(A/N: I was actually working on another fic, when this story jumped into my head. I've been meaning to write something on Maeglin for ages, as he's my favourite character in The Silmarillion. From reading it, I was always intrigued by the fact that it was almost as though – on a subconscious level at least – Maeglin wanted to betray Gondolin. So this is an encounter on what might have inspired his subsequent capture.
I'm still not entirely sure about Maeglin's characterisation; it turned out more Milton's Satan than the pitiable figure I had intended to write, but I'm afraid he rather outgrew me.)
Bad Angel
Secrecy.
It was everywhere. Lying within everyone. A smiling face could hide the evilest of hearts.
This very city was built on secrecy.
Secrets ruled them all.
Maeglin leaned against one of the marble pillars that were adorned with floral decorations whose riot of colour had softened to dusky hues in the onset of nightfall. It was a day of festival and celebration that had begun at dawn, and continued on as the sun set. The hall was brightly lit with hanging lamps, ensconced in silver and gold. Beauty and light mingled, reflecting on the crowd who were indulging in merriment. All except one.
The king turned briefly from the conversation that was taking place around him and noted with some surprise that his nephew was standing apart from the revellers, making no effort to take part in the celebrations. Maeglin, whom Turgon had always liked from the first, had not the gregarious personality of other nobles within the court, but neither did he deliberately seek isolation. Perhaps it was merely fatigue that led him to do so. His nephew had returned only that day from a profitable labour in the Echoriath; there were few whom the king would trust to lead such an excursion, but Maeglin had long since proved himself worthy of such confidence. His modesty and self-command were qualities greatly admired by Turgon, who sometimes wished for such a measure of restraint in his daughter, whose occasional outbursts of passionate intensity could be wearing. Only the previous day, she had sought her father in private to insist on the imprudence of allowing Maeglin, with only a few followers, to stray so far from the outer limits of the city. Were not the ancient rules established for a reason? Why court danger, when the city was prosperous enough, she argued. Turgon had listened patiently to her concerns, and sought to alleviate them with as much firmness as he could muster, strongly in defence of his nephew. Idril had eventually submitted, although her father felt it was reluctantly.
Turgon frowned at the memory of the encounter, but sought to push the recollection aside, as Maeglin seemed to sense his presence. His previously languid form was now tall and straight; he looked up, his pale handsome face alert and intelligent with curiosity. He bowed gracefully, and said in his quiet voice, "My lord?"
The king however rested a fatherly hand on his nephew's shoulder and bestowed him an affectionate smile, rarely seen on his stern features. "Come Maeglin, why are you skulking here in the shadows? You have more cause than many here tonight to partake in the festivities. How many of these decorations do we owe to your hard labour and diligence? No jewel has shone so bright as the valley of Tumladen does on this night."
The younger Elf's eyes rested on an elegant feminine figure beside the doors. I can think of one, he thought.
Turgon saw his nephew watching Idril intently and gave a small laugh. "Now Maeglin, it is time to leave the Council Chambers! You see my daughter has put aside all cares. I insist you do the same. Today is a day of celebration, do not worry about graver matters, particularly when your latest endeavours have proven to be so fruitful."
"You are right, of course," Maeglin murmured. "Perhaps I have been somewhat preoccupied of late. One cannot help, when in the Encircling Mountains, to be ever more vigilant of possible danger."
"A wise kind of caution," said Turgon. "But one that can be laid to rest for one night, I hope."
Maeglin inclined his head in respectful agreement, and walked alongside the king towards the centre of the hall. He was greeted by not a few of the assembled gathering, and when Turgon was called away, the Elf had a many number of companions with whom he could converse, if he chose. However, he was distracted in that moment by a glimmer of white and the trail of a gown gliding out the doors. He paused for thought, eyes alight with curiosity. What could induce his fair cousin to leave such a joyous gathering, and the company of her husband among them? Well, Tuor's loss was his gain. Maeglin turned mid-stride away from the assembled group of courtiers who were calling to him, and made swiftly for the direction Idril had taken.
