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Maeglin left the grand halls of his uncle, the King of Gondolin, after yet another meeting. Duilin had gone on and on about the need for more steel, he’d gone on and on back at him, saying that his miners could only work so fast in such a confined space. Turgon had bitten at him for implying that they needed to leave the valley to find ores, and Maeglin from then on had held his tongue, not wanting to upset his uncle.
He strode quickly through the gardens, heading for the stables, eager to return to his own home at the edge of the valley where he resided with his miners and jewelers and smiths, uncomfortable among the opulence and brightness of the marble city and its lords.
He pulled on the sleeve of the black robes he wore. They weren’t embroidered or painted like the fine silks the others wore. These suited him just fine, hiding the dust and dirt of the road, and he adjusted the simple black circlet around his brow. He then stopped in his tracks, and whimpered, begging his own mind no, as he saw the areas where the gardeners had been working.
He glanced down at the ground, and the piles of dirt heaped around the garden seemed almost compelling him to grab a handful and eat it. He wrestled with himself, he wasn't an elfling in the dark woods any longer, he- he gave in, and he consumed, his mind twisting as his stomach balks at the earthy taste and his tongue is roughened by the texture, and as he chokes down the first bite, and the next, he can feel pairs of familiar eyes on him.
The same eyes that had distrustfully followed him since the day he arrived. The same eyes that muttered behind his back and avoided looking him in the deep purple slitted eyes, unnatural against his pale as snow tattooed skin, tattoos that he now hid, as the Gondolindrim took the ancient patterns on his skin to be savage and unfit for a Lord of the city.
Idril was watching him, and so were some of his Uncle Turgon's council. Salgant, he could hear his voice, huffing over how this freak was allowed a place, the bootlicker bashing his name as soon as his back was turned. Maeglin wanted nothing more to shove a fistful of the dirt into his mouth to shut him up. Glorfindel, glancing upon him with pity, sickening pity. Ecthelion, oh, he could feel the raised eyebrow from the grey-eyed lord and he despised it. Rog, who had always been suspicious of the shockingly young lord, who swallowed the last mouthful, to the protest of his stomach.
Oh, he could feel them and he could hear them. He hated it. It reminded him too much of Eöl, and his everwatchful eyes over the young male. He straightened up, and strode away, hoping his quick pace and hood hid his tears and shame.
He made his way to the stables, wiping off his mouth as he went, and smiled at one of the grooms, lips pulling back to reveal sharpened fangs. She was one of the few who interacted with him regularly, and the dark female smiled back. “Lord Maeglin, Fingaerel is ready for you to depart.” She said, holding the reins for the chestnut mare. “Thank you, Mussiel.” He mounted the mare, settling into the plain black saddle, identified only by a single small miner's pick embroidered into the moleskin under the saddle. “How are your children and your husband? Do they fare well?”
She nodded. “Ai, my Lord. Silo is on rotation for the outer edges of the valley, and he shall return within a month. Ilinwen is continuing her healer’s training with only a singular problem, and that is memorizing the texts on mining injuries.” Maeglin chuckled, and held back his mare as she pawed the ground, fighting his own stomach still. “She could come to the valley walls and see these injuries for herself.” “I shall offer it to her. Oh, my Lord, you know that Calcamo has gone to serve your house as of yesterday?”
Maeglin blinked and shook his head, then smiled more. “No, but I shall keep a watchful eye on your son, Mussiel, worry not. I’ll make certain his sister needeth not use her skills to heal him.” Mussiel brushed her thick braids back and nodded. “It would be appreciated, my Lord.” He nodded back, then tilted his head at her. “I shall return then, mayhaps I shall catch him upon the road.” “Mayhaps, now depart, Lord of the House of the Mole, before the mountains catch flame and the smiths revolt.” She teased, waving a goodbye as he kicked his mare onwards.
**********************
Before the next council meeting had come, Turgon had called his people to war. And Maeglin would answer. He was not, however, expecting to be in the position he currently was in with his uncle and King: head to head on horseback, arguing over him staying or going.
