“Would it maybe be okay if I reshaped it a little? I know that's a lot to ask…”
“Nah, I hardly ever use it. It's yours.”
Maeglin cradled it to his chest like it was precious. “Thank you,” he whispered.
*
Maeglin woke from dreams that were muddled but not terrifying for once—he thought he recalled a glimpse of golden hair—and rocked his hips, brushing his cock against the covers, catching his breath at how uncomplicatedly good it felt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an erection and actually enjoyed it. Before Angband, he supposed. After, he’d cut himself off from so many things, tried to pretend he didn’t have a body that could feel, that could be hurt. Had tried, once or twice, to get rid of himself altogether. Ugh. There was no point in following that train of thought. Not when his body was somehow still humming with desire to be touched.
He tried it gingerly, just running his fingers lightly down his cock. He gasped and found himself thrusting in search of more. Evidently the sensitivity of a new body wasn’t all bad. He listened intently, but heard no indication that Celegorm or Huan were nearby. Good. There was no way he’d be able to do this quietly. He stroked himself gently, holding his cock between his thumb and two fingers, exploring half-forgotten sensations and losing himself in wonder that he could have this again. This was a body Morgoth had never fouled, and it was his. He would spit in Morgoth’s face and find pleasure again despite all he’d done. He swiped his thumb through the bead of precome gathering at his slit and rubbed it over the head, shivering as he imagined someone else’s touch—Tyelpë’s, maybe, with his oh-so-gentle hands and his wicked tongue. He thought of golden hair again, and shoved the idea away. He shouldn’t think of her. He had no right. She wouldn’t want that…but after all, she wasn’t here, and it wasn’t like thoughts could hurt her, and who would ever know what he did in his own mind?
Maeglin closed his hand around his cock, still trying to keep it slow, to draw out his pleasure. Idril’s lips on his…moaning as he pushed her dress back, caressed her soft round breast… “Oh, Maeglin, I’ve wanted you so long…” Her eyes widening in pleasure as he parted her thighs, found her slick with desire, softly circled her clit until she was pushing him down, demanding his worship, crying out as she came on his tongue and his lips, undone, sighing as she quivered against him, came again. He pictured her nudging him onto his back, lying on the grass as he protested half-heartedly—“Idril, my love, you needn’t, I swear, I only want your pleasure”—her smacking his thighs apart and nestling between them—“and why shouldn’t I want yours as well, my dearest?” Her lips closing around him so sweetly. No, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t—but he was already so close, what harm could it do? He knew she didn’t really want him. Couldn’t he at least have this?
Tension and sweet aching pleasure spiraled together, and his balls tightened as he tried to contain his moans. Idril’s mouth, too good for him, holding him, sliding wetly up and down, her eyes shining up at him, full of love and playfulness… Just as he reached the point of no return, the image morphed, and instead he saw the flood of Mairon's flame-red hair, Mairon's practiced lips wrapped around him, Mairon's amber gaze holding his, laughing as he clutched Maeglin's hips and forced him deeper, unrelenting, until he'd milked every drop of Maeglin’s seed and spat it on the stones.
Maeglin shuddered and stared at the come coating his hand in disgust. The lingering pleasure seemed like a bad joke. He reached for his shirt and wiped his hand clean—he needed to wash his clothes properly anyway. He lay back and tried to erase the sight. It was what he deserved. He should never have dared to sully her memory like that. He didn't know if it had happened that way in truth or only in dark dreams—Mairon wearing Idril's face, promising him the real thing, for the little price of Gondolin—just as he'd never known if his love for Idril was a deep rot inside him, as others seemed to think, or the one bright thing that had kept him living. Trust Sauron to ruin even this little indulgence. Well. He wouldn't let Sauron take this from him, but…he'd try not to think of Idril again. Not when he’d destroyed her world. He dashed away his tears and forced himself up. Today he had something to keep him busy, and he wanted it more than ever.
It didn't take long to anneal the platter, heating it red-hot and quenching it, and beat it over a smooth rock, bringing up the sides to a better depth and angle. Celegorm wandered over and made lunch while he worked.
“You gonna head out with that soon?” he asked.
“I’d like to.”
“Do you want company?”
Maeglin considered. Celegorm rarely felt like an intruder on his solitude, and he might get nervous alone in the woods. For that matter, there might be very real dangers he didn't know to watch for. “It'll be awfully boring.”