The cool night air was a blessed relief from the warmth and noise of the interior. The shadowy walkway through the avenue of trees reminded him vaguely of Nan Elmoth, where one could be alone in the twilight with no company save that of the nightingales and the breeze that very occasionally found its way through the near impenetrable vastness of the wood. It was not until he had left the place of his birth that Maeglin had begun to appreciate the value of quiet and solitary reflection. He was more his father's son than he cared to admit. Lomion. Child of twilight. Was he ever more than a lonely outsider, never fully belonging anywhere? Neither one of the Moriquendinor one of the Elves of light. Where was his place? Thus preoccupied, Maeglin followed the winding path down a dale that sloped away from the marble halls, leather booted feet barely making a sound on the polished stonework. As he descended the steps into the valley, he was greeted by the sight of a sheet of silver water falling at its base, before disappearing in a channel into the rocks below. Idril was leaning against one of the stone ledges that had been carved into a seat, the mist of spray settling itself on her hair and clinging to her gown with diamond brightness. The moonlight falling full on her upturned face revealed to him her pensive expression.
Not wanting to betray his presence, Maeglin moved stealthily towards the arbour that faced the falls and concealed himself in the shadows, appreciating the rare moment of watching her unobserved; the very knowledge that this was forbidden serving as an irresistible aphrodisiac.
What wouldn't he give to have his hands entwined in those tresses of heavy golden hair, his lips to travel over that warm hued skin … The thin white gown she was wearing clung to her silhouette that had, for years now, been his secret study. His fingers unconsciously tightened their grip on the balustrade. A flame burned in his dark eyes. A chill breeze stirred the foliage, and Idril must have sensed it; she shivered slightly and wrapped her arms around herself. With that one movement, he was lost. The loose silky material of her sleeves slid down her arm, exposing a bare shoulder in the pale moonlight. Maeglin released his breath in a long, low hiss. This was torture of the most exquisite kind. The tantalising glimpse was not enough, yet all too much. He nearly groaned aloud. Gods! Why did she have to be so forbidden, so agonisingly… unattainable? He hated her; he hated himself for this sense of utter powerlessness. Status, authority, it was all a joke, a bitter mockery. What did it pay to be one of the most powerful Elves in the city if his will was completely enslaved by another? He hadn't asked to fall in love. Anger had begun to simmer through his insides.
Why did she torment him like this?
Was this a game to her?
Did she enjoy this? Did she enjoy driving him to the brink of madness and pushing him over the edge?
He hated her. Kin slayer. Murderess. She had been steadily killing him from the day he first set eyes on her. Slowly destroying everything within him. Everything – except passion. Passion was the one thing that kept him alive now, smouldering within him, giving him strength. Without it, he would be truly hollow inside.
He wanted to kill her. Possess her, invade her, destroy her. Perhaps then, he'd find some kind of peace. He smiled ironically. Or perhaps he just would fall further into the abyss. But if he went down, he would drag her down with him.
Damn her grace, her aloofness, her alluring beauty! His mother had always been heartrendingly lovely, but her beauty had been cold and remote, like a far-off star. Nothing about Idril was cold. That warm colouring, hair the colour of honey, just as rich and sweet-scented and enticing… She possessed an inner radiance that gave out warmth to the objects she laid her eyes on, the things she touched. When she deigned to glance at him, the world seemed a little less hard and violent, somehow. He wanted to bask in that light, until everything else melted away.
A light that was not for him.
He envied it even as he hungered for it.
Maeglin sensed the cursed word that lurked in her heart, creeping between them like some malevolent sickness. Incest. How he despised it! An accident of birth, that was all. Love overrode such petty customs and conventions. With love, all things were possible. Moreover, her unspoken accusation was unfounded. Had he been born here, and the two of them brought up as brother and sister, perhaps such a claim might have foundation. But such was not the case. Fate had led him to this city in manhood, to look upon her and see that spark of fire that leapt within her fair and slender frame. It seared him, and he was ever after scorched by that flame; unable to escape the invisible scar it had left upon him.