“I am not a coward, my liege, I wish to fight and I shall fight to the death.” Maeglin said boldly, holding his axe in one hand, the mighty black war mare Gwathel remaining calm as her rider got heated.
Turgon sighed. “I think you are not a coward, my sisterson, but as a capable regent you’d be useful.” “You are afraid, Uncle. That is all it is. Afraid of losing me, the last remnant of your sister, my mother, are you not?” He bit, and Turgon looked as if he had been struck.
Penlodh stepped in, the tall lord the only one who came close to matching Turgon’s height. “My lord, we cannot delay.” “Indeed we cannot, and if you do not acquiesce, I will commit high treason and march ahead myself.” The Lord of the House of the Mole muttered, slipping his axe into a holder on his saddle. Turgon’s head snapped up. “You will do no such thing, Lord Maeglin.”
Egalmoth stepped in now, standing alongside Penlodh, his close companion. “My liege, if you may, we cannot wait, and I would not have our lateness and whatever may come of it recorded in song.” Turgon turns towards the lord, and the King’s deep brown eyes meet the blue eyes of the dark skinned archer, and then turns towards his brother, the two alike in every way physically.
“We will not have Ecthelion play that song.” “And I shall not play it.” The silver armored lord said, riding up on the silvery dappled stallion he favored.
Turgon looked around, then sighed, nodding his head. “I cannot stop you. If you die, I will find you in Mandos and kill you again, my nephew.” Maeglin beamed, then lifted his axe, to the cry of his warriors, clad entirely in black armor that was the exact same as his but for his black cloak. “I shall not let you down, my King.”
And so they set off, and they marched for days, stopping only to briefly rest and sleep. When they arrived, a great cry was heard, and Maeglin, standing alongside his uncle, recognized the voice for what it was: that of High King Fingon’s, his other surviving uncle. He cried back with his loudest voice as all of Turgon’s forces did the same.
Maeglin was eager to join the charge, and glanced at Turgon. “Uncle, why do you hold back your forces?! They are being slaughtered!” Turgon looked at him with a level stare. “War is suffering. But we shall wait until the best of moments, and trample the enemy down.” He nodded behind him and held aloft his spear, signalling what was soon to come. “Get to your men, son of Aredhel, and prepare.”
Maeglin kicked the mare he rode into action, and once he arrived alongside his captains, dismounted, along with every other mounted officer save the hundred cavalry. “Off, go, Gwathel, I will not see you fall.” He said to her, preparing his axe with a sharpening stone. The horse whickered, and pressed her nose to his forehead, before taking off along the others to a safe distance.
He looked at his two captains, the captains of the infantry and the cavalry. “Umbardil, take your riders alongside Penlodh’s, he expressed concern at their few numbers and I promised him my riders would be alongside his.” The female eldar, face scarred from a great bear they had faced on the Grinding Ice, nodded grimly, and went to her men.
He turned his attention then to the infantry captain. Morivanyadur stood at attention, his axe in hand. “You will be on the left flank with me, Captain.” He nodded. “Yes, my lord.” “And send three hundred to stand with Egalmoth. Tell Lieutenant Elenyo to tell him that I noticed a fatal gap in his defenses and that I could spare the men to reinforce the line.” Morivanyadur bowed quickly. “Yes, my lord.”
“Now go.” The dark haired male took off, and Maeglin was left in front of the group of soldiers. He pulled the covers off his boots, showing the heavy spikes embedded into the soles, good for gripping and maiming. He adjusted his helmet’s straps, fanning out his long curly hair upon his shoulders before he heard the horn call of Turgon, and with a fearsome cry in the avarin tongue his father spoke and he had taught to his warriors, they charged into the fray.
Maeglin span and kicked, axe being brought down heavily, gore decorating his face and armor like macabre accessories. He showed to those around him that he was a capable fighter, eventually finding himself back to back with Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.
The golden haired lord swung his sword in wide arcs, cleaving the heads off the shoulders of their opponents, while Maeglin focused on burying his axe into flesh, pulling it out, and repeating over and over until the deaths and blood became a blur. Him and Glorfindel fought until a horn call sounded.
