“Oh, Maeglin. You don't understand. I only want what's best for you.”
Maeglin had heard those words before. He closed his eyes and searched for the memory, let the shadows of torment clear his head. He couldn't afford to forget. He couldn't let himself believe it.
His feet had been beaten with the knotted end of a soaking wet rope until the slightest pressure on his soles was agony, and now he was made to stand, his hands bound behind him and a noose around his neck, drawn tight so the slightest movement or attempt to shift and ease his feet threatened to cut off his breath. If he hadn’t been certain that Mairon would never permit him the mercy of death, he would have let his legs collapse beneath him. Instead he fantasized about darkness enclosing him and ending all pain while Mairon wove wickedly sharp needles into his skin—in, then out, take the next, in, then out—forming neatly parallel rows down his arms and his chest. The first he'd eyed nervously, but sighed when it went in with a little aching prick. “That wasn’t so bad.”
Mairon gave him that sorrowful, suffering smile. “It will be once we reach a few hundred.”
He was right, of course. Maeglin was whimpering, tears running down his cheeks. His skin was burning; he trembled at every new prick. He'd screamed when Mairon forced needles through each nipple, and every time Mairon paused to run a finger delicately down the rows, reawakening the pain, he sobbed and tried not to beg. The worst part was having to hold himself still through it all. When he lost his balance twisting away and choked, Mairon supported him while he gasped for breath, but at the cost of Mairon's hand pressed into his throbbing flesh. “Please. Please stop. You don't have to do this. You said that you cared. You feel sorry for me. You don't want to do it.” He hated being brought to this point, but Mairon never failed to find it.
“My sweet little smith. I wish we lived in another world where I could treat you as you deserve. I hate this. But I have to. I don't have a choice in it. The best thing for both of us would be to give my master what he wants. Please? It hurts me to see you like this.”
“We could escape together.”
“You know how to make this end. Just tell me about Gondolin.”
“Please. Neither of us have to suffer under him. I'll help you.”
“Oh, Maeglin. You don't understand. There's no escape from his power. Not for you, and not for me. The best thing for you is to give in now.”
“It was all lies,” he whispered to himself. “If you cared, you'd stop hurting me. You’d let me go.”
His father was still talking. Something about his own experience and Maeglin's lack. “And you see, you aren't well. You don't even know what's best or what you really want. You need someone to look out for you. To help you make good choices.”
Maeglin shuddered. That was almost true. So were most of Mairon's lies. “Celegorm looks out for me. So does Oromë. So will…so will Naneth. And none of them will try to make me do what I don't want.” He realized he'd stepped forward and silently cursed his weakness.
Eöl's eyes narrowed. “You need someone who isn't more wild beast than Elda. You need your father.”
“Naneth—”
“You think she wants anything to do with you?”
“Celegorm says—”
“Oh, child. You think she doesn't spend every day grieving what she did? You think she doesn't lament that city and all those people she loved so well before you were ever born?”
“What do you mean?” Maeglin whispered.
“I thought it was obvious. If she hadn’t taken the javelin that was meant for you, you would have died instead of her. And you would never have betrayed her city. Did you ever think what guilt she must feel? She doesn't want you. She never wants to see you again. Why else would she send anyone in her place?”
“That's not true.”
“She always wanted to get away from you. You made her life miserable. She was happy in our wood before you came along. She only took you with her so she wouldn't be alone. And then, out of the sheer goodness of her heart, she defended you and killed everyone she really loved.”
“No.” But Maeglin remembered her bruise in his dream. That had been his fault. Everything had been fine before him. And then I let myself grow twisted until I'm more like him than her. I failed her. She'd be right to hate me…
“Look, Maeglin, I know the truth hurts, but you don't need her. It hurt to be abandoned by the people I loved most, too. I won't lie. But we can get past this. We can have a happy family again, just you and me.”
Maeglin had slid to his knees. It didn't matter; he couldn't flee anyway. “When were we ever happy? I was never good enough for you. You hated me. You beat me. You threatened me constantly. I don't want anything to do with you.”
“You truly believe that? You don't remember all the good times we had? All the laughs we shared in the forge, the stories and songs on the road together, all the excitement as you discovered new things?” Tears shone in Eöl's eyes, and Maeglin scrambled to think, to wonder if he really had remembered only the worst. If he'd somehow been unfair. “How could my own son not know how much I love him? After…after everything? I always thought we'd have long ages together in sweet twilight, learning and inventing and working in harmony. That's all I ever wanted. And in the end…we had so little time.”