“Nah. You're sticking to the river, right? I'll find a spot to fish.”
“Oh. In that case, yes. I’d like that.”
They walked together upriver until Maeglin found the sort of gravel bar he was looking for, and he settled in, filling his pan and shaking it, letting the water carry away the silt while the heavier rocks and gems gathered in the center. Everything else was subsumed as he focused on his hunt, leaving his mind blessedly clear and unburdened. A little handful of sapphires and spinel filled his pouch on the bank while a much larger pile of rejected rock mounded beside it.
“How's it going?” Celegorm asked.
Maeglin jumped, and realized his pants were soaked through where he’d ended up kneeling in the water, and his neck and shoulders ached. The Sun was sitting much lower. “Good. I've found some nice stones.”
“I'm about to head back, but you can stay if you want.”
“I can come back tomorrow?”
“Yeah, of course. You can do what you want. You don't need my permission.”
“Right. Yeah. I think…I’d better rest, then.” He gathered up his things. “Was it good fishing?” Celegorm had a couple of little trout on a string.
“It's always good on a day this pretty, whether I catch much or not.”
Maeglin smiled to be friendly, but he found it didn't feel forced at all. His heart was light, and he let himself start thinking about all the things he could make, how the many shades of blue would look with his pair of pink sapphires among them, whether silver would set them off better than gold. “I wish I had a place to cut these,” he mused aloud.
“You'd be more than welcome in Curufin's workshop. Any time. Or Celebrimbor's—you were friends, weren't you? He'd be thrilled to see you again.”
The bright and warm feeling in his chest snuffed out. “No. They must think I'm evil. I…I am. If Celebrimbor hadn't left when he did*…I…I’d’ve killed him too. They both must hate me.”
Celegorm was watching him with an expression Maeglin couldn't place. “I don't think they hate you,” he said gently. But he dropped the topic.
Maeglin kept to himself, brooding, until they’d eaten the fish and sat by the fire in companionable silence. “I didn't want to do it,” he said suddenly, his need outweighing his desire to keep his feelings hidden. “Gondolin. I never went out intending to betray them. I had little enough love for most of them, but I never wanted any of them to suffer. Not even Tuor.”
Celegorm held his gaze steadily. “I believe you.”
“Really?”
Celegorm nodded.
Maeglin sidled closer. “They tortured me.”
“I figured. There’s only so much anyone can withstand, Maeglin. That doesn’t make you evil.”
“He threatened…I thought…it was confusing, and I hurt so much all the time, and I was so scared…”
Celegorm held an arm out, and Maeglin crept towards him until he could curl into his side and hide his face in his shoulder. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you again.”
Maeglin cried. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to. I tried to tell them, I tried to warn them, I couldn’t, I couldn’t make myself do it, I’m such a coward.” Celegorm held him close, his arms like a bulwark against the night. “I tried, I swear, every time it was like he was looking right at me, and I knew he’d see and he’d hurt me for it. I’d stand outside Turgon’s office; I would even—I’d be holding little Eärendil, before Idril decided I could never touch him again, and I’d almost lean down and whisper it in his ear, before the dread took me. I’m sorry, I know you won’t want me, not a coward who can’t even—”
“Maeglin. Hush. You say what you need to, but don’t call yourself names. That’s not fair. You did your best, I know it. That’s all anyone can ask.”
“But it wasn’t enough. My best wasn’t good enough.”
“I know. I know, and it sucks.”
Looking up, Maeglin saw tracks of tears on Celegorm’s face. He traced them with wondering fingers, afraid to ask what brought them on. “You’ve done awful things too.”
“Yes, and with worse cause.”
“What do you do?”
“First of all, I took the time I needed to actually be well. Mostly well. Then…I had to go and take responsibility for what I’d done, and spend time in service to repay the people I’d wronged.”
“Did that make it stop hurting?”
“It helped. But Maeglin, I don’t know if you even owe that. Things you did under compulsion…it’s not your own actions. Not your choice. It sounds like you were as much a victim as anyone.”
“Then why do I feel like there’s blood on my hands?”
Celegorm didn’t have an answer for that, but he held Maeglin by the flickering firelight. When Maeglin’s eyes were drifting shut, he begged Celegorm not to leave him alone, and he fell asleep sandwiched between Celegorm and Huan, feeling for the first time since before Angband that it was possible he could be loved.
