50 Prompts: AU Silmarillion by Urloth

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Prompt: Regret (Earendil/Maeglin)

Warnings: Slash (?) mentions of torture.

Summary: Maeglin, older, wiser and cranky

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The sun was a warm and pleasant thing upon his back, and Maeglin felt it like a burning brand against his skin despite the layers of his robes. He grimaced. This garden had been fully in shadow when he had settled himself here to sketch out the early morning buzz of his mind, but the insidious golden light had crept into all of the corners whilst he was not paying attention.

Though he had revelled in the sunlight when he had first lived in Gondolin, as he had grown older he had found it to be an irritant. It stung his eyes and burned his skin. It overheated him. Sometimes it made him ill and he would taste blood and bile on his tongue if he lingered in the harsh gold for too long.

These days he went about hooded from the light, wearing darker clothing to try and prevent the sunlight getting close to his skin.

He had started to understand as he had entered his second century, that though he had been so obsessed with his mother’s tales of the Noldor and of Gondolin, that he had left behind so much of himself in Nan Elmoth. That for all that he had been Aredhel’s son, he had also been Eöl's.

It was a bitter draught that he swallowed often, realising just how much he had lost.

He had found himself wanting to talk to his father.

He had found himself wanting to know about Eöl. What of his father’s family? What of his past? He had only known the barest bones.

He wanted to visit the dwarfs once more.

He wanted forges and workshops where he could simply work away at an idea without whispers of ‘forge-rat’ and ‘dark-elf’ following him.

Not even his mother had cared when his father and he had arrived at meals with soot clinging to their faces despite a good scrubbing.

He wanted to hear the whisper of the Nan Elmoth dialect of Doriathrin; softer and lilting.

The golden dream of Gondolin had become dross to him.

He wanted to be Maeglin Lomion, and simply that.

Not Maeglin of the House of the Mole. Not Maeglin, son of Aredhel. Not Maeglin, the son of a dark elf. Not Maeglin the former heir of Turgon.

In Gondolin he was a replacement for his mother and a reminder to everyone of ‘Aredhel’s shame.’

A newly emerged euphemism for his mother’s independence and marriage which left him ill every time he heard it.

He had thought foolishly that he might find love and someone to see him for himself but Idril had spurned him. His other weak attempts at courting women always fell flat. He could not find the enthusiasm or the energy these days to even contemplate seeking out love.

“What are you doing wearing black on a day like today Lomion?” arms threw themselves around his shoulders and he grunted at the weight that pressed against his back.

“I did not intend to spend my time in the sun, I still do not, get of Eärendil,” Maeglin shouldered off Indril’s precious boy-child and stood from where he had been sitting with his back braced against the central fountain.

Eärendil simply grinned at Maeglin’s sharpness, used to his moods. He was also a generally cheerful man … or Man, Maeglin was not sure as to what Eärendil was. At the age of forty he should have been gangly and entering his last growth spurts but he had been fully grown at thirty, broad of shoulders and fair of face.

Whilst Maeglin was silent, contemplating the peredhel, Eärendil took his chance and darted in to steal a kiss.

“Yes, yes,” Maeglin waved him off in irritation, picking up the numerous discarded pieces of paper with ideas for new projects and fine-tuned specifications for newer endeavours. Then he retreated into the shadows of the peristyle, where he had left his crutches propped against a column.

“You have already kissed me this morning. That should be enough.”

“Ah do not be so stingy.”

Eärendil persisted, not at all subdued.

As Maeglin walked his knees and ankles twinged and throbbed, protesting any sort of weight being put upon them. When Eärendil had been… oh perhaps four years, perhaps five, Maeglin had often left the city both to avoid the nauseating happiness of Idril and Tuor, and to seek much needed metals.

Gondolin was a rich city because of its people but its actual natural resources had long ago been robbed out.

He had been pursued by Orcs through the mountains where he should not have been, and had briefly been captured before he had managed his escape. The few days he had spent at their hands though, had left their marks. They had targeted his legs to try and prevent his fleeing, and their ministrations combined with the long walk back to Gondolin, for his horse had bolted, meant that when he had arrived back the damage had been too great to ever fully correct.

Sepsis had set in as well, further complicating his recovery. Ultimately he had been left a cripple, unable to walk very far without the aid of crutches.

His days of escaping Gondolin came to an end.

“What a hard hearted lover you are.”

More kisses snuck their way over Meaglin’s lips and he sighed and sat upon the lone bench that remained in the shadows, letting Eärendil cup his face with his hands and straddle his lap.

If Turgon caught them, Morgoth’s temper would pale in comparison. At least he did not have to worry about Tuor or Idril. Like Maeglin's mother before her, Idril had flown the white cage of Gondolin, escaping through a tunnel not even Maeglin’s industrious people had known of.

Her note had mentioned some fool’s dream of sailing West to try and convince the Valar to aid in the on-going struggle against Morgoth.

She and her husband had left when Eärendil had been past twenty though not yet thirty, Maeglin could not remember the exact date. Years tended to blend into one another for him.

“Such a sour face,” Eärendil’s kisses stopped and he stared at Maeglin’s face in contemplation. Then he bit down hard on Maeglin’s lower lip.

Maeglin growled angrily. The skin was not broken but it still hurt.

“Surely you can put aside your black mood for me?” Eärendil coaxed.

Maeglin stared up at him, attempting to glare but finding his foul mood was fading away in Eärendil’s presence as it often did.

He buried his hands in Eärendil’s golden mane and kissed back hard enough to raise the blood in their lips, though he already knew it would be his younger lover who would triumph and bear him down onto the cold marble of the walkway, for Eärendil was not foolish enough to want to take him in the sunlight.

He twisted his hands tighter in the gold in his hands; clutching tight at the only true gold that remained in Gondolin as frantic hands tore at the black velvet he wore with no care for the tricky silver fastenings.