Confessions of a Sharp Glance by Mercurie

My Father’s Son

          My father said something to me when I was very young that I forgot for a long time afterwards. Perhaps if I had remembered, things would have turned out differently; but more likely it would have made no difference. Our natures and temperaments often force us down paths that we cannot see, much less change, and I am no exception to this rule.

           As I said, I was very young – a child, really. My parents were arguing, as usual. I think Mother wanted to go visit her brother again, but Father would have none of it. He never allowed her out of his sight if he could help it, except when he went to the mountains.

          I was outside, sitting in my favourite tree – a tall mothorn of the kind that grew only in Nan Elmoth. Its leaves are a dark green that is almost grey, but they shimmer in the starlight. It was night then, I think – at least, it was dark enough that I did not notice Father until he had climbed onto the branch beside me.

           “If you read in the dark, you will dull your eyesight,” he said.

           I blushed in the dark and hid the papers I’d been holding. It wasn’t a book at all – at least, not one that anyone else had written in. I had been writing verses in the letters Mother had taught me. She said one of her uncles had invented them. That meant they were forbidden, of course, as was anything concerning the High Elves. I was afraid Father would ask to see what I had been doing, so I tried to distract him as quickly as I could.

           “What were you fighting with Mother about?” I said.

           Father barked his familiar sarcastic laugh. In all my life I never heard him laugh normally – only this thorny, pungent sound was permitted to escape his lips. The peals drifted along between us, like poisonous dandelion fluff.

           “Your mother is like a restless cat,” he said, “She always wants some one else’s dish of milk. The problem is, once she has it, it is never as good as it looked from far away.”

           I was careful to keep my voice neutral. “She wants to see Gondolin again. Why won’t you let her go?”

           Anger seeped out of him like a frozen black mist. Father was often angry, especially when he had been speaking with Mother. Not that he didn’t love her; in fact, I believe that’s why he loved her – she was the only person clever enough to occasionally best him at his own game. Whether she loved him I was never certain; but my own feelings on the matter were quite decided.

           “Maeglin, let me tell you something,” Father said. I didn’t want to hear. Whatever he was going to say, I could tell it would only worsen the atmosphere between us.

           “In all their lives,” he said, his voice dropping to a wry whisper, “People do only one thing. They desire. The roots of every act and thought are entangled inseparably with this one need... Wanting drives us to our every deed, be it good or bad. There is no greater joy than receiving what one has desired, and no greater torment than losing it.”

           He paused, but I didn’t speak. I was afraid of what he would say next; it would be a stab at me somehow, and I was too ignorant to parry.

           “No, we cannot bear to lose,” he continued after a moment of silence, “But often the desires of others obstruct our own. They want to bring us to heel, to lay our dreams to waste. And the only way to stop them is control them first. We must destroy them before they destroy us; true triumph is the triumph of one will over another. You think I do not know what your mother wants? I tell you I care not! I am the master here, and my word binds. If I must keep Aredhel as a prisoner, and you as well, then so be it.”

           I bit my lip, trying to stop the trembling that crept slyly over my limbs. To speak would be folly; in this emotional sparring Father was far more experienced than I. Yes, I hated him, of course. Who could love a being that spoke such hideous words? But that hate gave me no strength, no skill against him.

           “If your mother goes to Gondolin, she will never come back. Is that what you wish?”

           Still I said nothing. The woods were drowned in night stillness; I tried to breathe silently. Perhaps he would think I had fallen asleep. Father chuckled softly, the sound like the mocking hoot of an owl.

           “Your eyes are sharp, my son,” he said, “I know it; I named you well. But you do not see everything yet. You are thinking that I am hateful and cruel. But you do not realize yet that you, too, belong to me. You sprang from my heart and mind, and all you ever do will be to my glory, in my image. You think I am greedy, petty, covetous – ah, but you overlook the worm in your own soul. It is consuming you even now. Can you not feel it? The craving for something else, something different – that tantalizing wine of happiness, so far beyond your reach. That craving will be with you forever – learn to love it now! It will never be satisfied.”

           Oh, how I hated him for those words! There was nothing I feared more than Father – or that I would become like him. And yet, he was not entirely right, I think. It was not desire itself that doomed me – simply in knowing my fault, I could have denied it easily. No, there was a deeper darkness here, and a crueler trap: I enjoyed desire. There is a perverse pleasure in longing for something, far greater than in having it. Sweet hunger... dizzy, sensuous thirst... years later my head would reel from that morbid intoxication. And so, even if all my wishes had been granted to me, things might not have happened any differently, and I would have been as miserable as ever.

           But I knew nothing of the future in that moment, and all I could think about was that right then I desperately wanted Father to leave. For a moment it even seemed that he would oblige my secret wish and climb out of the tree. But at the last minute, he made a grab for the papers I’d been tying to conceal behind me instead. I was too surprised to react quickly, and before I knew it, his eyes were flicking over the clumsy writing. It was dark, but Father could pierce shadow with his gaze; shadows in the forest, or shadows of the mind.

           “Why, Maeglin,” he said with a humourless smile that reminded me of the way a snake’s mouth curls at the ends, “I didn’t know you were a poet. And such a plaintively eloquent one... ‘Dusk shadows strangle the night/But beyond the woven woods/From one star spills a silver light/Upon the free escaping road...”

           “Give that back!” I burst out in angry fear, unable to keep silent any longer. Father was undisturbed.

           “Such thoughts are unbecoming,” he said, tearing the paper slowly into pieces. Each rip sounded like the screech of another lock being turned on the door of my prison.

           “You will never escape, no matter where you go,” Father continued, “A man can’t run from his blood.”

           “It’s you I want to run from!” I hissed suddenly. I snapped my mouth shut immediately in horror at what I had said. Father glared at me, his narrowed eyes glinting like slivers of silver.

           “Just remember one thing,” he said, grabbing me by the collar, “You will always be your father’s son.”

           He pushed me lightly, and suddenly I was tumbling through the leaf-wreathed air, to land in blackness.

           The fall must have knocked that conversation from my mind, or perhaps Father put a spell on me. The next day nothing of it remained in my memory, and only after my death did I recall it.

My Mother’s Pride

           I never meant to kill him. It was an accident, whether you believe it or not. I just wanted to be free, you understand. Who doesn’t? I never intended for it to go so far... but once I started, I couldn’t turn back. Maybe it was meant to be. I suppose that sounds like an excuse. But I can’t help but feel, even now, that all along some other will was pushing me, like a river that tosses a leaf over a waterfall. It was fate, perhaps... or the phantom will of my father.

           I was older by a few years. Old enough that my fear of my father had diminished greatly; for by then I knew that I matched him in craft and perception, and would someday soar beyond him in both. The tension between us by that time hummed like an overtuned harpstring. I knew he no longer trusted me; he never took me with him to the Dwarf cities anymore, but went always alone. It made me glad, seeing him in his isolation, in his lonely mistrust. And the more he withdrew from us, the more Mother and I came ever closer together, and the more we longed for escape from him.

           He had been gone for some time, I remember, in the midsummer of that year. Mother and I felt freer than we had for years; we went often together to the borders of Nan Elmoth, to feel the wind and the sunlight. And it was there, blinking in the hot, sleepy rays, that the desire to flee became so strong in me as to be undeniable. I couldn’t bear the thought of returning under the gloomy eaves to the creaking old house and its silent servants. So I suggested to Mother that we leave then for Gondolin, leave behind the dusty forest for the shining fountains she had spoken about so often. I could tell instantly from her expression that the thought was to her liking.

           “The Rock of the Music of Water,” she said softly, wistfully, “It has been too long since I heard the fountains. But I have not forgotten the way, and if you will be my guard, then I will guide us true as gulls returning to the sea.”