She exhausted him. She starved him. She froze him. Her eyes could kill him with cruelty. Why had he followed her? He knew only to expect icy words and scorn.
It mattered not. However cold she was towards him, he would not give up on her. As though he had a choice in the matter! No, it was her very aloofness that drove him mad with longing. Every rebuff merely increased his determination; it made the ultimate reward all the richer. Perhaps a part of him was in love with the pain. She could curse him, beat him as a shard of metal on a forge, and still he would be her shadow. Still stalk her.
But if given the chance, would he have it any different?
No.
It was too late for him. He had fallen too far and too fast. He had no secret wish to be saved from himself.
The valley that by day would be green and flourishing was now lit only by pale moonlight and the glimmering of the stars above. Although preferring to view the dale in daylight hours, when the sunlight would fall upon the greensward, for Idril it was still a welcome retreat. The sounds of laughter and music from the city were faintly audible; the gleaming lights were visible through the trees. But for once, Idril was blind to such beauties.
The conversation with her father the previous day occupied her thoughts. Turgon loved and sought to protect his daughter, not wishing a similar fate upon her such as had befallen her mother, Elenwe. Consequently, although acknowledged and loved by all in the city, she was not granted a place on the king's Council. She had reluctantly abided by this order, not wishing to disobey the word of her king or father, who was burdened with troubles enough. But it meant she must find her father alone to express her concerns, while her cousin – younger by far and only a Noldor by half blood – had full weight among the king's closest confidants. Such knowledge caused Idril increasing disquiet. None would dare speak against Maeglin in the Council. He was too close to the king, too powerful, and – she had to admit it, however grudgingly – too well admired and respected. It was easy to see why. Her cousin was both clever and cautious, and although courageous and influential, he was always appropriately deferent to the king of whom he was genuinely fond, never seeking to usurp his uncle's authority.
When Maeglin had first come to the city, he had seemed an angel of light. His modesty, quick mind and eager desire to learn had won over Turgon and his household. But even then, she had had her doubts. There was something buried deep inside him, like a canker worm, eating its way beneath the fair words and seeming goodwill. Perhaps it was some evil shadow of being conceived through rape and lust that had brought a curse upon the next generation. She inwardly recoiled at the thought of his blighted childhood. What twisted view must he have of love, being brought up in a household that was the daily witness to a jealous, possessive father and an aloof, scornful mother? These thoughts had often crossed her mind. She had even pitied him at first, being alone and bereaved in a strange city, among inhabitants he had been taught to despise. But her sympathy for him had long since faded. Those eyes raking over her in a way that made her flesh crawl, every utterance that seemed a carefully concealed seduction… he was too far gone for her to redeem him.
What she had initially taken to be a passing fancy had strengthened into something darker and more twisted than she could ever have foreseen. Stranger still, Maeglin made no effort to conceal his passion from her, as though he were playing some warped game, almost daring her to tell someone. But tell them what? She had nothing but suspicions and conjecture. Idril at least shared her cousin's caution, if nothing else. She was not about to make damning accusations without justifiable grounds. And Maeglin was too shrewd to betray himself. Consequently, she had confided her fears to no one, although her husband knew there was unresolved tension between her and her cousin. For Earendil's sake, she had acknowledged that much, and in respect of her feelings – and perhaps his own – Tuor had never left their child alone with the secretive Elf.
She ran her fingers idly along the stone before her, staring absently at the shimmering falls of water.
"Beautiful, is it not?"
