"Idril!"
Maeglin runs across the grass - dark braid streaming behind him - and stops - breathless, heart pounding.
"Idril, stay a little! Good day, cousin. You are radiant today, as always," he gasps.
"Thank you," she says shortly. "Good day to you too. Now, I have to be-"
He cuts her off. "I see you do not take my compliment seriously. Your heart has been gilded and grown cold from the showers of admiration you receive, but I assure you I have never been more sincere. The Silverfoot of Gondolin is truly a jewel to look upon."
She smiles coldly. "And I assure you I am appreciative of your words."
"Indeed." He wets his lips. "The beauty of King Turgon's daughter is legendary," he whispers.
"Maeglin, I must get-"
"-And when you dance, it as a flame on coals, foam on an ocean wave, dappled sunlight on leaves rustled by a breath of breeze."
"You have never seen the ocean, Maeglin." Idril's eyes are narrow, wary.
"No. But I have heard of it, and I cannot imagine anything more-" He cuts off suddenly. Then, swallowing, he looks into her eyes.
"I cannot imagine anything more beautiful."
"Do not say that," Idril says, backing away.
Desperate, he reaches out for her. "Why should I not? It is the truth. The sun never shined so brightly as to eclipse the glory of Celebrindal."
"Maeglin..."
He catches her by the wrist and she starts, wary and pale.
"Idril, let me stand in your light but a moment longer," he begs.
She laughs. "Will that then satiate your thirst, cousin?"
"No. It will only make me hunger the more," he admits quietly. "But every moment in your presence is a breath of intoxicating poison, delicious as it is lethal, and I cannot live without it."
"Let go of me, Maeglin."
He grabs her other wrist instead and pulls her close to him, staring into her wide powder blue eyes. "Would you deny me even this, the opportunity for a friendly conversation?" he hisses, voice trembling. "Would you deny me-"
"Let go of me!" Idril interrupts sharply, yanking her arms from his grasp. "You are not well, cousin. You should rest."
"I am perfectly well," he says sullenly. "Would that my rest be my tomb if I am renounced by my own cousin. Have you no sympathy? I desire only companionship!"
"I have to go."
"Please... wait..." The sudden vulnerability in his voice makes her pause. "You are right, Idril. I am tired, and I apologize for my rudeness. Will… will you walk with me?" He gestures hopefully at the narrow winding path of the garden, and she shivers, wrapping her arms protectively around her body. Reluctantly she nods assent.
They stroll along the path, both tense, and he speaks again.
"It is a nice day, is it not, cousin?"
Idril nods mutely, aloof, allowing a sheet of golden hair to cascade in front of her eyes, creating a wall between her and her cousin.
"You should not do that," he says softly.
"Do what?" Ever imperious, she stops walking and looks at him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.
"Nothing, not even her own shining hair, should ever conceal the brilliance of Celebrindal." He reaches forwards tentatively and secures the golden tresses back from her face with a bone hairpin.
"There. That's better," he says, a thin smile stretching his lips.
Reaching up skeptically to touch the pin, she asks, "Where did you get this, Maeglin? You do not wear hairpins."
"It was my mother's."
"Aredhel's? But I cannot keep this," she exclaims. "That is all you have left."
A shadow passes over Maeglin's face, but he smiles. "You said yourself, I do not use it. You look lovely like that. And besides,"- his voice drops to a murmur - "This way we will always be together." He strokes the hair beside the pin lightly.
Idril shifts away under the pretense of looking at the sun, uncomfortable at Maeglin's oppressive proximity.
"I must go," she says. "Thank you for the hairpin, Maeglin."
He smiles sadly. "Must we ever part so, my lovely cousin? It would seem you seek to avoid me."
Idril shakes her head, protesting half-heartedly, but Maeglin turns to go first.
"Good day, Idril," he says. She nods and leaves.
When she is out of sight Maeglin sinks to his knees on the soft green grass and presses one hand to his mouth.
A rough sob tears at his throat.
Maybe, he thinks, he needs some space.
Maybe he will venture out of Gondolin tonight.