           “Then let us be off!” I said, for I was loath to spend a moment longer in Nan Elmoth than need be, “Our horses are here; we are at the border of the wood. We can be gone, and none will know whither we went or when departed. We need not return to the house – surely we may go to the sons of Fëanor as guests, and they will aid and provision us!”

           But she stayed me with a gesture of her white hand. “No,” she said, nobly as always, “We cannot just sneak off like ungrateful guests. We must leave a message, as is befitting. Besides, you are unarmed, and weapons will be needed on the path we ride. Your father’s sword – it is there. Take it, for it is the mightiest of his works.”

           “Anguirel?” I asked. Mighty, indeed – Father had forged the sword from the metal of a flaming star that had fallen from the heavens. It had had a twin, but that rested now in the hoard of King Thingol in Doriath. The two blades were the greatest of Father’s creations. He had lost one already, and losing the other would infuriate him beyond measure. The thought liked me well.

           “Then he did not take it to Nogrod?” I asked further.

           “No,” Mother answered me, “It is in Sarn’s care.”

           Sarn was my father’s chief servant; he ordered the household and saw to it that the forge remained in good condition. I might have expected that Father would leave the sword with him. Sarn was as loyal as a dog, and about as intelligent. Just thinking about trying to convince him to hand over Anguirel to me gave me a headache.

           “If you wish it, lady, then let us return for the sword and provisions now,” I said, “I must admit that I burn to depart with all haste, and leave these groaning trees behind forever.”

           Throwing one last glance on the bright lands, we turned back to the twilight under the tangled branches of Nan Elmoth. Deep in those silent woods lay my father’s halls, and by the time we reached them the trees grew so thick that barely a gleam of light wriggled through the rampant growth. There loomed the house: a tall, frowning monstrosity of carven wood, full of rooms that seemed always empty. The smithy stood behind the house, next to a tall mothorn tree that was my favourite perch.

           “I will see to our provisioning and inform the servants of our departure,” Mother said, “Go and claim Anguirel! Then meet me here and we will be on our way!”

           I nodded my agreement, and we dismounted. After tying the horses to a porch post, Mother made for the front door; but I followed the wall around the house to the back. I had a hunch that Sarn, with Anguirel in his keeping, would be busy at the forge.

           When I rounded the corner of the house, I stopped for a minute in its shade. Faint sounds came from the smithy, but my eyes were drawn to the great mothorn. The mothorn’s blossoms are silver, but they bloom for only seven days in the summer. On the eighth day, the petals all loosen and drift slowly down to form a silver pool at the roots. They were falling now; I watched them flutter gently, glittering in the stray beams of sunlight that made it this deep into the forest. It seemed to me that the tree was raining silver coins, and each delicate treasure was a promise of glory to come. It was an assurance; an omen; a justification.

           The smithy door opened, and Sarn stepped out. He looked as if he had been cleaning the forge; he wore a leather apron, which he removed and hung onto a peg next to the door. Beneath the apron his raiment was black - everyone in the household wore black, except for Mother. At Sarn’s belt hung Anguirel; though the fool would never use it, he would guard it possessively as a dog does his bone.

           When I stepped out of the shadows, surprise swamped his placid face.

           “Sarn,” I said, “I must speak with you.”

           “Why, of course, Master,” he said hesitatingly, “What is your wish?”

           “My lady mother and I are leaving for Gondolin,” I said, “But I will need a weapon, for the ways are dangerous. I require Anguirel.”

           Sarn blinked and frowned. I could almost see his slow mind puffing with exertion.

          “But Lord Eol forbade you to leave the forest,” he said, “You are acting against the lord’s wishes!”

           “Nevertheless, we depart today,” I said as patiently as I could, “Now give me the sword!”

           Sarn shook his head and backed away from me slowly. I followed, restraining my rising anger.

           “I cannot forbid you to go,” Sarn said, “That is not within my power. But I can withhold Anguirel from you. My lord entrusted it to me, and I swore to keep it safe in his absence.”

           I ground my teeth. “I doubt you could keep it from me, if I choose to take it. It would be wiser to simply hand it over now.”

           I must have sounded threatening, for his bovine eyes widened. He took another step backwards and came to a halt, unable to go further. He had backed against the moulting mothorn, and stood there facing me like an animal at bay. The petals rained on undisturbed around us.

           “Try to take it at your own peril,” he said, setting his jaw in determination.

           My own peril! Had I but listened to him then... but all I could think was that the fool was actually going to try to resist me. Annoyance nettled me at the idea. It was like having a tiny stone in your shoe; such an inconsequential thing, and yet it prevents you from running. And time was flying; I itched to be gone.

           He shouted as I lunged forward and grabbed his throat, shoving him against the tree trunk. I mastered his flailing efforts at defence easily; but I was not aiming to harm him.

           “Stop your foolish wriggling!” I said, “I won’t hurt you!”

           He twisted tremendously in my grip but could not escape, though his tunic ripped under my hands. We wrestled for a moment, the heavy breathing loud in my ears, but in the end he slumped back against the tree, exhausted. His torn shirt hung open, the skin beneath eerily pale in the dusky light.

           Quick as a snake, I made use of the moment of weakness and tore the sword out of its scabbard. The theft of his charge seemed to prod Sarn to a new effort at defence. He threw himself at me so suddenly that all I could do was stumble away.

           “Back!” I cried, throwing up my arms to protect myself. Then I felt a sudden weight, and a choked gasp hung trembling in the air. I lowered my arms and stared dumbly at what I had achieved.

           When I had thrown up my hands, I had forgotten that I still held Anguirel. With his unexpected leap, Sarn had hurled himself onto the indiscriminate point. He hung there, impaled, blinking in confusion. Spiderwebs of red blood spread over his ghostly skin.

           With a last, soft whistle, he slumped to the ground, tearing Anguirel out of my hands. My hands; I could not seem to move them. They hung limply, curled into impotent claws at my sides. Sarn lay at my feet, staring blindly skywards. That image seemed almost beautiful, so ridiculously artistic in its horror: the staring eyes, the blood tracing indecipherable maps on white skin, the sword rearing obscenely from the two-toned scenery. And the mothorn wept silver tears onto us both.

           Suddenly I felt so terribly alone. The woods were damningly silent. There was not a living soul there, but for myself. I think there were tears on my cheeks, but I don’t remember. All I recall is an unfathomable horror of the stillness, the abominable stillness.

           With shaking hands I pulled Anguirel out of the body. I stooped to wipe it on Sarn’s cloak, closing my eyes to shut out the sight. I took the scabbard as well. Then I fled.

           By the time I reached the meeting place, my trembling nerves had stilled. Mother was waiting for me. I did not tell her what had happened, only saying that I had procured the sword without trouble. She was pleased at that.

           “Lómion, my son,” she said, using her secret name for me, “I am proud of you.”

           I had to laugh at the irony.

Turgon’s Thane

          Do you know what it’s like to hold someone’s life in your hands? Existence is such a fragile thing... it hangs there on our fingertips, a trembling, opalescent teardrop which requires only a breath of wind to send it sailing down to splinter into nothing on the unyielding fabric of the world. Or perhaps not wind; perhaps a shudder of the hand – accidental, purposeful? If I let my hand quiver, would he fall like that, an irrevocable flash frozen in my memory, though he burst into fragments but a second later – like a tear?

          More than one life hung in balance that night. We had arrived in Gondolin, and the gates clanging shut behind me were like clattering chains fallen from my body to rest at my feet. Somehow that hidden city seemed greater to me than the whole world; it was the world that was locked out, not me who was locked in. Freedom! The world was the cage, and we had escaped into this tiny universe, where all doors stood open. The spires of Gondolin towered like graceful mountains above us, the sun shining on their surface – the trees were bright, flowered! – spangled fountains rang everywhere. Silence claimed no place here; hearing the music of the water, I knew I need never face that fatal vacuum of sound again.