Idril spun round in alarm, her heart thudding unpleasantly as she recognised that low and compelling voice that could only belong to the subject of her thoughts. For some time now she had managed to not be left alone with him, but it seemed he had finally caught her by herself. She struggled to arrange her features into a neutral expression, fearing in the initial shock of being discovered that she had betrayed herself. Such a reaction would surely not escape his astute eyes. She unwillingly allowed her gaze to fall on her enigmatic cousin who had emerged from the arbour.
Even the many years he had passed in Gondolin could not fully domesticate the shadows of his upbringing in Nan Elmoth. His was a wiry, feral figure, barely cultivated by the rich, opulent garments befitting a prince of the realm. Dark, heavy colours, decorated only by a thin border of silver; clothes well suited to his sombre and reserved person. Maeglin needed no gaudy show of wealth – so often favoured by many of that city – to reveal his status. There was decision and arrogance in the upward tilt of the chin, and his shoulders were set forward in a posture that was somehow as sinister as it was self-assured. Power suited him. Yet in spite of this, his lithe frame was tense with a catlike alertness, and his features were shrouded by a grim, brooding intensity. And the eyes… she shuddered. The eyes blazed passion and resentment by turns.
Trying to conceal her unease at his sudden presence, Idril remarked in the cool tone she always addressed him with: "I did not hear your approach."
Maeglin watched her beneath hooded eyes, noting how she avoided his intense gaze. For all her elegance and poise, her emotions were pitifully transparent to him, he who could conceal his own so well. His being here unsettled her. A quiver of something half delicious ran through his veins, knowing he could affect her so easily. Had she been indifferent to his presence, he would be truly wretched. But this disquiet, even the heat of antipathy: therein lay his hope – a faint one, but a hope nonetheless – that she would be his one day.
"I am not surprised at your being ignorant of my presence. You looked preoccupied. Idril –" He had moved closer. She swallowed back her feelings of revulsion and distrust. How long had he been watching her? "If there is something – anything – on your mind… you know you can tell me." His soft voice had become lower, almost seductive. "You can tell me anything."
She could no longer mistake the smouldering expression in those liquid-black eyes, so different from her own. His gloved hand was extended in a half caress, as though it were her skin, not air, beneath his fingers.
"There is nothing on my mind," Idril snapped, more sharply than she had intended. Dark brows arched upwards in ironic surprise and faint amusement, and she inwardly cursed herself for letting him rile her so easily. "That is –" she softened her tone, trying to rectify the mistake. "I merely came outside to take in the night air."
"Understandable," he breathed. "Sometimes it becomes so… stifling in there. I can identify with the desire to be alone. To escape them all."
"You are mistaken. My absence was only intended to be a brief one. Tonight's gathering has given me great enjoyment; it is a pleasure to see so many comrades brought together for the Feast Day."
His mouth twisted in a slight smirk. "Come, Idril, no one else is here. There is no need to stand upon ceremony. Surely we are close enough to forego such tedious proprieties?"
"You are right. We are family." The simple sentence was one loaded with meaning, but he refused to take the hint.
Silence stretched out between them. Idril stared determinedly at the festivities taking place indoors, but could still feel her cousin's eyes upon her; however, she refused to give him the satisfaction of telling of him to stop. She could feel his fixed gaze on her skin, one that seemed to penetrate the gauzy material of her gown. Why did he pursue her like this? What dark forces were at work within him, inciting such insidious actions? She could not help but feel – in spite of his now-serious face – that beneath it, he was secretly laughing at her, deriving some perverse pleasure from her discomfort.
Idril could bear it no longer. She must speak; there was no use in decorum when he was exploiting her barely maintained restraint. Harsh words rose to her lips, the least pejorative being those she chose to say aloud.
"Why are you here, Maeglin?"
He looked away from her at last; his body half turned in a posture that would have been dismissive were it not for the tone of his voice.
