Archive of Our Own

Maeglin did not know how long he was put to torment by the orcs. At first, he had kept count of the seconds in his mind, seeing how long he could withstand the torture. The count was something solid he might hold onto, a brilliant crystal in the center of his mind. As long as he had that, it mattered little how they threatened him with fire and blade, how they wrenched at his limbs until they thought he must be torn to pieces, how their commander sneered and said he would not die but be brought before Morgoth and there slowly waste away.

But tell them how to reach Gondolin, the commander said, and he would be spared. He would not even have the false mercy of a quick death; he would be placed upon Turgon’s throne, and the realm would be his to reorder at his will.

Maeglin’s heart yearned for the throne, for the power that was his birthright, but still he did his best to push the thoughts from his mind. Morgoth was the deceiver, the one who had marred the world, the Black Foe of the World. He would only be cheated in some way.

And yet…

The commander did not see the war in Maeglin’s mind. He saw only the resistance, the stubbornness which had not yet been beaten down. Then he called on a fierce ally of his: Glaurung the dragon, who already had defeated an Elf-friend and great foe of Morgoth’s. The dragon fixed his gaze upon Maeglin, and Maeglin lay still upon the ground, as though stricken to death.

Yet he lived still, and within his mind he did battle with Glaurung, knowing the might and evil of the beast. His strength was already greatly sapped, however, and he could feel the dragon peeling away the shields that held his secrets.

He had come to Gondolin as a youth, fleeing with his mother Aredhel from the forest where she had been held by enchantment. There he had seen his mother slain before his eyes, and his father put to death for the crime. There he too might have died, had his mother not taken peril on herself.

From Gondolin there was no departing, at least at that time. It was a beautiful city, perhaps the most beautiful in any realm, but it was no less a prison than Eöl’s forest had been. In place of his father as a jailer, Maeglin now had his uncle, the king of the city. So long as Turgon lived, he would be king, and Gondolin was safe from any war or conquest. Maeglin would forever be beneath someone, forever unnecessary save as kin.

The thought worked its way deep into the recesses of his mind, and there it grew like a canker, poisoning him from within. He felt it ever as a growing bitterness: he would never be anything more than he already was.

He would never be free.

So he took to finding secret ways out of the city, delving deep into the mountain for gems and metal on which to work. He was a skilled craftsman, but so were many within the city. There was little to set him apart save his past, and that was discussed only in whispers, behind his back. He heard nothing, but he knew it must be so. He could see it in the eyes of everyone who looked on him.

He delved deeper still, and took to wandering on his own, dwelling on the injustices he had faced and how he might redress them. He dwelt on Turgon most of all, the one who stood between him and his birthright as Aredhel’s son.

And did he not now have the chance to take action? Did he not now have the chance for vengeance?

Maeglin saw himself then: a twisted figure, eaten up from within by his own hatred. He did not see the dragon’s smile. He did not see the orcs moving around him, watching. He only saw the hollowness within himself, and the one thing that might fill it.

And yet…

He was strong. It was necessary to delve into the mountains, and to bend metals to his will. Even the most delicate works of art required skill to shape, at least at first, and he had made works of surpassing beauty. For Idril he had crafted a diadem of silver and diamond, one that would gleam like stars in the sunlight of her hair. The leaves had looked fragile enough that they might flutter in a breeze, but they were strong and sturdy, and had taken hours of work to beat into shape.

Even before coming to Gondolin, he had been strong. He it was who had urged his mother to flee Eöl’s forest, and he it was who pulled her on when her own strength seemed to flag. He might have made the journey himself, had he known the way.

Perhaps he should have gone himself. His mother might still live, albeit far from her home. He would never have known what he could not have. Men did deeds of great renown in the wilds; why should not he?

But he could not withstand the might of the orcs who had captured him. In time, he would have given up. Even before Glaurung had arrived, his count had begun to slip from him. He did not know how long he had lasted. He surely could not have lasted much longer.

Wasn’t it time to let his weary body rest? He had been bold so far; that was surely enough. He should be lauded for what he had already done.

Weariness pressed on Maeglin’s body from all sides, more than he had already felt before. Were his eyes not held open by the dragon’s stare, they would have slid closed, but even then, he would not have slept. He would merely have fallen into a trance that was closer to death than anything else. He could well imagine his spirit leaving his body for a time, to return when it was healed or a new one could be shaped for him.

And yet…

He should have been born in Gondolin. Had his mother not been so reckless, had she not been lured into Eöl’s web, he might have been born to a different father. He might have known who he was from birth and been content as a prince among elves, just as Idril was content as a princess. He might have grown up with her as a companion in his childhood. Better still, he might have had many companions. He valued his solitude now, but only because it put him in mind of the forest, of what he had always known.

It needn’t have been so. He could have been born where he belonged. He could have been born where he would have been beloved. If only his mother hadn’t fled.