           And Mother was gayer than I had ever seen her. She spoke, her voice rising and fluttering like the wings of a dove, greeting those she knew – nearly everyone, it seemed to me. I had nothing to say, so I only watched, and listened. I felt myself lifted on the wind of her happiness, as the shadow of Nan Elmoth’s groaning boughs receded from me. I felt the clear air on my skin, cleansing away the dust and cobwebs that had been cast before my eyes for so long, my whole life. I felt like a being of light. It was something... something so breathtakingly new to me, to be so free and joyous. Everywhere I looked smiling faces turned toward me, welcoming me, and I could not but smile back. All that light and air and freshness – locked in a few crystal hours. The first time, the only time, that I was content in my life.

           But even into that haven of sunlight the shadow-dogged footsteps of my father tiptoed. He flew as a poisoned spear into our midst, ripping through the golden fabric, shattering the crystal. I can see his face quite clearly in my mind even now: his jagged wound of a mouth, snarling below eyes like black lightning flickering over grey winter clouds. Tensed like a tiger, his muscles bunched, and with that one cursed heave he hurled his death-tipped spear at me. Oh, and if it had found its target, how much better things would have been! – how very right, how suitable an end... how merciful an end, if Fate could ever be merciful. But as I stood dream-like, Mother caught the dart with her body. So with one stroke, Father killed us all three.

          I did not know until later that night, of course, exactly what significance the spear carried. By the time we discovered the poison it was too late; too late to save her, too late to wrench the helm of this dizzy ship back onto a safe course.

           When they told me that she would die before the dawn, I went outside, to the balcony adjoining her room. It was carven all of white, for the White Lady of Gondolin, in motifs of the sea: waves, shells, clouds, ships. The moon and stars shone with ghostly silver-white fire, giving life to the stone ocean beneath my feet. My hands gripped the cool banister; they looked bone-white as well.

           “So, Father,” I whispered to the rustling night, “You have finally killed her, and now it is between you and me.”

            “Not only you,” a voice said beside me, “The fangs of that viper have brought us all great sorrow.”

           I glanced to my left; Turgon stood there, my mother’s brother, king of Gondolin. My king now, for I had sworn to serve him as his thane.

           As a child I had spent many long hours in the woods, sitting in my mothorn tree and trying to imagine the Hidden City and its king. I had always pictured Turgon as tall and noble, a mighty warrior-king arrayed in gold and silver and surrounded by shining heroes in armour. When I first saw him, I was tempted to smile, for my wistful fantasies strayed far from the truth. No one could deny that Turgon was noble, but he could not rightly be called tall and there were no traces of finery about him. The first word that came to mind when I laid eyes upon him was “precise.” He was of average height and slim, wiry, straight as a blade. His every movement was exact and calculated, without a flicker of superfluity. His eyes were like chips of an iced-over sea, grey on the surface, murky blue somewhere deep below. Sometimes a strange quirk would come to his lips, as if he were thinking of something wry or amusing, or merely ironic. His raiment was plain, but it only emphasized his provoking nobility and ever-present Noldorin pride. I loved him the moment I saw him.

           I bowed to him now, my shadow abasing itself at his feet.

           “Yes, I know,” I said, shame heating my cheeks, “I cannot apologize properly for the actions of my father. It was – it was – ” I broke off, afraid that he would hear the strangling hatred in my voice.

           “It was in no way your fault,” he said offhandedly, “We are all responsible for our own actions.”

           “I know, Lord,” I said again, finally controlling my wayward emotions. I felt vaguely confused, all my thoughts scattering haphazardly around my dulled mind. The starlight reminded me of Mother. I had always thought of her as a star that had fallen and become tangled unwillingly in the webs of Father’s forest – sometimes cold and distant, yes, but a thing I loved and worshipped, a thing of purity. Half the joy of reaching Gondolin had been seeing her return to where she belonged, to the high towers so close to her sister stars. The thought made me ache inside. She lay inside that room, wan as a spirit, with two bright spots of fever burning on her cheeks. The poison was draining the light and life out of her... I could almost feel it draining me as well. That was why I had come out here: so I would not have to watch it, and feel myself drawn into the black, sticky wells of death along with her.

           “And do you know what I am thinking now?” Turgon asked, leaning cat-like against the balcony’s railing.

           “No,” I shook my head. 

           “I am wondering what to do. Aredhel... I love my sister dearly. I grieved when she left us, and her homecoming brought me joy such as I have not felt for a long time. I do not know why she took a Dark Elf to husband,” he paused, as if expecting me to speak; but I did not know the answer to that question either, so I kept silent. “I do not know,” he continued, sounding troubled, “She begged me earlier not to punish him for his deed... but she was not dying then.” I could feel tension hissing from his every nerve, a snake-whip ready to bite. “She does not speak now, and she will not again... I would kill him for this! I would! And yet nearly the last thing she said to me was to beg pardon for her husband. Should I pardon him for her own murder? That is not justice! And yet... shall I then disrespect her last wish?” He looked at me, tormented blue-grey fire flashing momentarily from his eyes.

            With that flash, his soul lit up as if in flames, and I saw deep into his mind. It startled me; I was so used to being to able guess at my parents’ intentions, and seeing into our servants’ thoughts had become so easy, that I had not realized previously that my sight could pierce the hearts of others as well. And Turgon... I had not dared consider it. Yet there it lay, plain to my eyes.

            Let me explain about my sight. I do not simply “know” what someone is thinking, nor do I feel their emotions. I see pictures, representations of thought. The pictures themselves mean nothing; one must learn to decipher them. Sometimes I could make no sense of them; in the past I had gazed into the minds of the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, and such strange tableaux presented themselves to my subtler sight that I wondered if I were merely hallucinating. But Dwarves are a strange kind; Turgon was an Elda, one of my own people, and I knew instantly what the vision that wavered before my eyes meant.

            I saw a great open space, reaching out into blackness in all directions. The sky was beneath my feet; or at least, it was a floor patterned like the sky, strewn with faint stars in a burning path. A small girl sat on the floor, in a simple white dress, barefoot. She was humming a song, nodding her head back and forth to the beat and smiling to herself. A miniature golden balance stood before her; her flink little hands tinkered with it innocently, as she watched it swing back and forth. On one side of the balance lay a chess-piece, a knight; on the other, a red rose. The golden scales tipped first one way, then the other, but could not seem to decide which object was heavier. Finally the little girl looked up and started as if noticing me for the first time. Relief painted her smile suddenly, like scenery seen through a rainbow. She picked up the balance and stretched it toward me; before I could take it, the vision faded.   

            “I am in doubt.”

            I blinked. Turgon had spoken. He was watching me curiously. I wondered if he guessed that I saw more than his clever, pointed face when I looked at him. There was no reason to think so, and yet... the eyes of the Noldor are sharp, if not as sharp as my own.

            “The choice is yours, Lord,” I said with another slight bow, “I am your thane, and I obey your will. No one could judge more wisely in this matter.”

            “Truly?” Turgon mused, turning lithely to look down at the courtyards below, “But I do not know what passes in Eol’s mind. I do not know him, or his people.” He looked at me piercingly. “Will you abide by my decision, whatever it may be?”

“Of course!” I said, somewhat surprised. I could honestly think of no better person to pass judgment.

            “Then,” he said, “Hear me well: the persons in question are more closely connected to you than to me. You understand why this has come to pass, if anyone does. I give you the task of deciding whether Eol shall live or die, and if he lives, what his punishment will be.”

“What?” I cried, startled. The idea frightened me; I could feel something dark stirring in me at the words.

            “Do you refuse?” Turgon asked quietly.