"I was concerned. These are dangerous times. Gondolin is a formidable stronghold, doubtless, but my going without the city's parameters has allowed me to see things that imply we may not be as safe here as you have the pleasure to think." Maeglin saw he had aroused her interest; the flash of curiosity in her eyes belied her attempts at aloofness. When he spoke, he deliberately lowered his voice, obliging her to lean forward in order to catch the words. "When I'm outside, I… sense things. Almost like eyes, I feel them on me always, yet whenever I turn, there is nothing. Always the same. Silently watching and waiting… biding its time. There is a presence in the mountains, Idril. Something seeks to discover our city. I feel it."
"Have you spoken of this to my father?"
"Oh, I have told him of my concerns," Maeglin lied smoothly. He had in fact done nothing of the sort, fearing that his outer excursions would be prohibited if he voiced his fears. He was unwilling to relinquish any small power he had gained. "The King however trusts to the safety of our location, and maintains his confidence in its secrecy. I must submit to his superiority, even if it is perhaps less clear sighted than my own."
Idril watched him; every word of seeming logic filled her with new apprehensions. "Yes, you certainly see much. And yet reveal nothing. What secret thoughts lie within your heart, Maeglin? Why do you shield your innermost emotions from those around you?"
"Perhaps there are benefits to be had from discretion. But a word, a gesture from you, and you know I should reveal the deepest and darkest desires of my heart. But I fear you would not wish to hear them. Perhaps one day. But not now. Not tonight."
"Then there is little to keep me here." Idril made to leave, when his low voice halted her.
"So it does not alarm you, then? That which I sense outside this city?"
He watched the sheet of golden hair sway slightly as she turned back towards him. "What is it you wish to say?"
He began circling her in a sinister predatory movement. "There is a shadow in the world. I know it. You know it. Have always known. Do you think this –" he made a contemptuous gesture around him – "this city, these lamps, will last forever?" He leaned closer to her. "These are nothing but frail moth lights in the face of the darkness. I was born in the dark. I understand it. And so do you."
Idril stiffened. The cerulean eyes fixed on her cousin's were now narrowed in suspicion. "What do you know?" she said slowly.
"Know?" His pale, angular face was cast in shadow as he looked down at her. "I have nothing but suspicions and conjecture. But have you ever had a conviction – a feeling – that nothing, no logic can deny? Something that becomes so deeply a part of your being you cannot hope to escape it, even if it consumes you day by day, hour by hour until you are driven insane by the need for just a moment's release? Have you never felt –" He broke off as she drew a sharp breath. Her lips were half parted, her eyes wide. She stepped away from him slightly. Maeglin bit back the rest of his remark, realising he might have said too much. Too much! Idril could be in doubt of his passion, no matter how long he had succeeded in hiding it from everyone else in this city. He sighed, and tried to regain some measure of composure, waiting for her to respond with her customary coolness.
Idril felt her sense of unease growing with each passing moment. There was something different about him tonight. He was less distant and grave than was usual with him. Instead, everything about him seemed heightened, more fervent. His self-possession seemed stretched to breaking point. She wondered if he had been drinking. There was more than a hint of contempt in her look that she no longer sought to disguise. "There is nothing to fear in this city. Darkness only comes if we bring it with us. Evil breeds evil."
Cynical amusement flared in his unreadable eyes for an instant, before his face returned to its wonted sombre expression. "And of course the Gondolindhrim are such paragons of virtue and light! Tell me, how many did they slay along the shores of the Teleri? How long was it before the pearl-white sands ran red with blood? Oh, there is evil, Idril. And not all of it exists outside Gondolin's walls."
She said nothing. Maeglin pressed forward his advantage.
"Look at them all… oblivious in their conceit. They think themselves untouchable. How little they have learnt. It was through pride your people first fell." His eyes flashed with proud condemnation and furious scorn.
"Your people?" Idril said curiously, scrutinising him. "You do not count yourself as one of us?"
"Clearly you do not."