“The High King is dead, the forces are overrunning us, retreat!” Ecthelion yelled over his shoulder as his stallion galloped by, and Maeglin raised his horn to his lips, calling his troops to him. As soon as he noticed the survivors beginning to pick their ways back, ever concerned for those he considered his family, those who came from the sindarin families, those who weren’t noble, those who Gondolin saw as lesser but he had taken in, he took off, keeping pace with the others in the organized retreat back behind their lines.
Once they got back up to the valley lines, the surviving officers whistled for their mounts, and those horses who had no riders had the less wounded thrown onto their backs hastily, a few hitched to carts brought along for this purpose and the more heavily wounded piled in. Maeglin supervised, keeping an eye on the rear, bringing up the vanguard personally.
“Lord Glorfindel, a pleasure to see you again.” He said, breathing heavily, as the forces pulled back, standing alongside the blue eyed male again. “A pleasure to see you as well, Lord Maeglin.” He stabbed an orc in the chest. “How are you and your troops?” He swung his axe and got it embedded in an orc’s spine. “Tired, but we didn’t take heavy losses.” A secondborn’s head went flying. “Luck was on your side, then.” Maeglin pushed Glorfindel aside when he saw an arrow flying towards him, and embedded his axe into another orc’s torso, causing guts to spill everywhere.
“Not luck, merely skill. My soldiers train hard.” “Mine work hard in smitheries and mines.” He grinned at him, never missing a chance to show off his people’s prowess in more than a single profession. Glorfindel snorted and cuffed him over the head. “Focus on the battle, young one.” “As if you’re much older.” “I crossed the Ice.” “Oh, right, you’re older.”
Glorfindel looked upon the younger male, ears swiveling to take in everything. He did well, for never having even had much formal battle training. The tall blond sighed, catching a glimpse of a projectile, and picked him up under a shoulder, running to catch up now that they were out of immediate danger. Maeglin squawked indignantly. “Put me down!” “You just almost got stabbed by an easterling throwing spear, and I am not going to fail my King for the second time and lose you.”
*****************************
Maeglin left the walls of the city, eyes keen as he searched for metals, holding out a hand as he tried to sense them. His mole companion stood at his side, snuffling for food, when he heard the sound of armored feet.
A great many armored feet.
He immediately began to regret his decision to sneak past the guards and climb through the passes, searching desperately for the rarest metals and jewels, looking for the ore his father called mithril.
He needed to prove his worth, and now he was going to die. He heard the twisted speech of yrch, the long ago avari tongue morphed beyond recognition, and he realized he was going to die, goddess why did you spare me merely to die at the hands of my maimed-kin-
He mentally slapped himself before his panicked heavy breathing could be overheard, sending off the mole with a strong telepathic warning, not wanting the small creature to be harmed for his mistakes.
He gripped his father's sword in one hand and his pickaxe in the other, preparing to leap up and attack, while hoping against all hopes that he would be passed over, and he could...go back to Gondolin, with it's shining walls and statues of his mother and sneering lords.
As young as he was, he wasn't stupid. Turgon would make excuses, if he even found out he'd left the city. Take a deep breath, calm down, Lomion, calm down-
His heart chilled when he saw the hunched werewolf sniffing the ground, eyes turning towards to where he was hidden in the rocks.
His father had taught him how to kill the beasts with nothing but his bare hands and teeth, but with the vanguard of orcs, he knew he had no chance.
He snarled, and screeched out a fierce avari cry, before descending on the group. He'd survived the Nirnaeth, he wouldn't die like a coward.
He spun in circles, stabbing the hissing, laughing bloodthirsty blade into others, his developed muscles smashing the pickaxe through skulls and teeth.
He cried out as an orc bit into his thigh, and he dropped to the ground. His own sword butt was slammed into his temple, and he fell unconscious.