            “No... no,” I said, confused. My mind burned with fresh fever. I feared... something. But stronger than the fear, something else drew me. Yes, it was just that I govern my father’s fate. Wasn’t it? Or perhaps not... what son had the right to judge his father? But then, he had killed Mother. He had speared her like an animal. Anger tore at my insides. And something else... bitterness, desire, hatred. Finally, finally I would be lord. I would speak and it would be done. All I had to do was say the word, and I could be rid of him, rid of that mocking, whispering, stinging, painful voice forever. For once, he was the powerless one. And how was it fair that Mother, whom I loved more than the world, more even than myself, should die – and that wasp of a man live? Now I could squash him forever, in perfect justice. I would be free, lord over myself.

            I hesitated, torn.

            At that moment, a slender form stepped out to join us where we lounged in the moonlight. I recognized her instantly: Idril, Turgon’s daughter. Even through my haze of unsure, shifting emotions, I could feel my heart beat faster. But she came with no soothing words to match her calm beauty.

            “The Lady Aredhel...” she said uncertainly, “The White Lady has left Gondolin. Her spirit has fled.”

            Turgon looked at me, and Idril followed his gaze. I could sense them both watching me silently, waiting to hear what I would say, though I did not meet either pair of eyes.

            The tangled threads writhing in my mind seemed to melt and smooth out in a sudden white heat. I did not know what it was – anger? Shock? Release? Everything ran together, stabilizing, crystallizing. It was as if, from the moment I had arrived in Gondolin, events had hurried down an inevitable path, weaving around me and leading me to the final point. For it was a point; the paths, the threads, the thoughts, all ended in a razor edge, poised above my heart.

            I watched the glittering point dispassionately. It twinkled at me, seeming to grin, seeming to say, Speak now, son of Eol! Direct me! I am Power, and I am at your command.

            Vengeance... pity... freedom... hatred...

            Speak now, son of Eol!

            You, too, belong to me... you will always be your father’s son...

            Speak now, son of Eol!

            “No!”

            The hoarse whisper burst from my lips.

            “He is not my father!”

            My head snapped up, and I glared unwillingly at Turgon and Idril. Turgon looked contemplative, Idril sympathetic. I swallowed, suddenly abashed. But it had been given to me to choose; my will hardened, gripping the gleaming point that had formed in my mind. This sharp resolution I meant for my father. It pained me nevertheless; hatred, a double-edged blade. I ignored its bite, gritting my teeth, and spoke.

            “I renounce him,” I said coldly, “I am the son of Aredhel only. And now I am orphaned.”

            “Then,” said Turgon, “I assume your choice is made?”

            “Yes,” I said. I would not be like him, ever. I would be rid of him, forever. This was the end. “Let justice be done!”

The following day smiled down on us from a bright sun. I had insisted on accompanying the executioners to the peak. Eol, whom I could no longer call my father, spoke not a word to me. I was glad. He looked out of place there, a ghoulish figure silhouetted by sunlight before the white and green city below us. Even as we stood on the brink, he was too proud to look frightened, and I am sure no hints of remorse or regret ever touched his stagnant mind.

            Only in the split second before they cast him over the precipice did he look at me. I nearly staggered; his gaze was like a flaming arrow shooting into my eyes.

            “Curse you!” he spat, “Traitor! I curse you!”

            Then his feet found only air, and he hurtled downwards, my burden finally dropping from my shoulders. He fell, twisting and writhing like a furious spider, but with no clinging webs to save him now. I could still hear his voice, floating up on the wind.

            “Curse you!”

            Eol was dead, and never again would I feel his choking gaze, or hear his crushing voice, or cower in his shadow. I was not sorry. I only wished it had been my hands that pushed him over the edge.

Chapter End Notes

 *A/N: In response to Nerdanel’s review: I am aware that Turgon is described as tall in the Silmarillion. But since the Sil is a collection of myths and legends passed down through the ages and this story is meant to be a first-hand account, I thought it might be interesting to implant some minor differences, just to show how truth can be mutated. Therefore my Turgon is average in height, as described. A stylistic liberty, if you will. :)

A/N: Poor Maeglin. He doesn’t even realize that he just did exactly what Eol would have done... so much for escaping his father’s shadow... Next chapter coming soon! Maeglin hankers after Idril and some very naughty things are said in as poetic a manner as possible!

Idril’s Castaway

          Love is a curious affliction.

            I suppose most people wouldn’t characterize it that way, but... well, most people have not met Idril Celebrindal. I don’t know whether to pity them or envy them for that. Don’t understand? Confused? So was I. Allow me to explain...

            Idril Celebrindal. Id-ril Cel-e-brin-dal. Idril. Idril. Can you feel the music in the words? Her name is like spiced honey on my tongue... even after all the ages I can see her, radiant in my inner eye. Golden-haired, silver-footed, slender, swaying – how run the poet’s words? The light upon the leaves of trees... the voice of water, more than these... her beauty was and blissfulness... her glory and her loveliness. Oh, I loved her! She made me miserable. And I loved her the more. I gave her every scrap of pure feeling in my soul. A man is only capable of a certain amount of love, I think, and I lavished all mine on her, leaving nothing for others. They weren’t worthy of it, not compared to Idril.

            She was Turgon’s daughter, my dear cousin. I would have married her despite that, but she would have none of it. It made me laugh, this silly feminine insistence on adhering to law and tradition, coming from a woman who had rebelled against the very Powers! But say what I would, she liked me not at all, or so she told me.

            Ah yes, it was high noon in summer, as I recall, and Gondolin’s spires sparkled like diamonds in the sun. I was sitting in the shade of an apple tree in the Western Orchard with a book in my hands, reading a bit and thinking more. Thinking about her, of course. I always did.

            The Orchard was just what its name suggests: a congregation of trees planted in orderly rows of apples, pears, plums, lemons... it was in a quiet corner of the city, far removed from the forges and workshops further up the hill. But I hadn’t come here for the peace and quiet. This was one of Idril’s favourite spots, mainly because of the fountain in the middle of the Orchard.

            They called it the Sleeping Spring. Gondolin was full of fountains, of course, in all fantastical shapes and sizes and colours, some singing, some silent. This one was different, and presumably that is what Idril liked about it. It was an old moss-covered rock, perpetually damp, strewn with tiny flowers, shaded by the fruit trees. A modest source sprang from it, weeping its way down the rock in a miniature waterfall to spread into a silent pool at its feet. The old spring had an abandoned, wildered look about it, as if no one ever cared for it properly. Leaves always drifted on the pool’s surface, and smooth pebbles covered its bed. It was lovely, and when Idril was there it became dazzling.

            I was sitting with my back against the apple tree when she glided from among the trees to the pool’s side. She did not see me at first, so I was free to watch her undetected for a while. I had to smile – this was not the princess of Gondolin! She had pinned her burnished locks into an untidy bundle on her head, where they tumbled carelessly around her ears. I could not tear my eyes from her. She bent and pulled the silver sandals off her feet smoothly, then picked up the hem of her white dress and pulled it up, tying it into a knot at her side. It reached now only to her knees, leaving her legs and feet bare. I watched her wriggle her toes in the grass and grin like a child. Then she waded into the little pool, slipping a few times on the smooth rocks. Each time she nearly fell a look of adventurous humour dashed across her face. That was Idril – a laughing lioness in the body of a nymph.

            She walked through the little mere to the rock and its tiny fall, thrusting her hands into the water. It splashed over her arms, shimmering drops breaking away and clinging to her skin. A contented smile flickered gently over her lips and she leaned back against the dry part of the rock.

            I... cannot describe what Idril looked like in that moment. The memory is like a mad painting, a canvas of colours and emotions that cannot be deciphered. She was beautiful, heart-breakingly beautiful. She stretched out there, throwing her head back and her arms out to the side, her eyes closed against the sun. Her dress, so white against the green moss, drew tight over her body... the water had soaked it in places until it was nearly transparent. I could see every curve, every contour... the graceful line of her pale legs, her narrow hips, the cloth drawn taut over her stomach... her even shoulders and delicate arms, those hands whose touch I craved... her breasts, rising and falling with each gentle breath... her neck, so white and vulnerable. I wanted to touch her, to run my hands over her, kiss her and taste her, possess every inch of her.