She looked away, unable to belie the fact. Maeglin gave a small, tight nod, as though he had expected this confirmation. He had always felt Idril secretly scorned him for being the son of the Dark Elf, Eol. True it may be, yet did he not also have the blood of the Eldar flowing through his veins? She, who had lowered herself to wed a mere mortal, what righthad she to look down on him? He followed her gaze towards the brightly lit halls. "It is only a matter of time. All secrets are discovered eventually."
"I do not believe that," said Idril coldly.
"Then why are you here? Why are you not inside celebrating? I will tell you. You do not belong with them, Idril. You feel a shadow, a misgiving. Will you deny it? It sets you apart. No matter how you try… you cannot escape the darkness." His face was inches from her own, his breathing haggard. He could feel the heat radiating from her body. "It is a part of both of us."
Let me in. Let me protect you, care for you, love you. That is all I ask. It is so little, so little that I demand…
As his love for her grew, so did the conviction that she was somehow a victim, and that he was the only one who could save her, even if it was from herself. His was a love that would not die, one that would endure when the lands of the Eldar were crumbled to dust. He would await her in the depths of the Void. He would be there for her when the world was on fire. They would find each other in the dark, when all else was destroyed. And perhaps… perhaps she would even come to him willingly. Then he could bury himself in her, in the ultimate culmination of love and death. There could be no light without darkness. The two were interdependent, unchangeable. Did she not see the symmetry, the beautiful symmetry of it all?
Her slender form was half turned from him, expressing all too clearly her desire to be gone. Or for him to be gone. "If you believe in this, this… impending doom, then why not flee? Why not override the laws and leave this place?"
Maeglin caught hold of her arm, fingers enmeshing in the golden strands of hair that fell down her back. He felt her flinch beneath him. "You know why," he whispered. He gave her a look too significant to misinterpret.
She tried unsuccessfully to prise her arm from his firm grip. Gone was the almost languorous stealth that characterised his person. He was wearing a determined and wild expression. "Maeglin – please," she muttered. A sweep of black hair brushed against her bare shoulder. Horror seized her insides. She wished desperately that someone would come out.
"Why so tense, Idril?" he murmured.
Give in Idril, give in to my touch…
Her fear was tangible, he could taste it, feel it rippling along his skin. Could her husband's touch cause such an instantaneous, uncontrolled reaction? Or did she feel safe with Tuor? Safe. He almost laughed aloud. True love wasn't supposed to be safe! Real love was dangerous, passionate, ungovernable. Her unease, her fear, were in truth the very passion he sought from her. She must see that. He could make her feel it. He would make her feel it–
"Maeglin," Idril said again, her silvery voice now uncharacteristically sharp.
"Why do you avoid me?" he continued, his eyes suddenly hard.
"Avoid you?" Idril repeated warily, her heartbeats threatening to choke her. She was frozen in place. Her cousin's fingers moved along her arm in the faintest hint of a caress – or what would have been a caress, had there not been something of cruelty in the gesture. Everything she had ever suspected, feared, was right there, in his face.
"Do not play innocent with me, cousin. You think I cannot sense your antipathy towards me? What have I ever done to warrant such cold treatment? I, who have only ever sought to look out for you and watch over you, even when you didn't know it? Why do you distrust me?"
Maeglin could no longer conceal his anger as he fired out the questions in swift accusation. Gone was his self-imposed gravity, the fiercely concentrated restraint that sought to turn everything inwards. He had been lenient with her up until now. But she was about to see that he could be cruel. Did she think she was the only one who could be ruthless? She was about to see what he could be driven to when angered. But he found now that her fear of him had quite evaporated. Ice-blue eyes met his, matching them for anger. Oh, she was magnificent when roused to a passion! She had a will of steel, in spite of her seeming delicacy. What satisfaction he would have in bending that metal to his desires.
"Things could have been different, Maeglin." Again, that frosty tone, that icy dismissal. Did she realise the raw wound she inflicted on him every time she treated him so callously?