Maeglin’s heart ached for him despite everything, and he raised his hand to reach out, then stopped himself. He knew better. Eöl had chosen the things that had driven Maeglin and his mother away. Eöl chose to cut them off from their kin. Eöl chose to forbid Aredhel her language and her stories. Eöl chose to beat them and to put Maeglin in chains when he wandered too far. Eöl chose to kill him. And he’d seen this before, too.
Mairon had dark circles under his eyes and a fading bruise that the collar of his robe didn't fully hide. He'd chained Maeglin’s wrists to the wall above his head and held a knife in his shaking hand. “Please, Maeglin. I don't want to hurt you any more. Please let me stop. Please let me get you out of here. At least you could be free.” His cheeks were wet with tears as he leaned forward and softly kissed Maeglin’s lips. Sighing, he laid his head on Maeglin’s shoulder. Maeglin longed to wrap his arms around him, to hold him and make everything all right. “I'm sorry,” Mairon whispered as he pressed the knife to Maeglin's chest and began to cut, fine shallow lines that wept blood but were never deep enough to scar.
The door burst open, and Mairon froze. Morgoth himself towered there, filling the room with darkness and cold shadows. Maeglin’s breath caught in his lungs, and he shook in fear. The eerie light of the Silmarils cast a painful glare. “Still nothing, little flame? You've been down here for weeks, pampering our guest instead of getting information. Useless wretch. I told you I was running out of patience.”
Every word seemed to vibrate agonizingly throughout Maeglin's aching body. Mairon fell at Morgoth's feet. “Please master, give me more time—”
“Why should I, when you've wasted what you had?” He lifted Mairon by his hair and backhanded his face so hard Maeglin was surprised his bones didn't snap.
Words poured from Maeglin’s mouth unbid. “Please don't hurt him, don't do this—please—”
But the blows continued, and his begging went unheard. When Morgoth finally dropped him, Mairon lay in a crumpled pile on the floor, unmoving. “We’ll be doing this again soon if he doesn't talk,” Morgoth told him, and as quickly as he'd come, he was gone.
Maeglin fought weakly against his chains, knowing it was useless, choking on terrified tears. “Mairon? Can you hear me?”
He whimpered and struggled to raise his head. “I'll get you down soon’s I can. Promise.”
“I can’t do this any more.” Maeglin’s voice shook. He felt hollow and unreal. “I'm sorry. I—I'll tell him everything. Just promise me I can get Idril and her son out alive.”
Every breath Mairon drew sounded forced and painful. “I promise, Maeglin. I promise I'll get you that much.”
After, when Morgoth had finished ransacking his open mind, when he had the token in hand, Mairon's frightened expression had changed to a satisfied grin, and horror had dawned on Maeglin as he reclined with perfect ease at the foot of Morgoth’s throne. He purred as Morgoth tenderly pulled his head into his lap and caressed his hair. Sauron smiled at him with too many teeth. “You were such a delightful challenge, little traitor. I'll miss our fun little talks.”
“I'm not. I'm not going to feel sorry for you when you did it all to yourself.”
But Eöl knelt at his side and put his arm around him. “There, now. You'll feel better about everything once you've come home with me. You're my son; that’s where you belong. It’ll all be better soon.”
Maeglin found himself nodding and leaning on Eöl, preparing to stand. It was time to go home. He was ready for everything to stop hurting, to stop struggling and turn away from the world that hated him. He didn't have to bear their scorn. His mind seemed fuzzy, and he tried to recall why a little, rebellious part of him was screaming inside. Eöl's touch made him shudder. Mairon's arms were warmer, and his hands more tender. When I wasn’t bound. He wished Mairon were here instead. He always made the pain go away, in the end. He couldn't remember ever taking comfort from the hands on him now, and the crude attempt felt wrong.
His arm brushed against the stone blade in his belt as Eöl pulled him up, and he thought of the day he'd made it. No. I don't have to accept him. No more than I have to long for Mairon. Celegorm cares about me, and he never hurt me. And he's certain he's not alone… Maeglin couldn't bring himself to finish that sentence, but he saw their faces. Naneth. Tyelpë… He breathed in, pushing back against the power in Eöl's words. Tyelpë, I was never as strong as you. But if you could do this to someone you still loved… Eöl relaxed his grip for a moment, and Maeglin shoved him violently away. “No. You aren't my father anymore.”
Something in the web Eöl had woven snapped, and Maeglin's head cleared. He heard voices calling, not far off, and the blast of a horn. “Maeglin? Maeglin! Where are you?”