            Perhaps I made a sound of some sort, for her eyes snapped opened suddenly, flying to my face. She jerked upright, looking vaguely embarrassed, and crossed her arms before her chest.

            “Maeglin?” The sound of my name on her tongue! “What are you doing here?”

            I put down my book – Thus Spake Fëanáro, I believe it was, actually – and stood up awkwardly. What to say? I was tongue-tied for a moment. But it was only a moment.

            “I was reading,” I said, “but something much lovelier caught my attention.” I tried to smile winningly, but she only looked disturbed.

            “Did you follow me?” she asked flatly.

            “No.” It was the truth.

            “But you have been,” she insisted, “Wherever I go, I find you there. Always as if by coincidence, and yet... why, Maeglin? What do you want from me?”

            I had the feeling she wanted to run from me, so I walked closer as casually as I could, until I stood at the bank of the pool. She watched me with calm, confident defiance. The princess of Gondolin had asked a question, and she expected to be answered. 

            “Only your company,” I replied, “If I have followed you, it has been unconsciously. I mean no offence, but I... that is, I...” I ended lamely. My thoughts had scattered. We were so close together. I could see each eyelash, each detail of the patterns of her irises. Blue eyes... depthless eyes, like ancient wells eternally fresh. I tried to see the bottom of that clear water, but it was veiled to me. My sight failed me always when I tried to look into Idril’s soul, giving only tantalizing glimpses of what went on in her mind.

            “Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered, taking a step backward, “You always look like that. I’m your cousin, Maeglin.”

            I followed her, drawn helplessly like a fish on a line, heedless of the water soaking my trousers and the pool’s broken peace.

            “Cousin? Cousin?” I said, unable to keep the feeling out of my voice, “What of it? Are we children, obeying meaningless laws without thought? What is the law, beside love?”

            “Do not speak to me of love!” she snapped. Angry, she was ten times as exquisite. A high colour had come to her cheeks and her eyes flashed. I wanted to weep at the sight of her. How can a man be expected to stand such glory? Did the gods jest, showing her to me, only to withhold her?

            I could feel my heart racing, pumping anguish through my veins. It was a disease, this infection of love, and it had only one cure. Only her cool skin could calm the fire that tormented me, only her soft voice still the howling winds... She stood there before me, the answer to all my questions, the resolution to all my fruitless searches, my salvation in this world. Denying me. 

            “Then what shall I speak of?” I said, more loudly than I had intended. My own voice shocked me into embarrassed silence. I took a deep breath. “What shall we speak of?” I asked, in a normal tone. The tension between us lessened somewhat, and we both breathed easier.

            She looked as much at a loss as I felt. It was almost laughable – both of us had grown so used to this game, she running, I pursuing, that we could imagine nothing else.

            “Fish?” she suggested finally, “Books?”

            “The latest fashions at court?” I added. She smiled at that (being the princess, she set every trend), and her mood softened almost visibly. It was one tower of an impenetrable fortress collapsing – and I, like a fool, saw the weakness and attacked.

            “Will you tell me what to do?” I asked quietly.

            “How do you mean?” she wrinkled her brow prettily.

            “What can I do to make you love me?” I could see the wall rebuilding itself faster than I could tear it down, so I hurried on. “Understand, Idril! I am no fool, nor a child, infatuated with a goddess. I see you as you are – and what I see, I love.”

            “Yes, I know what you see,” she said, softly as a sword drawn from its sheath, “Or at least, what you look for. You think I don’t know it? You look at me with those dark eyes of yours and what are you doing? Trying to look into my soul, that’s what! And who gave you that right? Is my mind a display of war trophies, for anyone to peer and point at? It’s, it’s... spying, Maeglin! Perhaps your insight is a gift, but you use it wrongly!”

            “Then will you not teach me how to use it rightly?” I pressed on, determined to have it out today, once and for all, “Is that my fault? Forgive me for not being infallible! And yet that is all you think of, the thing that matters least! What care I for the gift of sight? You are all I see. You are all that matters. My every action I dedicate to you. I speak of love, and nothing else. I love you, Idril – is that not enough?”

            She was shaking her head numbly, sending escaped curls bouncing over her shoulders. It was like a golden waterfall, released from its dam to come crashing onto sharp rocks beneath, taking my battered spirit along with it. “You don’t love me,” she said with absolute certainty, “Maybe you think desire and possessiveness are the stuff of love, but I know otherwise. You... frighten me, Maeglin. Your spirit is dark and tormented. Everything you do and feel, however well you mean it, becomes skewed and twisted. And you see none of it... you are blind, for all your sight. Always so absorbed in your work, brooding in those dark caves over fire and steel and plotting who knows what...”

            “I think only of you,” I interrupted faintly, “Only of you.” My heart throbbed as if I had thrust it into a living forge. Was that how she saw me? A stunted half-man, cowering in the darkness? I felt sick at the thought. Sick, and angry. All my work, all my soul belonged to her, and she cast it away with a shudder of disgust. “So much then, for the kindness of the Lady Idril!” I said bitterly, “The flower of Elfinesse, who haughtily accepts favours from all, to toss them away at her pleasure. Sometimes I think you enjoy this, cousin. It’s just a game to you, isn’t it, an idle game of tossing darts at hearts? Something must fill the long days, after all!”

            Her blue eyes narrowed in hurt and anger, as if heavy clouds had drown over miniature seas. “It’s nothing like that!” she snapped, “You’re just, just...”

            “What? Telling you a truth you don’t want to face? Remember, I can see through shadows and lies!” I laughed hollowly, “I see the satisfaction on your face every time some hapless courtier turns his adoring eyes on you. You love to have them underfoot, worshipping you, obeying your every command. You feed off their adulation like a spider in the guise of a butterfly...”

            “You...!” she spluttered, outraged. I thought I saw tears collecting in her eyes, and suddenly I felt ashamed. But it was too late to unsay what I had said. “You’re hateful!” she spat, “Must you poison everything?” She turned away from me and stomped angrily through the water, ignoring the waves and splashes her feet kicked up.  

             “Wait! Idril, I...” I followed her, stumbling on the smooth rocks, “I didn’t mean it like that!”

            She ignored me, stepping onto the bank and snatching her shoes. I watched her indignant back helplessly. She turned to leave, and I called after her desperately, one last time.

            “I love you!”

            She stopped. I waited breathlessly, wondering, hoping I could make her wait, make her change her mind. But she did not turn to look at me, and spoke only one sentence.

            “Maeglin,” she said in a steely voice like a headsman’s axe, “I love you not at all.”

            Without a single look back, she ran like a deer through the fruit trees, leaving me listening dumbly to the death knells she had rung for me. Her dress flashed between the branches, a flag announcing the triumph of innocence.

            I slumped back weakly against the rock, my hands digging reflexively into the moss. I was soaked to the bone, and bleeding from the heart. Idril, oh lovely nymph-spirit! She had thrust a knife into me and twisted it, all without the slightest idea of what she was doing. For she couldn’t know, she couldn’t imagine the power of the love that drove me. It was an obsession. Didn’t I know it? I hadn’t chosen it, but there it was, come from some mysterious land beyond the borders of the world to tempt and torment me.

            Blindly, I wished I had never met Idril, never seen Gondolin, never come here at all. This beautiful, cold city full of marvels and wonders mocked me. I didn’t belong here, I belonged to the forest, to the shadows and cobwebs. Child of the twilight, my mother had named me rightly.

