Confessions of a Sharp Glance by Mercurie

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Chapter 6: Morgoth's Tool

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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.