*************************
He came awake at the gates of a mighty fortress, being dragged along with a string of other captives, mostly men, but a young female avari was screaming and clawing at her captors until a cloth was put under her nose and she quickly became a quiet, meek, obedient thing.
His clothes were dirty and torn, his body was wasted away, and his ribcage, like all his bones he quickly realized, was prominent.
He assessed his situation, his dread growing as he was separated from the long chain by a bright daemon. He took in the sights and smells and noises of rot, hopelessness and pain that pervaded this place.
A place whose name he was scared to utter even in his own mind.
The home of the Dark God and his servants.
Well, I've really done it this time, he thought to himself angrily. His steps echoed as he was led into a huge chamber. He shivered, as he was knocked to the ground and forced into a bow.
The massive clang of huge booted feet hit the sheer obsidian floors. "What is this, Eroso?" Growled out a rumbling voice, like the thunder of the greatest storms.
"My King, this is Maeglin of Gondolin" The daemon had a crowing tone of voice "the nephew of Turgon." The massive form of the Dark God reeled, then surged forward like a disgusting, inky wave, picking up Maeglin roughly.
His face split from cheek to cheek in a horrific imitation of a smile, the jewels in his crown blinding, his horns curled like a ram's. Maeglin shuddered at the teeth the size of his torso and held back vomiting at the smell of rotting meat on his breath.
"Oktâ…." He whispered, but no matter how quiet he made his voice, it echoed endlessly in the hall. "Oh, you are a prize." The God growled, before throwing Maeglin into the air and catching him again like an elfling with a toy.
His pupiless eyes shone with a blue fire and his hair shimmered and ran like a deep black liquid. He was grey and thin like a corpse, and he felt like ice as his palm closed around his body.
Maeglin screeched in avari, biting down hard on the hand, and he felt shocked as the hand actually dropped him. He began to send out panicked mental pleas to the Goddess, to Turgon, to anyone, then accepted his fate of being dashed against the stones.
He felt the fire of the daemon before he saw the creature, and screamed as he was caught and burned by the grip of Gorthaur. "Well, Master, it seems you caught quite a feisty one." The purr was sickening and beckoning all at once.
"He will tell us the location of Gondolin, Mairon." The God growled. Maeglin spat at him, struggling within the scalding grip of the daemon. "I will tell you nothing, spawn of darkness and evil!"
The God grinned grimly, and gestured dismissively to Gorthaur. "Oh, you will. None can withstand my Lieutenant and his methods."
Maeglin was dragged from the halls kicking and screaming vile curses, and was pulled yet further into the deeps, then chained to a pole in the middle of an utterly dark room. The daemon that stood before him was the only source of light, but he raised an unimpressed eyebrow, tucking his paws under him as he sat cross-legged.
"Are you not going to torture me?" He asked after a long silence, tone still defiant. "I will, eventually." Purred Mairon.
Maeglin occupied himself by staring at the form of the Dark God's servant for hours. His skin was tanned and lit by the fire of his long mane of white hot hair, or what he had that resembled it, and from it rose to huge, curved back horns. He had read in a book the hammer on his forehead symbolized that of a servant of Aulë.
His eyes were similar to his own, like a cat's, but this creature was no cat, no, the canines in his mouth, the upright ears, the fiery tail, and the way he moved was like that of a great hulking wolf.
He truly was terrified, but he knew better than to show it. Mairon finally opened his eyes and clapped his hands together excitedly, sending out a thunderclap and forming a massive eye, swirling and burning his vision with it's brightness.
He felt it rip into his soul, shred a way through his memories, his thoughts, violently taking all it wanted and violating him at his very core.
When the agony came to its end, he didn't know if it had been seconds or years, tongue dripping saliva and blood onto the floor. His muscles quivered, and his stomach churned as he punched the floor repeatedly, grounding himself with the pain.
Mairon knelt in front of him, and he snarled. "Is that the best you have, you errand boy of Morgoth?" His eyes shone, and he laughed hysterically as he was backhanded across the room. "I am no errand boy, bastard son of an avari criminal and a runaway." He intoned calmly.