            The irony of my thoughts unfolded itself in all its bleak glory. For years I had longed for Gondolin, and now I longed to be gone once more. I had won honour, respect, and freedom, only to be trapped in the end by love. Love, which conquers all. A maiden with silver shoes had cast the net that ensnared me. What did I want? Everything, nothing... Idril. Would she have made me happy, or would I only have turned to some other, inaccessible object to hunger after?

            For I was no fool. I knew myself. Idril was right. There was a web of darkness clinging to me, spun in part by myself and in part by Eol. Perhaps... perhaps if I left Gondolin I could escape it. But that would mean disobeying Turgon, and leaving Idril. I could hardly bear to think that thought. It was the only road to freedom, barred by my own undeniable desires.

            Yet in that moment I knew with a frightening certainty that I could never leave Idril. I would love her and follow her, nay, crave her and stalk her until I died, or she did. I was drawn, helplessly, a fly to honey. She had cast me away, but she could not hinder me anymore than I could myself. Long years stretched ahead of us both, here behind the Encircling Mountains; ; I had time. We would see, in the end, how this tale would finish.

            I had been cast away. But already plans began to form in my mind.   

Tuor’s rival

I am a smith, and inevitably I think in terms of the smithy. More than once in life I thought that my existence was like to an untempered blade beneath the hammer of the craftsman. A thing of darkness and metal, yet I burned with solid fire, and with every hammer-stroke that the blacksmith Life dealt me I grew harder. The heat of my anger and the blows of Fate beat me into the shape of a ruthless blade, its edge poisoned with destructive desire. And when Tuor came to Gondolin, I knew with wrathful determination that the sword of my self had been forged to destroy him.

            If you had never met Tuor, you could not understand what he was like. I wish I could say that he was merely a mortal Man, weak, foolish, childish... but no—though that is how he should have been! Had Tuor been nothing but a coarse dullard, I would never have felt more than mild indifference toward him. But no, I will not deny him his dues. He was the perfect gentleman, the perfect warrior, the perfect leader; perfectly charming, perfectly courteous, perfectly loyal, and perfectly repulsive. There is, in fact, only one word that can fully describe Tuor: perfect.

            He was tall, blond, and finely muscled, with flawless, bright eyes and a dazzling smile. From the moment he wandered—unrightfully!—into Gondolin, not a citizen of the city could resist him. He was a hero, a brave, long-suffering, maltreated one, the kind that immediately wins the hearts of every melodramatic fool close enough to lay eyes on him. Everyone loved him—except me.

            What did you expect? He was my antithesis. I despised him with an honest ardour I did little to hide.  

            I might have left it at contempt, if nothing else had happened. I am not by nature spiteful, and the Man and I could have co-existed peacefully, staying out of each other’s paths and interacting with stiff courtesy at need. All might still have been well, had it not been for Idril.

            For Idril, you see, loved Tuor. In a way, they were right for each other. They both had the same sunny bravery and careless manner. To see them together, you would think you were witnessing the instinctive mating ritual of two golden doves, cooing and fluttering their feathers at each other in endless bliss. They had no concept of dignity or solemnity or depth. And they loved each other quite sincerely.

            Of course, there was only the one problem: she was mine!

            For all that she had rejected me, I had claimed Idril in my heart and I would have her, someday, somehow. If you have never loved someone the way I loved her, you cannot understand; but I was mad with desire for her, and I would do anything. Anything! I determined secretly, indeed, to kill Tuor if I could. I knew I would pay the price for that misdeed, but I reasoned that at least I would have the satisfaction of ridding Tuor of his happiness with Idril.

 She, after all, would never care for me anyway.

            I spent long hours dreaming of ways I might kill Tuor. At that time I often worked in the forges and mines of the mountains, far from Gondolin. Those days reminded me of the Dwarf cities, where I had learned so much of the craft. And yet it was different; for even in the fires I saw the golden locks of Idril and Tuor, entwined in an utter perfection of spirit that I would never attain. For all those hours and days plotting, however, in the end it was Tuor who came to me, and almost I brought about his undoing.

            I was north of Gondolin, in a small encampment near a mine where we had found a great wealth of metals and such. Here I found my only joy in those days—working in the stone, seeking the veins that wound through it. Ripping them out for my own use. There were several temporary dwellings constructed near the mouth of the mine, in a little vale on the knees of the mountain. It was a lovely place; gentle, timber-covered hills rolled up to meet the snow further up the slope. We built shelters in the trees, partly because they were quick and easy to make, partly out of the childish joy and amusement at living in a “tree-house.” There were, however, sturdier forges on the forest floor beneath the boughs. The entrance to the mine was a gaping hole in the side of the mountain, surrounded thickly by pines.

            All that day I had been working alone in my forge. It had grown late. When I was younger I might have gone outside to catch a glimpse of the stars between the branches of the trees, but then I was too engaged in my work to think of ought else. The forge was dim, only the coals glowing, flaring up occasionally when I thrust the metal into them, then dying down as I threw the raw substance of the earth to the anvil and hammered it. The corners cowered in deep shadow, and the red light showed only the anvil, the fire, and my own straining arms.

            It was a long knife I was forging, small but deadly in the hands of the strong-spirited. With every blow of my hammer I lent my strength to the metal, weaving into it the determination and power of my people. I could feel it taking shape under my hands, melding and hardening under the abuse it received. So engrossed was I that I—I of the sharp glance—did not notice Tuor when he came in.

            “Greetings, Maeglin!” he hailed me.

            The sound of his voice was familiar; it set off white fireworks of hatred in my mind. I spun to face him with an unconscious snarl, and barely stopped short of hurling my hammer at him. Instead, I lowered the tool, taking firm hold of my composure.

            “Tuor,” I said, “I had not expected you. What brings you from Gondolin?”

            He smiled and stepped forward, the dull light setting his tousled golden hair alight with a glorious fire.

            “Oh, I came in secret... please, you mustn’t tell anyone! Not even Turgon, if you don’t mind. I told them all I was going hunting. But in truth, there is an errand I would see done, and I must request your aid.”

            My curiosity stirred, I nodded for him to continue. But I would not have him think that I waited upon him; thus I turned back to my forge and thrust the blade, nearly finished, into the embers, watching it studiously as if it were more worthy of attention than the mortal Man beside me.

            “I would ask you to fashion for me a necklace.”

            “A necklace!” I laughed roughly, “what, have you taken to wearing jewellery, Tuor? You shouldn’t. It wouldn’t become you.”

            He laughed easily, as if truly amused by my joke. In laughter, his face shone with beauty as the stars of Elbereth shine. Suddenly I became aware of myself: streaked with sweat and soot, in a dirtied leather vest, my tangled hair lightly singed. My anger darkened and deepened until it filled me like a black sea, roiling and seething with irrepressible jealousy. I wanted to smash that face in its grimace of happiness; what right had he to laugh at me, alone here with my misery and rage?

            It must have been too dark for him to see my face, for he continued on light-heartedly. “No, it is not for me, friend!”—I ground my teeth at the word!—“Not for me, but for one that we both love dearly. I wish to commission a gift for Idril. You see, I have in my possession this—” He slipped a hand into a pouch hanging from his belt and drew from it a marvellous green stone. As soon as my eyes touched it I knew it was perfect for Idril. The green would suit her, and even in the dull light I could tell that the stone was of high quality. It sparkled slightly, and it seemed to me as if each spark aggravated my anger as drops of oil thrown into a fire.

            “For Idril?” I mused, gazing at the glowing metal in the coals. I felt strangely akin to the metal, as if some burning outer force were heating up my substance.

            “Aye, for Idril Celebrindral. I know, Maeglin, that you do not consider me a friend...” He paused as if expecting me to contradict him. I did not. After a moment, he continued, “but I know also that you care for her, and so I hoped you would lay aside your antipathy for me and join me in giving her this gift.”