If only his father hadn’t stolen her.

If only his father hadn’t killed her in front of him.

There was the true birth of the bitter worm, the seed from which it had hatched. Perhaps Maeglin could only ever been the child of Aredhel and Eöl, but if he could have had an easier life as anyone else, why not be anyone else?

Why not reshape the world so that he could be who he always should have been? King. Beloved.

Home.

Maeglin saw himself: a twisted figure, warped and empty, but now it was not entirely the fault of the bitterness he had nursed and nurtured in secret for years. Now it was the fault of the world for turning against him, for not giving him the life he should have had. Now it was Turgon’s fault, Eöl’s fault, even Aredhel’s fault. The world had been twisted against him from the start. He deserved to take what should have always been his. So what if it served Morgoth’s ends? It would serve his own still more, and once Gondolin was his, he could do as he pleased.

And yet…

Maeglin was a child of the twilight, born to a lover of stars and an elf who shunned the sun. He also had keen eyes and a sharp glance, and even through the mists Glaurung wove around his mind, he could see. It was not the truth, not what he should have seen, but it was something even so. That he could see the mists at all took great subtlety and skill, for Glaurung was now a powerful beast.

So Maeglin saw the mists around himself, and knew that he was being misled, and even to what end. He could see that he was being shown a false reflection, as though the dragon held a fractured mirror before him and twisted it in dim light. He could even see vague memories of the dragon doing so to others, to a Man and a maid who was too bold by half.

What he could not see was the way out. There was no path to the truth, at least not of himself. If he could not find that, he was lost forever.

But did he want to find his way back?

No. Not anymore. The mists were too tight around him, the dragon’s voice too seductive, the bitterness too deeply entrenched. That image of himself was a lie, but it was not entirely false. For years he had known that he was bitter and empty and hungry for more. For years he had itched to make something of himself, to be something more than he could be. Now that the chance was being handed to him so easily, he could do nothing else but take it.

And yet…

He still remembered when the Man came into Gondolin, tall and proud and clad in elven clothing. He still remembered the look on his face, the way Turgon had looked at him in familiarity. The Man was Tuor, son of Huor of the House of Hador, son of the man who had come to Gondolin years before and been permitted to leave. Huor had died, but now his son stood before them, speaking in the voice of Ulmo, warning them of danger and treachery from within.

The true hope of the Noldor, he said, lay in the West.

And because he had been guided by Ulmo, none doubted him. None looked askance when he was welcomed by Turgon. None so much as batted an eye when Tuor wedded Idril Celebrindal and she bore him a child which was but half-elf.

None save Maeglin.

Who was Tuor, son of Huor, to come so to Gondolin? Who was he to usurp Maeglin’s rightful place? Who was he to take the blessing of a Vala despite not being one of the Firstborn?

He was unworthy. Maeglin would show him so.

”I will show you,” Maeglin gasped, though his voice was hoarse from his earlier cries. (It was hoarser than it should have been. He had but vague memories of hearing his own screams through the mists of illusions.) “I will show you the way into Gondolin.”

The orcs cheered and shouted, their voices a horrendous cacophony, but their commander soon waved them to silence. Maeglin was allowed to stand, and though his legs were weak under him, he was unharmed enough that he did not collapse back to the ground again.

He did not look at Glaurung again. He knew he had not the strength to do so a second time and come away at all unscathed.

“Take us there,” the orcs’ commander growled, but Maeglin waved his hand dismissively.

“Not yet,” he said. “Not if I am to have Gondolin after you have finished. They will know it was I who brought you, and they will turn on me. We must be subtle; we must wait until the time is right.” He smiled, weary but still sharp, and there was venom in his eyes. “I will send for you, and you will have the conquest your master desires. Only remember that the city is mine.”

So it was that Maeglin, sister-son and adopted child of Turgon, betrayed his city for cowardice, for revenge, and from his mind’s own betrayal under a dragon’s charm.

And yet…

There was one reason more.

Lómion, he had been called in the dark forests of his father. It was only later he was named Maeglin, for his quick eyes and keen mind. His mother’s name for him lingered still in his heart, however, and he remained a child of twilight. He clung to shadowed places, to dark corners and tunnels through the mountains. His very soul might well have been shadowed, cloaked in midnight, but for all this, he loved what he thought of as one bit of the sun which had come down to the earth.

Idril Celebrindal, of golden hair and sky-blue eyes, who danced readily and smiled easily. Princess Idril, a path to the throne and yet more. She could be useful to him, if only she could be convinced to be.

She could be his wife, if only she would have him.

Her, above all else, Maeglin would not see harmed. If Gondolin stood and she was at his side, he would shape it into a place where she would shine, for that was the thing she was most fit for.

Perhaps, at her side, he would shine as well.