He flicked him between the eyes. "Sleep, while I think of ways to convince you to….talk." Maeglin fought the overwhelming urge to lie down and rest, it's been so long, just a little nap…
He fell victim to the foul embrace.
*************************
Maeglin shuddered, his mind compelling him to eat the glowing lumps of metal.
He did, screaming in agony and cursing his creators, his parents, his family, the gods, anything and everything his mind could remotely conjure in it's dazed state.
He'd been beaten, burned, branded, and shown horrific scenes. And now, as the damage to his body was healed over and over, prolonging his agony, he began to contemplate finding a way to kill himself.
As he recovered from the constant pangs from having his teeth repeatedly pulled and grown back for days, he felt cold, slimy hands locked around his arms.
He was incapable of even lifting his head as he was dragged back into the grand hall of the Dark God.
He blinked in confusion, taking in the delicate sculptures and deep pools on either side of the throne. The God kneeled in front of him, picking him up.
"I have an offer for you, fierce spirited elfling." He growled lowly. Maeglin crossed his arms, eyes shining with a wild spirit, clothes torn away long ago to reveal his form, his scars, and his tattoos. "Then speak, Oktâ."
"You want her, don't you?" A slimy purr sounded in his ear, and images of Idril played out in front of him, spinning at balls, sitting on her balcony at night, and more, in each image she was bathed in light and exuded love.
She laughed, and he reached for her. Her form vanished, and he let out a sob. A cruel laugh sounded above him.
"You desire her, don't you? You wish to marry her?" "No." Maeglin growled, and he spoke in truth. He had a slight infatuation once, and it was long gone, replaced with the deepset seeds of-
"Jealousy? Oh, is that it? Do you want to be her?" Maeglin is put down in front of one of the pools, and the fiery, hateful servant of the God settled by his side.
He snaps his fingers, and Meaglin sees himself in a different life. He touches his face in the reflection, with the features of a Noldor, black hair coiled in tight braids and purple eyes more like a secondborn’s them a cat's.
He watched as this other self span in circles and laughed lightly with his family.
Then, it was all taken away, and replaced by the sneering features of his father, and he lept back, breathing heavily.
Mairon gripped his chin, forcing it up and chuckling. "Oh, so that is why you so hate these Avari features of yours. You don't want to look like your father."
Meaglin snarled and yanked away his head. "What is your offer, hell spawn?" Melkor laughed, voice booming endlessly in the hall's vaulted roof, then knelt down.
"Tell us where Gondolin is, and you won't be tortured any longer. If we succeed in conquering the shining city, you shall have your Noldor features." Meaglin thought, and something inside him remembered the countless invisible wounds on his body and mind.
Then he fell onto the dark path, looking up into the horrifying eyes of the God, the light from what could only be the Silmarils burning his eyes.
"I will need a horse." He said, crossing his arms. Oktâ's face split in his horrifying facsimile of a smile, and gave an asserting nod. "You will have the pick of the stables."
*************************
Meaglin had ridden back like the wind on the small, terrified black steed he had picked out.
He had named her Lia, for her fate was entwined with his from the moment he laid eyes on her, kicking like mad to escape the fierce warbeasts of Angband, a secondborn’s saddle still lashed to her back and a savage bit still in her mouth.
He had twisted a rope halter and hopped on bareback. She was little more than a pony to his people, and he was quite fine with that, for her steady pace could beat in endurance any grand charger of Glorfindel's stables or the racing steeds that tore around the tracks of Gondolin for entertainment.
He snuck back the way he had left, through dark caves, covering Lia's eyes so she wouldn't have to walk through something that reminded her of the sulphuric pits she was once confined to.
Once he found his way back into the valley, he prepared his excuses for his new set of odd clothing, sleeveless and pitch black, along with the animal he rode.
He needed them not, as it turned out, and for that he was grateful. Lia was turned out to pasture, kicking and playing with the other mares they kept here, the hardy large drafts and heavy set ponies that were favored among his people populating the rocky foothills of the mountain ring.