            I turned the blade over in the coals, watching the metal heat to a deeper and deeper red. “I have already offered many a gift to Idril. She has refused them all. There is nothing more for me to give.”

            “But... Maeglin!” He took a stunted step closer. I glanced up at him to see a look of pained pity and disbelief on his face. “There is no better craftsman in all of Gondolin than you! Surely you would not begrudge me this... nor begrudge Idril this.”

            I laughed loudly. “Trinkets! Idril hardly needs another jewel. No,” I said, staring steadily into his widened eyes, “you could have another smelt the silver for such a gift. I know why you have come here, son of the Secondborn. You have been disappointed. Now leave me and take with you your vanity!”

            He flushed with anger and embarrassment. “You misunderstand me. I came because I hold you in high regard as a worker of metal. Not because—”

            “Not because you wish to taunt me? Oh, no, Tuor, I know what you wish. Do not flaunt your happiness before one who is miserable! It will cause only ill...”

            His flush grew deeper. “Do you threaten me?” The courtesy in his voice had grown thin, and I could hear the steel beneath. It made me want to laugh again, though my heart twisted and burned within me.

            “No,” I sighed, “I am not threatening you. Leave me alone, Tuor. I want none of you.”

            I turned from him, drawing my blade out of the coals and holding it up. It glowed a deep, dull red, its heat radiating out to caress my face, like the hands of she whom I would never possess... at the same moment, I felt a hand softly touch my shoulder, a touch of sympathy.

            White anger flared up in me and the untempered steel in my hand blazed as if in harmony. With a cry like that of a wild thing, I whirled to face the shadow that was Tuor, the flaming sword flashing down to light that darkness. For a moment my consciousness jumped, and I thought I saw red blood on white skin, and silver petals... but then steel rang against steel, and I was jerked back to the present, to the heat of the forge and of living anger.

            My short sword strained against the blade of Tuor, and our eyes met. His face was lustrous with righteous fury, and I knew that my teeth were bared and my eyes fey as a ghost’s. We must have looked like a portrait of demon and angel, the meeting of a Balrog and a Maia in fire and fury. Like gods we strove against each other, motionless, neither able to gain against the other.

            “Give way!” he cried, “give way! You are mad, Maeglin!”

            “No!” I said, and I did not know what I was denying. “No!” I wished nothing but to temper my blade in the blood of Idril’s lover. But it was only a knife, with no power and leverage equal to that of a sword. My muscles screamed and I strained with all my will, but he gave a great heave, so that the blazing knife fell from my hands and I stumbled backwards. My shoulders met the wall of the forge with a thud and I slumped against it, panting heavily.

            “Well,” I snarled, glaring at him, “kill me!”

            He only shook his head and sheathed his sword carefully. “I will not. You are Idril’s cousin, and a friend at court. It pains me, Maeglin, that you despise me so...”

            “Curses upon you! Kill me, fool!” I truly wished for nothing else, and with horror I realized that a plea had crept into my voice that I could not dispel. “Kill me, for you have already taken all I lived for. Kill me, or I shall kill you someday!”

            He looked at me with pity, and I despised him all the more. “You cannot kill me now. And I will not harm you.”

            But in that moment of my shame, a vision came upon me; as I looked into Tuor’s clear eyes, mortal eyes, I saw that indeed my doom lay at his hands. He would deal out my death, in some distant, shrouded day. In the shadows of the forge and the dim glow of the coals I saw standing behind him a spectre of Eol, and my heart contracted within me.

            “Go...” I whispered, “go!” I did not know to whom I spoke, but Tuor looked at me once more, sadly, and left, a whisper of air through the doorway. He left the door open, permitting the cold night air to creep in, cooling the coals and my burning soul.

            I sank down to the floor and buried my head in my arms, feeling like the child who had climbed trees in Nan Elmoth to escape his father. Never before had my sight shown me anything regarding myself. Now I had seen what was undeniably a glimpse of my own death—at the hands of Tuor, and, somehow, Eol. My bitterness swelled and bloated until it threatened to sweep away the better part of me... always the weaker part anyway. I bit my lip in despair and cursed myself for the stinging of my eyes.

            Taking a shuddering breath, I forced myself to my feet and lit a torch. The fire spread gracious light throughout the forge. All was undisturbed; no one could have known that but a few minutes before a struggle had taken place. Except for one thing... the blade I had been working on lay on the floor, twisted grotesquely by the pressure of Tuor’s sword. Looking at it, I saw my own soul, warped and degraded, weak and incomplete. I closed my eyes.

            If I had not been lost before, I was then, for despair had joined itself to anger, and I saw no hope in my future. Rejected and pitied, I would only be able to watch as Idril, my life’s desire, gave herself to a mortal... to Tuor, who would someday end my own life. I could not bear the though. Anything seemed preferable to that.

            It was, in truth, only a matter of time until Morgoth found me.

            Wiping a hand across my eyes, I wandered out into the night, seeking solace where none might be found, and swearing in the depths of my soul that I would be revenged on Tuor, on Idril, on Men and Elves and on Fate itself.

Morgoth’s tool

They call me still the most infamous traitor in the histories of the Elder Days.

            That name bothered me greatly in the time just after my death. My shame faded only gradually, over the... what? Years? There is no telling. Suffice it to say that now it no longer concerns me what opinions the world holds.

            I will not dwell long on the exact circumstances of my capture by Morgoth. When I had first arrived in Gondolin I thought it impossible that I should ever tire of the city—but after Tuor came, the bright sidewalks shone falsely and even the innocent fountains seemed to mock me. How right Mother had been to flee this place in her youth! My mind dwelt often and sorrowfully on my mother. I did not, however, allow myself to think of Eöl, and how he had attempted to stop me from coming here...

            I desired often to slip away, back into the wilds of Beleriand, but two things held me: Idril, and Turgon’s decree. I could not bring myself—yet—to disobey entirely the command of my sworn lord; nor to forsake his daughter.

            I was not, however, above bending the rules on occasion to suit my wishes, and I went sometimes with a few others into the lands beyond the mountains that ringed Gondolin. On one such escapade we were ambushed by the Glamhoth. My companions were slain, and though I fought recklessly—for I was not averse to the idea of dying in battle, nay, I welcomed it—the Great Enemy’s servants must have had some inkling of who I was, for instead of harming me they took me and dragged me before their lord.

            There in his halls... but no, I cannot speak of this so calmly! I determined at the beginning of this narrative to give an honest account of myself. But here is my greatest confession, for—ah! there was my final downfall! In the hall of the king of darkness I proved myself—yes, ha! I proved there the worth of my blood.

            I was taken to see Morgoth himself, surrounded by his loathsome servants. He welcomed me to his great lair with these words:

            “This hall receives you well, kinsman!” Then he laughed, and the very foundation shuddered in fear.

            Few have seen the interior of Thangorodrim who would tell of it afterwards. I have read the accounts of some who speculate, and some who think they know. They speak of shadows in a lofty hall, of a dark throne and evil beasts. Either they lie or Morgoth determined that his throne room should appear differently to me, for my memory is clear, and it was not so. Morgoth was a creature of filth, and he lived in filth. There was a great hall, yes, with a high ceiling, made all of dark stone and choked in shadow—but there was far more. The walls dripped with fetid moisture that pooled on the uneven floor among other fluids whose nature I dared not guess. Refuse and rotting... things... lay between. Bodies, clearly, which I did not examine. The great pillars were caught in the putrid webs of giant, bloated spiders whom he had made his slaves; for he remembered still Ungoliant and the wound she had given him, and revenged himself thus upon her children.

            The hall was crowded with his servants, cowering in the shadows: goblins and trolls and other repugnant things that never saw the light of day. His throne sat upon a tall dais, surrounded by a moat of black, stagnant water. Things moved in that water...