He lifted his head and raised his voice. “Here! I'm here!!”
Eöl scowled, and the knife reappeared in his hand. Maeglin laughed. “Unless you want to fight a Vala, I believe we're done.”
Nahar crashed through the brush to land between them. Oromë swung down before he'd fully stopped, turning toward Eöl with cold fury in his eyes. The baying of hounds seemed to fill the wood, though Maeglin saw only Huan. Celegorm was right behind. “Maeglin! Are you all right?”
“I am now,” Maeglin grinned.
“There's a very frightened and very brave rat waiting for you back at camp.”
“Yeah? I need you to ask her what treats she likes best in all the world. That's what I'm giving her.”
Finding the Way Home
Maeglin heard cheerful voices before the long hall came into view. Several riders cavorted around the small field out front, putting their horses through complicated manouvers. Maeglin remembered races over the plain of Tumladen and Glorfindel's bells jingling merrily among the hoofbeats, and he hung his head. The moment Celegorm showed his face, people had come streaming out to meet him, and now a crowd surrounded them, patting Huan, offering to take the horses, and chattering loudly. It was all too much, but Celegorm seemed in his element.
“Hey, Carnë, how are those puppies?” he called.
“They're the biggest balls of fluff, you'd better come see them!”
“Tyelko! Guess what? I got two ducks with the same arrow last week!”
“Yeah? When you manage to get three I'll be impressed!”
Maeglin felt lost. He clutched his rats close, taking comfort in their friendly warmth. He'd never known this easy camaraderie with anyone, and watching Celegorm exchange hugs and handclasps and friendly shoulder punches only reminded him of how alone he truly was. After a moment though, Celegorm motioned him forward. “All right, all right. Everyone, I would like you to meet my kid.”
“I always said sleeping with a Vala was gonna get to you eventually!” someone laughed.
“They sure grow fast these days!”
“Aww, fuck off, the lot of you.” Celegorm was grinning. “This is Maeglin. He's gonna be our smith, so take good care of him, or you'll answer to me.”
“Maeglin…?”
“Irission,” Maeglin supplied.
“Our Irissë?” someone asked. Maeglin wondered what this place and these people had meant to her. She'd never liked to talk about Valinor. He hoped those memories were easier for her now.
“The very same,” said Celegorm.
“Then…that makes you Maeglin of Gondolin?”
It was a pleasant five minutes, Maeglin thought, nodding miserably.
“Huh. You actually brought us a good smith.”
“What, like I don't know the difference?” Celegorm tried to look offended.
An elleth roughly pushed several others aside. “Hey, so, I have this broken knife I've held onto forever because it was my dad's; do you think you could fix it?”
“I can take a look,” Maeglin said shyly. “It depends on where the break is and what kind of repair you want done.”
“Wonderful!” She flashed him a huge smile.
“Tomorrow several of us are going after some elk that were spotted just south of here, and if we don't get one of them, I'm sure we'll find a deer. Wanna come?” The one asking was a Maia with little curling horns and feet like a goat’s.
Maeglin glanced at Celegorm, who gave him an encouraging smile. “Maybe?”
“Oh, do you want to see the forge?”
“No, wait!” someone interrupted. “Andras was using it to smoke a boar!”
“What?! I thought we agreed, no more smoking meat in the forge!”
“You mean you agreed,” someone else muttered.
“Okay, new plan. You must be tired, how about we find some space for you to put your things and show you the bathhouse while Andras gets his fucking pig cleared out!” The last words were directed over her shoulder, presumably at Andras.
“It's a sucking pig, not a fucking one,” he smirked.
“Yeah, clear out your bad jokes too while you’re at it!”
Maeglin couldn't help laughing. It began to sink in that no one was going to make a big deal about who he was after all. As they led him inside, Celegorm fell in beside him and elbowed him in the ribs. “Told you so, didn't I?”
“You are insufferable.” Maeglin smiled.
*
Although Maeglin begged people not to bring him work until he’d had a chance to clean and organize the rough little forge and make a few of the many tools he lacked, projects quickly piled up. He complained about it to anyone who would listen, but secretly he got a little thrill whenever he walked past them. Everyone, it seemed, had something to be repaired, or was dangerously low on arrowheads, or simply must commission a little trinket for their sweetheart, even if it would take weeks and be made in steel or brass, since he had nothing else. They wanted him. They trusted him with the weapons that kept them alive and their family heirlooms alike. And he worked hard to deserve their trust.