Meaglin ran to the forge, eyes scanning the fire lit room, and he walked past the workers to get to the expansive main halls of his people, the City of Solid Rock.
He heard a cry halfway to his rooms, and turned to see his loyal Chief of Household, his dear Aurener Marillion, aptly named, for every day he saw him he was his radiant light.
His henna brown hair fanned out in a tightly coiled halo around his face, warm brown skin tanned further by the sun, cursed thing it was, it gave him his eternal light. The black pools that were his secret love's eyes met his, brows drawing tight as he teared up and ran to his Lord.
"I thought you were dead, you foolish forge creature." He scolded. Meaglin merely received his chastisement silently, becoming exceedingly happier by the second as he realized he'd successfully managed to keep the older male out of his mind during the brutal torture.
He was shocked out of the reverie when soft lips claimed him gently, yet powerfully, and he was pressed close to the wall. He returned the kiss eagerly, not about to admit it was his first one, then he pulled away from Aurener.
"I didn't know you felt the same way…" he whispered softly, looking up at the smiling Noldor. "I didn't quite realize it either until you left on your idiotic errand." Said the disgruntled male, proceeding to drag Meaglin down to the kitchens. "You look as if you've eaten nothing but tree nuts and rabbits for months."
Meaglin laughed. "You are not far off, my sun." Aurener narrowed his eyes. "Where have you been?" "The outer edges of the mountains, looking for mithril and those white gems Idril so loves." He said, crossing his arms, quite conscious of the fact his tattoos and scars were exposed but no longer quite caring after all the awful torture he'd been through.
"And were you successful?" Aurener asked, eying his clothing. "No." Meaglin brushed past him, taking a bowl of a thick stew and sitting down, Anguirel strapped to his back. Aurener pulled it from its sheath curiously, and dropped it, a resounding clang echoing through the halls, blood staining the blade and it's hissing laughter emanating out.
Meaglin calmly picked it up and sheathed it again. Aurener's eyes went wide, and his hand shook. "Lord Meaglin, what was that?" He whispered, voice laden with terror. "That sword…" "Was made by Ëol. That explains it enough, my sun." He said curtly, finishing his food.
*************************
He awoke with Aurener at his side, the ellon still sleeping as he inched out from under him and went to the balcony, pulling on a simple black robe. He looked out to the caverns, lit by torches, lanterns and glowing stones.
He looked down at his hands, falling backwards in shock, breathing heavily as he remembered them being burnt by brands in Oktâ's forges. Aurener stirred, grumbling quietly before his breathing returned to the normal rhythm of sleep.
Meaglin took a few deep breaths, before rising up from the floor slowly and stepping towards his wardrobe. He brushed his hands over his long sleeved, plain attire, before picking up the enchanted tunic given to him by the Dark God.
He pulled it over his head, and pulled on long leather gloves, adorned with buckles, never before worn. Tight black leggings were tied, thick boots pulled on, hair tied back and his circlet placed delicately, before he went to wake his new lover with a gentle kiss.
Aurener rose, albeit very sleepily and cursing the Valar. Meaglin helped him stand, and his Chief of Household growled as he collected his garments, strewn about the floor and furniture after last night, when Meaglin had taken him into his arms and assured him of his well being.
"You did not say how you got those clothes, or why you've decided to carry that thing with you." He grumbled, growling at the wrinkles in his clothing after dressing. "You're right." "Or where that little rock pony came from." "Her name is Lia." "Or-" He went quiet when he saw the wells of pain building in his Lord's eyes, and sighs.
"Aurener, please, do not ask." He says, looking down at the floor. "Fine, Lomion. I will not, but I shall not hesitate to bring this to the attention of your uncle." "You may try." He said, laughing hollowly, before gesturing for him to follow as he left the room.
Aurener went to change in his own quarters as Meaglin made his way to the forges, throwing on a thick apron, and setting to work. He heated the metal he had stolen from his father, which had been hidden under a stone.