Chapter End Notes
*In this AU, Celebrimbor joined Turgon as one of his last remaining family members after the Nirnaeth and lived in Gondolin for a time. Turgon sent him as his emissary to Sirion with some final messages before the gates were destroyed and Gondolin was completely cut off from the outside world, so he wasn't there for its fall.
Blood and Black Wool
Chapter Notes
Trigger warning for this chapter in end notes to avoid spoilers for those who don't want them
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Maeglin whistled one of Celegorm's tunes that was stuck in his head as he walked along the riverbank with his pan in one hand and his pouch of gems in the other. He’d found a large sapphire of a good clear blue today that he was particularly pleased with. By the end of the summer, he hoped to have enough to trade for tools, though he wasn’t sure what branch of his craft he'd want to focus on. In a separate, smaller bag, he kept a few he was saving for himself. Even if he couldn't look his mother in the face, he thought he might make a gift to send her, a brooch or a hairpin, something to say “yes, I'm alive, and I still love you” for him, since he couldn't do it himself. Yet. Maybe someday.
He was contemplating vining leaves and swirls of silver filigree when he spotted the swatch of black wool cloth caught on a thorn. He knew that weave; he’d seen it not six weeks ago. Reaching for it with shaking hands, he freed it from the bramble and looked at it closer. It hadn’t faded; it hadn’t been here long. The edges were cut, not torn. It was just by the trail he’d been walking every day, and yet he'd seen no one. Neither had Celegorm, or even Huan. The message was easy to read. This hadn't been left by accident. His father was watching. He was watching, and no one would ever catch him or stand in his way. Maeglin ran for the camp and safety, his legs making the choice for him. He was breathing hard, his eyes brimming with tears. No one was there. Celegorm must have gone to hunt, or whatever else he did off in the woods alone. He'd taken his horse.
Maeglin was light-headed, and he realized his breath was coming too fast now, though it felt like he was barely getting any air. He tried to slow it and couldn't. His mind whirled through the possibilities. He could flee on his own. Eöl would find him. He was probably watching only by night, but Maeglin wouldn't be able to hide his tracks that well. He could tell Celegorm—no. Never. He'd try to save him, and Eöl would kill him for getting in his way, as surely as he'd killed Naneth. Sure, he'd beaten him that first night, but Eöl would be prepared now with poison and subterfuge. Maeglin couldn't bear being the cause of Celegorm’s death, too.
He would never go back to Eöl. And that left just one choice. He took the bundle of clothes his mother had made and the stone knife he'd fashioned with Celegorm and went back outside. Celegorm would find his body anyway, but it didn't seem right for it to be waiting for him in the tent. He sat beneath a tree and rested his fingertips on the embroidered edge of the tunic. I'm sorry, Naneth. I wish I could have seen you one last time. He doubted Námo sent anyone back twice. He sighed. If he thought about it much longer, he'd lose his nerve, and it was this or eternal thralldom to Eöl. He held no illusions that life with his father would be anything else.
The edge of the flint was as sharp as any knife he'd forged. Sharper, maybe. He'd helped patch up enough battlefield wounds to know where the arteries were, and he aimed for them, forcing his knife swiftly and deeply into his forearm. He lay down with his head pillowed on the tunic, weeping as his blood ran into the earth. Everything was growing cold and distant. Far off he heard howling, and had just time to recognize Huan's tones before the world went dark.
*
“Hang in there, don't do this to me, kid.”
*
His head throbbed agonizingly and so did his arm, and he couldn't remember why that was all wrong.
*
Something weighed on his chest. Mairon was there, holding a cup to his lips, water laced with opium, murmuring in his soft, sweet voice that he knew it hurt, he was so sorry, he wished he didn't have to, it was over now, Maeglin could rest, but wouldn’t he please think about talking and not put them both through this anymore… Lies. All of it, lies. But how did he know that…?
*
Pain always returned in Angband eventually. He wondered why Mairon had started torturing him before he was even awake. Usually he made him have a thorough look at whatever implements he'd chosen, gave him time for his imagination to begin the work and a chance to speak and forestall it. Maeglin never did. Perhaps that was why he’d changed tactics… What was Mairon doing? His arm was on fire, and it itched…
*
“Please don't fade. Whatever it is, I promise I'll help you; we’ll find a way to make it better…”
“Mairon? Are you there? Please just let me go. Please…”