            But no number of words can convey the horror of Thangorodrim! No, no words... and I am only delaying now what I must say.

            The Glamhoth took me and cast me into the shallows of the water encircling his throne. My hands were bound behind me, and I thought I would drown, and a spark of hope lighted my mind. But of course he would never allow that! For Morgoth never kills without torment.

            There was something in that moat whose head I never saw, if it had one. If not, it had more than enough arms to compensate for it. Long, lithe, handless, black arms came slithering out of the depths to wrap around me. I writhed in that foul embrace, but the more I fought the tighter its grip became. The squelching arms were covered with a slime that burned my skin so that I screamed aloud, and was forced to hear the hateful mirth of those watching my agony. After but a moment, the myriad tentacles that clasped me bore me aloft to the seat of Morgoth; but they did not release me, and there I hung in whimpering torture before his feet.

            I cannot describe him to you. I do not know what he looked like. Morgoth had once been a great Power, and his mind still had the strength to cow any other in Beleriand, save perhaps that of the Queen in the forest.

            His mind reached out for mine, and a shadow fell over my eyes, so that for the first time in my life I was blind. I could sense nothing except pain and the weight of his mind upon my own.

            He did not, as some have assumed, torture me physically, outside of the horror and pain of his creature’s tentacles. I could have withstood that; weakling I was not, nor did I love him. But Morgoth had greater tools at his behest...

            His will was of great power, and though I have never considered myself easily swayed, I could feel his mind invading mine, and my own defences giving way. It felt as if the arms of the vile animal that held me were worming their way into my thoughts. This then, was how it felt to have one’s mind read. Had those into whose consciousness I had spied felt something like this?... no, impossible, for they had never known. But this was a far greater intrusion than anything of which I had ever been capable. My skull split as if two giant hands were tearing it apart, prying into all my secrets—all those secrets I had so carefully concealed from those who might have sympathized, now open to the scrutiny of Morgoth!

            “Stop!” I shrieked with voice and thought. The rape of my mind continued, as I felt the layers of my self torn up one by one, examined, tossed about carelessly, and discarded. “Stop!” I bawled like a pleading child. Yes, like a child! So much for Maeglin and his pride!

            But my screams had made some kind of difference... the mental rifling stopped, and suddenly I found my eyes open and myself staring at a tall shadow on a dark throne. I cast my gaze down, moaning with pain of body and mind.

            “What, kinsman?” he said from his cloud of dark invisibility, “does the welcome mislike you?”

            “I am no kinsman of yours! Your words defile my ears!”

            He laughed, and every living being who heard, shivered.

            “Your conduct does not become your upbringing, Maeglin son of Eöl. Where is the famed courtesy of the Elves?”

            Son of Eöl!

            “You mock me!” The jeers of Orcs answered this exclamation, and my wrath and shame boiled higher.

            “You accuse me of mockery?” he said with honeyed falsity, “I, who have been so often mocked—groundlessly—myself?”

            My eyes stung and I wept with anger and confusion. His words meant nothing to me—he was merely playing. He would amuse himself with my pain until he grew tired, and then cast me away... I longed for that moment to come. Eventually... eventually, he would kill me.

            “I do not mock,” he continued as falsely, “I welcomed you to my hall...”

            I hung my head, feeling the salt on my skin. “What do you want?” I whispered, “what do you want with me?”

            “Nothing that I cannot take whenever I choose!” The darkness around him flared up, if darkness can flare, like black flames fanned by poisonous winds. I cringed in my chains of flesh before his anger. “You are mine, fool! and you cannot resist me,” he continued, “but I am not needlessly cruel. You can save yourself yet, worm, if you obey me of your own free will.”

            “I will never...” I mumbled, knowing full well that the words rang only weakly. Exhaustion, shame, anger, and pain weighed on me like bags of stones slung about my neck.

            “Will you not?” he said softly. I did not reply this time. “I require only a small thing of you, to prove your loyalty,” he said in the same tone, and paused.

            I wanted to bite my tongue off, but I could not stop myself from asking. “What thing?”

            “Why, the location of Gondolin, my little worm.”

            I tried to laugh derisively, but only succeeded in coughing. “Gondolin...” I croaked.

            “Yes, Maeglin, Gondolin!” With that roar, the force of his will towered once more, thrusting itself onto my weakened mind until I could feel my sanity stretching. He did not know! I told myself that he had not been able to extract that secret from the caverns of my thoughts. But I was in agony, and the assurance slipped away, leaving only Morgoth’s black hands on my soul.

            Then he whispered in my mind, and spoke of how Tuor and Idril had wronged me, and Turgon’s court had treated me without respect. His breath enflamed my simmering hatred, irritating all the wounds I had taken. He taunted me with my desires. He promised that I should rule Gondolin and have Idril to wife if I told him where the hidden city was... and if I did not, I would be chained, like Húrin the Mortal—like a mortal Man!—to Thangorodrim, with bewitched sight, so that all the days of my life I would see nothing but Idril and Tuor in their love.

            And so, Valar help me, I told him at last.

            Before he sent me back he made me swear to keep my treachery secret. Despair coated my tongue as I swore upon my love for Idril, knowing that I had trapped myself, for my mad love and Morgoth’s will would hold me, and I could not break that oath.

            When I returned to Gondolin, all thought it a great deed that I had escaped from the Orcs’ ambush, and Turgon forgave me for straying beyond his boundaries. Everyone marvelled at my strength and determination, at my cunning to have escaped Morgoth’s clutches. I was, as I had always wanted to be, a hero.

            But the wine of glory was ashes in my mouth. It was all lies, and I forsaken; for though Morgoth had promised me Idril and Gondolin, I knew I would never have either. The Dark One might take the Rock of the Music of Water, but I would be dead before I possessed it, dead at Tuor’s hands. My death awaited me, and the death of us all.     

The listener

“Well, there is my tale, or my confession, if you will. I believe there is little more to be said—you know the rest.”

            Maeglin fell silent at last. His listener nodded absently and gazed downwards at what should have been the ground. After a moment he looked back up, disappointment evident on his face.

            “Nothing happened. We’re still here.”

            They were. Maeglin and his companion were—somewhere. It was certainly nowhere on Arda, nor was it any place in Valinor that either of them was familiar with. In fact, it bore a strong resemblance to an impenetrable black cloud. No walls, floor or ceiling were visible, only an endless, somehow soft-seeming blackness stretching in all directions. There was nothing to eat or drink, but as both of them were already dead, that hardly mattered.  

            “Blast...” Maeglin muttered, “I thought we surely had it this time...”

            “Apparently not. Mandos wants something else from us before he lets us out.”

            “Bloody Mandos.”

            “I hope you haven’t just lengthened our stay here even more, Maeglin!”

            “I should hope one of the Powers wouldn’t be so petty as that.”

            “It’s hard to know anything about the Powers for sure... after all, they put us in here together. For what purpose?”

            Maeglin shook his head and sighed. “We were foolish in life. More than foolish... gravely mistaken, almost mad at times. Being in each other’s company should teach us something. Theoretically. At least, that is how I understood it, how I thought... but now I have admitted my madness and my mistakes, and nothing has changed. Had I not been such a fool... but there is no use lamenting over it now. We will have to pay the price until someone deems it paid.”

            His companion looked thoughtful. “Perhaps—and perhaps not.”

“What do you mean?”

            “You have confessed your darkest secrets. But I have not—yet. Perhaps they want us to understand not only ourselves, but each other.”

            Maeglin’s eyes brightened as if he still possessed the sharp gaze for which he had been so famous. “You may be right.”

            “It certainly can’t hurt to try.”

            “Very well,” Maeglin said, making himself as comfortable as is possible in a giant black nothingness and nodding to his companion, “I suppose it’s your turn, then. I’m listening, Fëanor!”