"Then tell me how, because I am certainly at a loss!" Although his voice was quiet, there was undiminished fury blazing in his dark eyes. Two spots of colour burned in his white face. He tried to cling to the last of his rapidly diminishing self-control. Maeglin knew too much had been revealed, too much that could not be unsaid. Idril had always known his feelings towards her, but nothing had ever been explicitly stated. But too long had he tried to stifle this emotion, too long had he been forced to restrain his passion that at times heated his blood until he was half crazy with lust and the need for fulfilment. He shook her slightly. "Oh Idril, believe me, I have tried to be patient. Do you think this has been easy for me? Everything I have done has been for you. You scorned my heritage – I gained power. When outside war threatened your Eldar people – I went to battle. Yet still it is not enough! I am tired of striving to be what you want. What more can I possibly do?"
Idril's mouth was dry, her head spinning. Her world had narrowed down to that intense face before her that was filled with such rage and insanity. Her arm was throbbing with pain beneath his fierce grip, but the rest of her was paralysed by a numbing cold. Things had spiralled rapidly out of control. There had always been subtle insinuations and innuendo in those rare moments he caught her alone, but what had been initially unnerving and repellent had become suddenly dangerous. The muscles in her throat seemed to have seized, but she managed to say breathlessly:
"Maeglin – release me at once – what are you –?"
"Did you not realise it would come to this eventually, Idril?" Maeglin murmured, the name breathed softly like a caress. He still retained his hold on her, but the other hand slowly entwined in a lock of hair. She could hear his laboured breathing and held herself deliberately still, resisting the urge to recoil in horror. He was staring at her, apparently captivated; she dared not think how little it would take for him to turn to violence. One of the Calaquendi she may be, but his strength would overpower her in seconds.
She was so close; so tense… Her body was poised as tightly as a pulled bowstring, quivering with tension. What man could resist such temptation? Maeglin closed his eyes, inhaling the subtle scent of lilies that perfumed the air between them. He was intoxicated. Her silk-like hair slid through his fingers. Gods, she was the most beautiful, perfect woman he had ever encountered… why did she turn away from him? He could be gentle, so gentle if only she would let him.
We will be together until the end of everything, my darling, my love. Promise me we'll be together forever…
Fire ran through his veins like liquid metal. His head lowered a fraction towards hers.
"Idril?"
She wrenched herself away from her cousin, flashing him a look of pure abhorrence, before straightening her shoulders and turning towards the approaching speaker.
With a blaze of hatred that momentarily choked him with its power, Maeglin saw the one who had the audacity to intrude on such an – intimate – moment was none other than her husband. Tuor. How he hated him! From the very first he had resented this mortal man's intrusion into the city, his open affability that had gained friends and allies more effectively than all the Elf's subtlety and intelligence. This could have been borne perhaps, were it not for robbing Gondolin of its most precious treasure. To know that Idril's eyes were a little brighter in the presence of her husband, her smile more heartfelt. While she had remained single and unwed, he had still allowed himself to harbour some hope, but now...
What did this short-lived ruffian from a bedraggled house of Men possess that could win the heart of one so sublime? Her passion, her brilliance, her high soul were wasted on a man who had dared entertain ideas above his rank. Foolish citizens prattled of this boor's splendour, likening his appearance and strength to one of the first-born. What of the man's fair complexion and physically powerful build when it would wither and die so soon? Maeglin did not attempt to disguise his contempt when the two of them met, and ever sought to gainsay him in the Councils. Yet in spite of his best attempts, he was unable to inspire anyone to look upon Tuor with disfavour. Neither was he able to goad the man into losing his temper with violence in a passion and impulsiveness that the Elf hoped would one day prove his downfall. Tuor bore such attacks with dignity and a self-assurance that made it impossible for Maeglin to intimidate him.
"I was unable to find you inside." Tuor addressed his remark to Idril who seemed frozen in place, then inclined his head in greeting at Maeglin, who scornfully ignored the gesture. The tension in the air intensified.