He glared down at it, hitting it furiously over the anvil, sweat running down his back. He shaped it into two daggers, tempering it in the early hours of the day, cooling them in a vat of blood, with their laughing bloodthirsty voices taking shape as he infused them with every scrap of hate he had towards Oktâ and his foul servants.
Finally the blades were completed, and he stared at them, and began thinking. Finally, he took an amount of steel and gilded it with silver, and poured it into a mold, setting white gems like starlight into the pommel, wrapping white dyed leather as a grip and around the hilt.
The other was made of steel and gilded with gold, glowing yellow gems embedded in the blade, black leather acting as a grip.
He stared at them, then dipped his hand in the vat of blood he'd brought here, the servants who brought knowing better to question him. He stared into his reflection, seeing only Ëol's face, and he sneered. "Well, well, well, it seems I can make these things too, forest spawn." He crowed, dashing his hand through the reflection before leaving the forge to make his way to the leather workers.
He glided in, feet barely touching the ground, his presence intimidating and off, his people staring after him and trying to shake off the ominous trail he left in his wake.
His eyes were tinged with a sickly yellow, his hand not entirely clean of the blood he'd just dipped it in. Nambadur, the head leatherworker, set to making matching sheaths for the blades as he watched, leaning against the wall, and he was there still when a messenger found him.
The courier had the extravagant jewelry and crests of Turgon’s court, and he met his eyes. "Lord Meaglin of the House of the Mole?" He asked, eyes narrowed as if in disbelief that this odd, thin creature dressed in tight clothing was he. "The one and only." He smiled, fangs longer than any eldar's should be, causing him to hiss slightly. "And you are?" He gestured up the courier's body with the bloodied hand.
"Yuro, Courier for His Majesty High King Turgon." He supplied, and jumped as he seemed to almost magically appear in front of him, the half-avari staring up at him, eyes glinting hungrily. "Well, then, what does my uncle want?" Yuro stuttered a bit, pupils darting away instinctively.
"He wishes you to come to the upcoming feast in honor of-" "Tell him to expect me, Yuro." The courier nodded a bit. Meaglin narrowed his eyes and growled. "Well, get out of my halls!" Yuro nodded again, muttering an apology as he took off, seemingly lost and asking for instructions out of the granite maze of caverns.
Aurener stared after him as he walked up, then took Meaglin's arm in his hand and snarled. "What in Varda's name was that?" "Me sending off a courier, my sun." "You terrified him, what did you do?" He shrugged in response, and Aurener felt a chill run down his back, before he shook his head to clear it.
Nambadur handed him the sheaths. "I would've done the same, my Lord." Their lip curled up distastefully, the scars that disfigured half their face and left almost none of their nose old marks of the Nirnaeth. "Those couriers fuss too much." Aurener sighed heavily, before nodding reluctantly.
Meaglin left with his head of household in tow, filling him in on everything that had taken place since he had left, black pools staring after him in concern.
*************************
Months passed.
Meaglin screamed in his sleep every night, and he began to slash at his body with Anguirel, feeding the greedy blade.
He dreamt of flames and ice, of dark and light, of every torture forced upon him.
He stared at the bright metal of the things he made in the forge, eyes flickering everywhere as he vomited up dirt and rocks.
*************************
Aurener pulled him to the side, kissing him softly. "Lomion, what is wrong?" He gestured towards the clothing he wore, the only things he wore anymore save armor, and he never removed it in the presence of anyone. "Nothing, my sun." He lied softly, fangs filed down, sickened at the thought that he was becoming yrch.
"I do not believe you." He replied, long flowing black sleeves embroidered at the edges with silver dragging on the ground. "Then do not, Aure." "Will you ever tell me what actually happened?" He sighed. "I already have." He assured, hugging him close, before starting to sway softly.
Aurener pressed his face into his neck, sighing softly, the exhale tickling his lover's skin. "If you're lying to me, I won't forgive you." "You wouldn't be the first." He replied teasingly, before taking his hands in his, and dancing slowly.
