Behind the white walls of Gondolin, he thought he had found paradise.
He and his mother rode in late in the afternoon, as the sun was setting over the sea, and he paused his horse to stare at it, to feel the rays bathing his face with warmth. The walls before them gleamed, and swept up, seeming to rise forever into the very sky.
It was so beautiful that it took his breath away. "Mother," he breathed. "Why would you ever leave this place?"
She laughed at his awe.
The gates swung open before them, and they rode into the Hidden City, Maeglin slightly behind, his hands too tight on the reins with nervousness. But he didn't need to be; they all knew his mother, and those who emerged to watch their progress smiled at her, and at him, and he had never seen such happiness in so many faces before. They had welcomed him, watched him with curiosity and joy.
Paradise.
They would never let him keep it.
"Your father's here," his mother said, her face ashen pale. "Lómion – he followed us here."
He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, and didn't, at first, understand what she was saying. "What?"
"Your father," she said again, and he saw her swallow. "Eol. He's here. In the city," and paradise crumbled before his eyes. "He asks to see us. Both of us."
"I won't," he said, feeling a sudden, gut-churning sense of fear. "And neither will you. We don't have to do what he says anymore. He can just – leave, and go back to Nan Elmoth. This is not – not his place."
"No," his mother murmured, closing her eyes. "He cannot – Turukáno will never let him. This place is secret. Any who know where it lies – must stay or die."
Maeglin's heart froze its motion, withered and died. She must have seen it in his expression, because she leaned down and kissed his forehead, lips lingering just a touch longer than usual. "—no matter what, my son – things will come out right. I will make them so. Haven't I always, for you?"
"Yes," he said. "Yes, you have, but – I don't want you in danger."
"He won't harm me," she said, with a sad smile. "He cares for me, after his own fashion. It is you I fear for. Come?"
He stood and followed her, staying close, momentarily taking her hand to squeeze it as if to reassure her, but in fact only reassuring himself. "Mother," he said, at last, quietly, "If something happens…it's not your fault?"
"Nothing's going to happen," she said, firmly. "My brother would never allow it."
The doors opened and he nearly flinched back from the blazing light, as always, a reflex so ingrained that he was uncertain if he would ever shake it. He moved a step away from his mother, and didn't have to look long to find his father. Their eyes fell together, the one gift his father had given him, eyes dark with the shadows under the trees.
Eol seemed to cast a shadow larger than his body, as though he'd brought that darkness with him here, to the city of white walls and white streets and shining people full of joy. For a moment hatred curled hot and tight in the center of his heart, and then it faded at his mother's cool touch on his shoulder. He was not restrained, though he held no weapon. Beside him, he felt his mother falter, and could almost see her blazing radiance fade.
"What are you doing here?" He demanded, making his voice loud, strident, and his mother shuddered once and was recovered, squeezed his shoulder.
"Lómion, be careful…"
He glanced toward Turgon, sitting nearly immobile on his throne, his expression impassive. Emboldened, he took a few steps forward. "This place is not yours."
"But you are," his father said, and Maeglin could hear the taut, barely restrained anger under the smoothness of his voice. "You are, and my wife is here. I have a right to my wife and son."
"My sister is going nowhere," Turgon said, almost but not quite softly, and Maeglin felt a blaze of satisfaction, but it was quickly quenched. Eol turned, ignoring Maeglin as insignificant, and he felt the insult as keenly as a slap. I will deal with you later, boy, dismissive, as always.
"I demand the return of my wife and son, Your Majesty. You mistake me. It was not a request."
"You don't have any right," Maeglin said, fiercely, but Turgon cut him off.
"That doesn't matter," Turgon said, quietly. "You asked to return with her to your – forest. That is not – possible. This place is secret." He stood, slowly. "You have a choice. My sister doesn't lie. She claims that you nearly forced her into marriage. Therefore, you have little claim upon her life and will. Stay here, then, and submit to my judgment of what behavior is fit with regards to her – and your son," he added, though almost as an afterthought.
"Or die. That is your other choice. But you will not leave this city alive."
Maeglin felt a chill run down his spine and took a step back, looking toward his mother. She looked pale, but unafraid, her black hair pulled back from her lovely face, a princess once again. Bright. Glowing.
It is only justice, he thought, but all the same, he was suddenly afraid of his mother's implacable brother.
Eol had never looked surprised before, as he did now. But his expression was slowly changing, to one of anger, and Maeglin knew what was going to happen before it did.
He smiled, very slightly.
"Then I will not die alone," he heard his father snarl as from a great distance, and he wheeled, the guards around him scattering in fear from the fell, terrible light in his dark eyes, and when he turned around he held a narrow javelin in his fist.
He held very still, palms up, and met his father's eyes, wanting him to understand. The weapon left his hand, and Maeglin kept his eyes open, watching his father's face; on the edge of his peripheral vision, Turgon was standing, his mouth opening to shout.
It pierced through his skin and body, transfixing his heart…
Except that it didn't.
"No!" He heard someone scream, and only had time to half turn before his mother was there, pushing him behind her, and he screamed as well, trying to shove her out of the way, but it was too slow – too little – too late.
Maeglin felt her shudder and slump against his arms, and for a moment saw his father's face, the rage fading before the shock and horror, but he did not want to see him. He lowered his mother to the floor instead, watched the spreading stain between her breasts, and wished by willing it that they could trade places, that he could be the one bleeding on the ground and she could be holding his hand, soothing his last moments-
She opened her eyes and smiled at him, and he couldn't breathe. Then Turgon was there as well, nearly shoving him out of the way, his expression full of horrified worry. "Sister," he breathed, and she closed her eyes.
"Have mercy on him," she whispered, and then she was gone.
Unconscious, they said, and the healers were already – but he knew, he had felt it. He fought not to give into the urge to howl like a dog bereft of his master, digging his short nails into his palms.
When he stood again, his father was gone. Maeglin simply stood there, looking at the blood on the floor and on his own clothes, for a long time. They let him come in only after she died.
She lay on the bed in disarray, her face paler than ever, and he could see the dullness in her skin, in her body, and knew how she was no longer there. Then he could no longer hold back the howl, and flung himself beside her deathbed, took her hand and screamed his anguish until his voice gave out and he could only slump with his forehead on the bed, praying not to feel.
Arms slipped around him, then, around his shoulders, and hugged him. "Lómion," a soft female voice said, rubbing his back. "Come with me. It's not over. Come with me. You can't stay here."
"I'm never going to leave," he gasped, desperately, wrapping his hands around the comforter. "I'm never going to – I'm not going to leave her. I told her she would be in danger-"
"Shhh," she said, and all his desire to speak drained out of him, and he could only whine as she pulled him gently away from the bed, and his head fell heavily onto her shoulder. "It'll be all right. I know it hurts. But everything heals. And so will this."
"No," he said, and his throat stung with raw pain. "No."
"Shhh," she said again, and he couldn't help but weep again, his body shaking in her arms.
"I thought it would be me," he managed to say. "I always thought… even if…" She half lifted him to his feet, moved him toward the door, and he looked up at her face. She shone; no, blazed, all the light in the world collected in this one being, and suddenly he didn't want her to go. "Who are you?"
"Itarildë," she said, still supporting him. "My name's Itarildë."