"Forgive me, I am intruding." He had half turned, when Idril said firmly: "Not at all. I believe Maeglin was just leaving."
Tuor looked curiously from the icy indifference of one to the smouldering intensity of the other. Despite the kinship of first cousinhood, he rarely saw the two alone together. Idril was nearly always accompanied by her handmaidens, and, if they came together, it was often through necessity at formal gatherings. He knew Idril disliked her cousin and wondered at the cause. For all her ardent and noble spirit, Idril could be proud; did she resent her half Noldorin cousin for the influence he wielded, or was it Maeglin's antipathy towards himself that had initiated such a reaction? Tuor was well aware of the Elf's dislike, so carefully concealed from those around them. Clearly, Maeglin feared Tuor was seeking to usurp him in the king's affections, no doubt Maeglin saw Idril's marriage as one inferior to her station. He glanced at the Elf, expecting to see the derisive sneer so often on his features when they encountered each other; and was shocked to see Meaglin's face contorted with a look so full of hate that the mortal man felt it almost like a physical blow.
"Where is Earendil?" Idril's tense face caused Tuor to recover himself slightly.
"Asleep. Your maids are watching over him."
"I think it best I see him."
The fair-haired man was about to argue that such an action was unnecessary, but halted at her evident determination. Her desire to be gone was infectious. Moreover, he wanted to know what confrontation had taken place that caused the very atmosphere to ripple with hostility. "I will accompany you, then."
Tuor made one last effort with the Elf who had retreated back into the shadows. "Will you join us, cousin?"
Idril chanced a look back at Maeglin. His dark eyes were still heavy with lust. "I believe Maeglin was about to rejoin the festivities. Our domesticities can hardly hold any interest for him."
"On the contrary, cousin Idril," said Maeglin softly. "Anything that concerns you I regard with great interest."
Her face turned deathly white at the subtly implied threat and he noted the tremor that ran through her. Had he cowed her at last? Oh, never, never! Her jaw clenched perceptibly and again, he saw that fire in her that expressed itself in the erect posture and defiant expression. Her voice was no longer silver, but harder than steel. "I will not forget your words."
Without waiting for a response, she slipped a shaking arm through that of her husband. Maeglin watched the two of them walk off together, arms entwined, and his simmering rage intensified. She was deliberately doing this to spite him. Well, things had changed now. Tonight had proved that. He was done taking her superiority and disdain lying down. She had held her advantage over him long enough. He held the regency, the respect of Gondolin, the subtlety and guile of his father and the strength of his mother's people. Was there anything in this world he could not achieve if he put his mind to it?
Energy seared through him; he bounded up the pathway, wracked by the all-consuming passions that raged through him. Had anyone seen him now, they would have feared the wildness and intensity of his look, the fiery heat that added a glow to his pale features, as though he were back in the forges of his labour. Fired by newfound determination, Maeglin made his way back into the halls, smiling at those who greeted him, conversing with those he met.
None were merrier or more spirited than Maeglin was on that night. And no one suspected the dark plans that were unfolding beneath the deceptively smooth exterior. His conversation was brilliant and engaging; Maeglin perceived the admiration of those around him and laughed inwardly. It was easy, so easy to have his peers hanging on every word he uttered. Power was an intriguing thing, once you knew how to use it. It would eventually win him Idril. Why should it not? After all, he had sensed the eyes of several females on him and knew with little perseverance on his part, his bed would not be empty tonight. It had happened before, when the raging pangs of lust had proven too much to bear. Brief dalliances that had meant nothing to him; although he was not so insensitive as to feel no remorse for his conduct.
Strange what desire could drive one to.
If this was obsession, he didn't care anymore.
He was tired of waiting.
He would see to it that Idril was his.
Soon.
(A/N: Comments, reviews? If you can find time to put this on a favourites list or whatever, I'm sure you can find time to just leave a review, even a short one. Pretty please?)