Note: I'm sincerely sorry to any of the people who had been anticipating the next chapters of Love That Endures or Smiles of Sorrow! I'll try to get it done by the end of the month, so please be patient! The idea of Maeglin looking like Aredhel came into my mind, and I just had to write something about it.
I had just read Smiles by Quotemyfoot when I wrote this, so the tone and mood of this story may seem similar. I do not mean to copy the author's work in any way.
All the characters are taken from the Silmarillion, which belongs to J. R. R. Tolkien. The title was inspired by the novel My Brother, Sam, Is Dead by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher collier. I haven't read the book, but it's a favorite of one of my friends. If this title is offending to anyone, PM me or put a comment in the review section, and I'll see if I can do something about it.
Please tell me what you think in the reviews section!
The boy does not resemble her at all.
He is gloomy and silent, overshadowed by an executioner's horror. He is short of stature and hunched, and he never holds his head high, as she had. Dull and grey, his eyes do not glow with the light of the Trees. She had been fair and white, but he is twisted and black.
That is not Aredhel's son, Turgon cannot help but think, but Eöl's.
He remembers overhearing the lords as they discussed his nephew. (The term is still foreign to him, but he'll learn to accept it.)
"He does not look much like either of his parents, does he?" Salgant had said.
"Tch, he's but a child. Wait you thirty years, and he'll be the spitting image of one of them." Rog spoke from his place at the window. Turgon could not see him, but from his tone of voice, the lord of the House of the Hammer of Wrath was also curious.
Egalmoth asked suddenly, "True, but which will it be?"
"It will be Lady Ar-Feiniel." Turgon resisted the urge to throw open the door and demand an immediate answer from Galdor. He would wait patiently. Maeglin will never look like her. Never.
"And what, O Galdor of the Tree, mean you by those words? Why, in my eyes, it is his father whom he shall take after. Hark, there by the fountain he stands, scowling in the very likeness of his father! Why Lady Aredhel?"
"Glad would I be to answer your question, but this is not the time. Our king stands by yonder door."
Turgon never had the chance to discover Galdor's answer, and it vexed him greatly. It was impossible for Maeglin to become like her.
Turukáno, if I ever have children, do you think they'll look like me?
Why had she died for Eöl's son?
My sister is dead.
He remembers sitting on his thrown, pronouncing judgment on the Dark Elf. The dull black eyes had narrowed and darkened, and his deep voice had risen to a yell when his fate had been decided. His thin lips had curved into a sneer, his scowling face set. Maeglin is his son, not Aredhel's.
Maeglin has the same narrow eyes that pierce and kill. His lips are thin and crooked, and so unlike Aredhel's. Turgon cannot help but see Maeglin as Eöl's son. The child is sadness and horror. My sister was joy and delight. Why did she die for him?
Turgon studies the boy sitting on a chair that is too large for him. (That was her chair, and the boy had a chair of his own, but he had insisted on sitting there.) The boy has not touched any of the food. He is staring into his goblet of wine, and it seems as though he is looking at his own reflection. Turgon wonders if he is studying himself to see who it is he looks like. There is nothing to look at. You are not her son. Turgon looks into his own goblet of water. (They only have red wine, and he can't bear to look at the colour red. Not yet, at least. His sister's body was bathed in red, and that is all he can see.)
My sister is dead.
Turgon looks up with a start as the goblet shatters on the wall, and scarlet blood colours the lifeless stone. Maeglin sits unflinching before him, and his sharp gaze pierces Turgon's soul. He opens his mouth to reprimand the boy, but—
"Írissë!"
Her sliver goblet had landed itself on the back of Fingon's head and splattered him with wine. Aredhel stared defiantly at Anairë, both of them unflinching and unmoving. Turgon glanced disapprovingly at Aredhel.
"Are you mad at me, Brother?" Aredhel snapped suddenly, and there was an edge in her voice.
"Are you mad at me, Uncle?" Aredhel's son spats venomously. No, how could I be? I wish I were, but I know that I will never be. You are her legacy, and I—
Turgon smiled slightly, and said: "No, Aredhel."
"Don't call me Aredhel, call me Írissë!"
"Of course, Little Sister."
Turgon turns his ashen face away from Maeglin. "No, I am not, Maeglin."
"Don't call me that! Call me Lómion."
Írissë laughed, and her grey eyes softened—
Maeglin had grey eyes. Turgon wonders how he had never before noticed, and thinks, Eöl had black eyes. You are not truly your father's son, Lómion.
Maeglin does not soften his glare, so Turgon hesitantly reaches across the table to pat his head. Aredhel had always protested when he had done it to her, but her face would shine with joy at the action. Maeglin shies away from his hand, and Turgon discovers that his nephew's hair is coarse and flimsy. Her hair was soft and thick. Lómion pulls himself away and stumbles out the door. Turgon watches him go, and realizes that he cannot decide. He is not like his father, but Maeglin is not Aredhel's son.
Turgon stares at the empty chair and thinks, the boy should not have to live this way. Maeglin should not have witnessed his mother's brutal sacrifice, should not have heard his father screaming in agony and anger. Turgon does not know how to comfort his nephew; he does not even know how to comfort himself.
He does not notice the servants when they enter the room and clean away the scarlet gore that is splattered on the wall. The sun retreats from the sky, and the moon conquers the night, but Turgon cannot see it. His eyes gaze his fixed on his sister's portrait.
He silently asks, Why did you leave me, Írissë?
Why didn't you save me, Brother? The smile is unreal, its sweet perfection mocking him.
Turgon pleads with her. I love you, Sister, and I tried to save you!
Yes, you tried, and you failed. The fake Aredhel replies coldly. I hate you, Turukáno.
"Írissë!" Turgon is screaming, and Idril hurries into the room. She whispers softly to him and smiles, but Turgon sees the traces of tears on her cheeks, and knows that she too is in pain. (Elenwë would have known what to do, he thinks, but she is no longer here. She is forever gone.)
They sit silently together, each immersed in their own sorrows. A sudden scream tears the quiet asunder, and Turgon knows that it is not he himself, but another. More screams pierce the air, and Turgon goes in search of the one who is in pain. He throws open a door, and stumbles back in shock.
It is Maeglin.
Idril wastes no time, and soothes him with gentle words, but Turgon remains frozen at the door. For a moment, he'd thought…
No, Aredhel is dead.
Maeglin has the same pale thin face as Aredhel. As the boy buries his face in Idril's shoulder and sobs, Turgon realizes two things:
Maeglin is Aredhel's son.
Maeglin holds out a small trembling hand, and Turgon squeezes it gently.
Maeglin is Aredhel's son, and I love him.
Thanks for reading!