The two danced together on the ledge, Meaglin singing softly, an old song from a secondborn culture that a trader had told him about. "I am flesh and I am bone, glitter like gold, glitter like gold." He trailed off, as he picked up Aurener and spun him around, smiling at him, fighting the orcish impulses away. "I love you, my sun." "And I love you, my mole." He chuckled, heading back inside to help pack Meaglin's bags.
An urge to confess to him rushed through him, his mind warring. "Aurener." His lover looked over his shoulder, head tilted. "I...I have been lying, I was waylaid and carried off to-" he choked, and a flash of that awful, terrible eye blew across his vision. He dropped to his hands and knees, the bones making a cracking noise against the stone floor.
Aurener tilted up his head worriedly to reveal black pouring from his eyes and his throat as he retched, causing him to jump away from his Lord in shock, before rushing out and calling desperately, loudly, for a healer.
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Meaglin woke up in the white stark marble walls of his uncle's palace. He gasped, hoping it was all a nightmare, before glancing at his body, and crying out at the sight of healed burns, carved away flesh and whip marks.
A healer walked in, coming to his side quickly. The noldor's calloused brown hands reminded him of Aredhel's, and he pressed his face into them, tears streaking down as he hiccuped out his sobs.
Turgon walked in, distraught as he settled down on his nephew's bed. He reached out a hand, but Meaglin snarled and batted it away. Turgon's eyes betrayed his hurt as he slowly withdrew his hand.
"You were held in Angband." He whispered quietly, stating it as fact. Meaglin's eyes grew wide, and he opened his mouth to deny it, but his uncle raised his hand. "We know it as fact. I sent word to Maedrhos, and he said he knew how to reverse the damage done." "How touching." Sneered Meaglin, ears lowered, swinging his legs over the other edge of the bed, before standing up shakily.
"You left the valley." The tone was emotionless and calm, yet somehow managed to be accusatory. "I was in the mountains, looking for those metals and gems Idril loves." He ground out, making his way to a window and leaning on the ledge.
"And?" "And a party of orcs approached, I fought them, was captured, and dragged tied hand and foot into the heart of darkness itself, where I was tortured." He said, breath coming quicker and quicker. He heard the sounds of Turgon's footsteps, and spun on his heel, hand snapping out to wrap around his throat.
The king only took a breath and gave him a stern look, and he shakily let him go.
"How did you escape?" He asked softly. "Escape? Escape?!" He laughed maniacally. "I was set loose after saving my skin!" Turgon's braided hair shifted around his shoulders as he moved. "What did you tell Morgoth?" Meaglin met his uncle's eyes. "I told him where your pitiful little city was."
You could've heard a needle drop in the room, before Turgon struck Meaglin across the face. "You traitor!" He snarled, before taking a few shaky breaths, murmuring to himself. "No, no, you had no choice. You are alive and the curse reversed, that is all that matters, yes."
Meaglin still was slowly touching his face where he'd been hit, fingers tracing the indents left by the king's rings.
Just then, a large group chose that moment to burst through the healers. Glorfindel strode to Meaglin's side in a few steps, before looking him over and looking like he'd been struck. "How...I swore to keep you safe, Lomion." He whispered.
Meaglin said nothing, merely buried his face into Glorfindel's chest and started crying, caring not for whether he stained the blue silk. The warrior picked him up with no resistance, and held him close, casting a helpless glance around as he sat on the bed.
Ecthelion started softly singing, infusing his song with a relaxation spell, as he gently stroked his hair. Idril held a small child on her hip as she eyed him from the door, wary of the cousin she had long ago sensed a great evil in.
The day passed like this, Turgon lowering his eyes in shame.
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The next day, Idril revealed that she had ordered secret tunnels built, and so the valley began to be evacuated. The last ones to leave were Turgon, Idril, and Meaglin.
"I shall miss this all." Turgon whispered, his sword strapped to his side. Meaglin threw Anguirel into the same pit his father had been cast into, saying "I shall not." He turned Lia around, and never looked back, kicking her up to be side by side with Aurener.
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Morgoth was furious when he discovered nothing but an empty, stripped valley, with all things of value taken and everything else buried in landslides or burnt.