The silver ring was smooth and supple, still deliciously soft and moldable from the forge's heat, but its perfect symmetry was not to be marred.
Maeglin knew of Idril's preference for simple jewels.
"You'll see, cousin," he murmured under his breath, carefully lifting the semi-molten ring with a pair of tongs. "The rules do not have to apply... Rules can be changed in the face of love. They can..."
He petered out, all concentration invested in the task at hand. He bit his lip, gently placing the ring on the table to cool. With a deep sigh, he pulled the heavy leather gloves off his hands and wiped the thin sheen of sweat from his brow. Grabbing a ceramic bottle, he poured a stream of clear water into his mouth, splashing a little on his face before pulling out a half-finished sword and placing it on the anvil. He took the bellows and pumped, the rush of air exciting the shimmering embers to leaping flame with each gust.
When the forge was hot enough, he took the hammer in his hands and began to beat upon the folded steel, sending flurries of sparks into the darkened air.
But then the door swung open.
Idril stood in the doorway, pale and delicate form at odds with the mechanical surroundings, elegant and cold in the midst of rough functionality and the fire of industry. Her mouth opened slightly, ice blue eyes trained upon his.
Maeglin only had one coherent thought through the hopeful flurry of his mind as his mouth went dry: if only the ring were already cool.
"Good day, cousin," he said, struggling to feign calm. "What brings you here?" He continued hammering the sword, flipping the blade with every few hammer strokes.
"Maeglin..." There was hesitation - apprehension and fear - in her voice.
"What is it?"
She wet her lips. Then she spoke.
"Tuor and I are getting married."
He froze, hammer suspended mid-swing. His eyes widened in shock and hurt. There was rushing in his ears; heart throbbing - pounding - against his eardrums.
"W-what...?" Surely he had misheard.
She straightened her head. "I am betrothed to Tuor," she repeated clearly. "We are to be married in a month."
"No." He put down the hammer.
"Yes, we are."
"You would not," he said desperately. "You would never fall for him."
"We are getting married, cousin, whether you support it or not. And," she added, smiling sweetly, "Don't you think congratulations are in order?"
Maeglin let out a small, strangled laugh. He pushed a strand of sweaty hair off his forehead, eyes wild. "But... why, Idril?" he asked.
"Because I love him. And he loves me," she replied sharply.
He again let out a breathy laugh, almost hysterical, as he turned away, back towards the anvil. His fingers wrapped around the smooth wood of his hammer's handle, caressing the well-oiled grain as if it gave him comfort.
"You are making a dreadful mistake, cousin," he said finally, voice trembling with the effort of keeping control, not meeting his cousin's eyes. "Tuor is but a mortal. His love is pale and cold in comparison to the ecstasy of union between Eldar, and many times less durable. He sees you only for your pretty face and light feet. He will tire of you before long, or die, Idril. Mortals are fragile and changeable."
"That is not true. His love for me is endless, as is mine for him. Tuor is a strong warrior with a constant heart, cousin, and will make an excellent husband. He is popular among the people, and I love him more than anything."
Maeglin made a shocked sound like a wounded animal and turned around. "You do not know of what you speak! Do not do this, Idril," he said fervently, grabbing her wrist. "You must-"
Idril pulled away, laughing lightly. "And what is your interest in whom I wed, Maeglin? Surely I am free to choose someone I deem worthy. Tuor, I believe, is a perfect match. Better than... Oh, I don't know," she said, pretending to think. "House Lords are a high enough status, but most I do not share interests with. I do not enjoy the smithy, for instance. You and I would be a terrible match, even if we were not cousins."
Maeglin started, guilt gleaming darkly in his eyes, and swallowed. He crossed his arms.
"Turgon will never allow this union," he said through tight lips. "Marriage between first and second-born is disgusting and unnatural. You will never get your father's blessing."
"We have already received it." Idril knew her cousin had detected the cold satisfaction in her tone from the way he drew in a sharp breath and turned away from her, leaning on the anvil for support, shoulders shaking slightly.
His fists clenched the edge of the anvil and the hammer with such ferocity that his knuckles gleamed white. His grip tightened on the hammer, the panicked breath of desperation coming hard and fast between tight lips.
Suddenly he let out an inarticulate cry of rage and pain and furiously brought his hammer down. The downswing of hammer on iron table was so forceful that Idril felt the impact reverberating through her teeth, sending a jarring note through the forge. Maeglin's hammer met the simple silver ring, still soft, with a hiss and a clang that rang brazenly through the air. Maeglin let out a sob of frustration.
He turned to face her, eyes burning, breathing hard. "You mock me," he whispered through clenched teeth. "You mock my pain and my love."
"Maeglin... I do not mock you. I only tell you that which is true. You had best accept it."
"'Accept it'?" he cried, laughing derisively. "'Accept it'? I cannot accept that my life is over, my love given her heart to an unworthy mortal! I cannot accept that my uncle has betrayed me and sold his daughter to a second-born pig!" He advanced and she backed away until she was pressed against the wall, her face inches from his.
"Idril," he said softly, desperation tingeing his voice. "Idril... Tuor will forget you. He will cease to care for you ere the year is gone. But I will love you forever! My love is as deep and boundless as the sea, and twice as fervent!" He caressed her cheek with two slender fingers, moving his face towards hers, eyes almost closed and lips parted.
"Stop it," she snapped, twisting away from his touch. "You make me sick."
His hand remained poised in the air as he looked at her with hollow eyes.
"Go if you will, then," he said hoarsely, voice dead. "And may it bring you the happiness of the drunkard while he is intoxicated, and none of the headaches when he comes to his senses."
Idril smiled sadly. "I feel sorry for you, cousin. Really I do."
"Get out."
With a last look over her shoulder, she turned and slipped through the doorway, golden hair streaming behind her.
Then Maeglin took a shuddering breath, and bent to clean up the ruined mess of molten silver encrusted on the table.