over stone. Black always triumphed over light, nightfall always over day, and purple would drown it all out in the end. He raised the blade for a first slash against the walls. Metal would never bow to stone.

"Cousin Lómion?"

He whirled around. There were two of them, one in the simple garb of a servant, the other in gleaming white and carrying a light in her hand that lit up her features and the ripples of golden hair.

"Cousin, keep from folly that cannot be redressed, lower the blade. Lower it. I have been sent to ask you inside and rest before the morning..."

And absurdly, his fingers opened and the sword dropped at his side, and he fell to his knees among the crushed flowers. He couldn't hear her running behind him, but knew she was, from the purple shadow flying over the grass past him, and from the speed of her white arms going around him and sheltering him. For now it would do. For now he might breathe freely, the soft scent of her hair, the solidity of her body against his, unyielding as the walls around the palace gardens, the walls, the mountains of Gondolin. He would take what comfort he could, in this city and in her.

But metal would always triumph in the end, and purple drown out all.