Maeglin sat up with a cry, breathing hard, sweat glistening on his pale skin. After a moment of terrified unawareness where he was still caught in the clinging gossamer threads of horrific dreams, he gave a deep exhalation and screwed his eyes shut. He tried to still the trembling of his limbs, tried to fight down the overpowering feeling of nausea that twisted in his gut; but a shaky sob escaped from his throat and he put his head in his hands. The nightmare was no worse than usual - the fevered product of guilt and unbridled lust and the conflicted desires of a breaking mind - but Maeglin felt more ill than ever before.
With a retch and a convulsion that shook his whole body, he leaned over the bed, and sour bile splattered on the stone floor. He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand and wrapped his arms around his knees.
He had betrayed his family and his home. He had given away everything for her.
And it was destroying him.
Biting his lip so hard that the metallic sweetness of blood touched his tongue, Maeglin fought down a fit of panic. What had he done?
Maybe it was time to come clean. Maybe that way he could salvage what was left of his soul.
He swung his legs out of bed and stood, steadying himself against a wave of sickening dizziness. The feeling passed, and he threw open the door that opened onto the city's rampart though his aching muscles protested.
The cool air's shadow met his damp skin and raised the hair on the back of his neck, comforting and refreshing, deliciously clean after the guilty closeness of his room. He stood still for a moment, drinking in the familiar darkness and letting it embrace him. Then he set off, striding determinedly along the walls.
The chill night air caressed his face and his bare feet as he walked along the ramparts. His skin glowed winter-white in the shade of the nighttime; pale mountain snow on igneous rock in the dead of night. Then the faint glow of torchlight from his uncle's room spilled onto the flagstones and he slowed down, heart fluttering, pounding.
Turgon's back faced towards the door. He was hunched over a desk, the faint scratching of a quill piercing the silence of the night quietly but obviously. A circle of orange torchlight trembled on the parchment before him and cast leaping shadows on the cold flagstones when the wind breathed.
Maeglin stepped forwards hesitantly, placing a pale hand on the doorframe.
"Uncle." His voice was hoarse, weak. He stood uncertainly as a wraith in the doorway, all in shadows save for the moonlight reflecting off one sharp cheekbone and the soft torchlight dancing about his feet.
Turgon turned around from his writing at the desk with furrowed brow, but his tired face broke into a weary smile at the sight of his nephew and he pushed the papers before him away.
"Maeglin," he said, standing up and rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. "It seems I am not the only one who could not sleep tonight, though the moon is bright and all is well."
Maeglin swallowed. "Uncle. Lord Turgon... I-"
"Something troubles you, nephew?" Turgon interrupted in concern, striding over to place his hands on Maeglin's shoulders and look into his dark, haunted eyes.
Maeglin broke eye contact and passed the back of his hand over his mouth. "There... Is something I have to tell you," he said thickly. "I wanted-"
"You look terrible, Maeglin. Is everything alright?"
Maeglin tilted his head downwards to conceal the shadows under his eyes in darkness, and to hide the cruel, humorless twisting of his lips.
"You've lost weight," Turgon accused, looking him up and down critically.
"I... I haven't had much of an appetite lately."
"You worry about the heirship to Gondolin," Turgon surmised, turning away sadly, firelight reflecting off his hair. He sighed. After a moment he spoke, choosing his words carefully.
"I want you to know that, although Idril has married and become my heir along with Tuor, I plan to give you a special role, higher than the other House Lords. What that role will be, I do not yet know," Turgon smiled wryly. "But you will not be forgotten by this city, Maeglin," he said. "I know I have been no substitute for a father, I know I can be cold sometimes..." he broke off, seemingly struggling with putting his emotions into words.
"You don't understand, uncle, I-"
"Maeglin... You have done well, and I am so proud of you."
Turgon's face was fair and serious, the firelight glimmering in his eyes lending an air of ancient wisdom to his already noble figure. He hugged Maeglin tightly. "If ever I were to have a son," he said quietly, "He would have been you."
Maeglin's heart twisted. He shook his head mutely, fighting tears, pushing against his uncle's loving arms. "Please, don't," he begged, voice trembling. "I'm not as good as you think I am. I'm not good enough." He was bad. He was cold and dark and selfish, and it was his fault that Gondolin was going to fall. A sob escaped, tearing at his throat.
"Do not cry, Maeglin," Turgon said desperately, encircling his nephew in a warm embrace. "You are good enough. You have aided this city so much with your gifts. I only regret that I cannot aid you to a similar degree."
Maeglin swallowed, and when he spoke his words were choked. "No... You don't understand-" He gasped slightly, brushing furiously at the tears leaking from his eyes, running obstinately down his smooth white skin like rivers of crystal.
"I love you, Maeglin," Turgon said, voice broken. "I wish I could have been the father you deserved."
"Stop-"
"If things were different... If Idril had never married..."
Maeglin stiffened, jaw tight with pain. The cool night breeze blew in the open window, rustling his nightshirt, playing teasingly on his skin with light fingers. A shiver ran down his spine as Turgon looked into his eyes, pushing a runaway strand of midnight hair off his face. Then Turgon pulled him close again, pressing his lips against the top of his head.
"I love you, Lómion. I would have made you king," he whispered fiercely, voice catching in his throat.
"Stop it, stop it!" Maeglin yelled roughly, tears pouring down his cheeks as he struck out against the comforting embrace of his uncle. "Eru, stop it! I'm not what you think I am!"
"Shhh," Turgon murmured sorrowfully into his ear, holding him tightly despite his half-hearted but violent attempts to escape. "Hush now, love. Everything is alright."
Shoulders shaking with silent sobs, Maeglin gave up on fighting and sunk to the floor. Turgon knelt down, arms still wrapped around the thin figure beside him. "It's alright, Maeglin," he murmured again, stroking his nephew's raven hair. "You are good enough. You are a wonderful person, and a better son. I love you so much."
"Stop... Stop it..." Maeglin's tears slowed and he felt a cold numbness take him. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his head on them. The light of the torch, growing low, threw a fell red light into the eternal eclipse of his dark eyes.
"I love you too, uncle," he said at last, voice dead and cold.