The Fall (II)

9/15/2017: Hey! To whoever is writing me these lovely guest reviews, thank you so much... I just wanted to tell you that they really brightened my day, and I'm so so glad that you enjoyed this story. I LOVED writing it. Please say hi if you ever get around to starting a account!

The one-eared orc surveyed the mountain of rubble choking off the tunnel. His entire battalion lay beneath. Two hundred strong, crushed to death in mere seconds. He had pleaded with Morgoth not to trust this elf. This orc had known Blackbird better than anyone in Angband. He alone had recognized that the prisoner's defection would not last- that he was more resilient than their devices and made of more than the weakness they had exploited to break him.

Fundamentally, Morgoth, in all his power, had never understood elves. He had slaughtered them. Tortured them. Broken them down limb by limb, stretched them to the limits of suffering, trying to understand what made them tick.

Thus the orcs, in which he had meant to replicate elves, came out distorted and vile. Cunning and wicked though he was, Morgoth remained as envious and shortsighted as a child. His clumsy attempt to conjure life could produce only horrible brutes little better than animated corpses, who knew only to kill, and eat, and follow orders. All of them, except one.

He, the one-eared orc, was the exception. Somehow, he had crawled into the world knowing what his own creator didn't: empathy, the ability to feel another's suffering as one's own, the reason one elf could throw herself in front of a deadly arrow to save another, but an orc would never do the same.

It was the reason he, monster though he was, had stopped the others from hurting the elf more than they needed to. It was the reason he knew it had been Blackbird's mind, trying to save him from the pain of feeling, that had succumbed to Morgoth- not his heart.

His panicked warg had run off into the tunnels. Maeglin held a blade to his throat.

"Why did you leave me alive?" asked the orc.

"Because I wanted you to see it," Maeglin replied savagely, "Because I wanted you to see them all die, so you might feel a fraction of what you've done to us."

The orc shook his head, looking up at Maeglin in disbelief.

"You're lying," he said, "You spared me out of—honor. Because of Angband. Because I stopped the others from toying with you. You left me alive for… for that?"

Begrudgingly, Maeglin set his jaw in assent.

"One dignity for another."

"You shouldn't do this, Blackbird," said the orc, "You really ought to kill me now. If you let me go, I'm going to kill more of your people. You know I'd kill you if our roles were reversed."

"No," said Maeglin, "You won't. And you wouldn't. Because you, of all the orcs in Arda, know the difference between right and wrong. You won't kill after I've just spared your life."

Black elf eyes met the orc's yellow orbs. Maeglin could see the uncertainty therein, the struggle to comprehend this act of mercy. He could see humanity.

"So I'm giving you a chance," continued Maeglin, "Go now, back to Morgoth, and pass along a message: that the kingdom of elves will survive the fall of Gondolin. It lives not in stone walls or towers, but in the hearts of elves, in the love that remains even after everything else is gone. It lives in the hearts of his own servants, in the very midst of evil, as it lives in me. You and I are proof of this. Cities may fall, and we may die, but as long as there is one creature living that cares about another, then he hasn't won. And he will never win."

The orc's leathery brow furrowed as Maeglin's words sank in.

"If you die delivering this message, orc," the elf went on, "Then you'll die on the right side of good and evil. I'm giving you a chance. I'm asking you now. Choose."

Maeglin lowered his sword. Instinctively, the orc's hand flew behind him and gripped the handle of his mace- but then, slowly, his eyes never leaving Maeglin's, he released it.

"You're right," he said, "I never understood why we had to hurt you elves like this. The war, the sack, the torture. But I went along with it. I did what I was told. There's likely more elf blood on my hands than any other orc in Arda. But you're right, Blackbird. I want the thing you're offering me now. If you can spare some pity in that immortal heart of yours for a monster who changed his mind, then I'll gladly take it. Let me go. I will deliver your message to Morgoth."

Saying nothing, Maeglin slid his sword back into the scabbard and inclined his head, letting the orc walk free. He watched, for a moment, as the orc turned his back and made his way through the rubble and ruin, disappearing into the dust.

Satisfied, he whispered to Mothwing. She bounded surefooted as a cat over the flames, in the direction of the smithy.

Ø

Glorfindel, Ranaroch, and the remainder of those that had fought in King's Square proceeded toward the secret pass, bows in hand. The king was dead. Ecthelion was dead. The House of the Golden Flower whittled down to nothing, the city in ruins.

If you had told Glorfindel a week ago these things would come to pass, he would have laughed. There had been no warning that Morgoth had assembled army that size. There had been no sign the orcs would march to the hidden gates of Gondolin.

Or had there been? Glorfindel frowned suddenly as the doubts he had harbored for the last year returned to him: the inexplicably tripled drilling hours in peacetime; the unprecedented announcement of the construction of a southern palace; the hastily erected scaffold.

But there had been no palace. What did lie near the scaffold was the entrance to Idril's secret pass. How had she known to build such a thing?

Then he remembered the last time he had spoken to Maeglin: such a horrible, hollow look had been in his eyes. Such unexplained torment, shame and anger. Glorfindel's heart grew cold as the awful truth began to surface like a dead thing in the water.

As the elves walked toward the pass, their blades began to glow faintly blue. They could hear footsteps behind. Two sets. Orcs.

"I'll take care of them," said Glorfindel, "Go on ahead. I'll catch up later."

Ranaroch hesitated, about to protest, but then glanced back at the pass.

"Be careful," was all he said, and Glorfindel touched his shoulder as they parted ways.

Hidden in a veil of ashes, Glorfindel quietly approached the two orcs. As they drew near, he could hear them growl at each other in guttural Common Tongue.

"You're sure? You're absolutely certain?" one orc was saying to the other, "Did you see it for yourself?"

"No, but it doesn't take a genius," snapped the second orc, "He led those soldiers underground, we all knew that. Then the tunnels collapsed. That was no accident."

"The houses all empty, the women and children gone," snarled the first orc in furious realization, "That bastard elf, he robbed us, plain as day."

"Utter filth," agreed the other, "But he's done for. He had better hope he dies tonight. If Morgoth doesn't torture him for the rest of eternity, then his own people will."

Glorfindel crept closer. It was true then. Emotion seeped over him, wildly disparate feelings he could not reconcile. He was furious enough to strangle the blood traitor, the coward that had sold them to Morgoth like sheep, leaving Ecthelion's child fatherless, leaving his dearest friends dead. And yet, he surely would have wept in pity even as he closed his hands around Maeglin's neck, as he thought of Morgoth's cruel devices, as he considered the terrible lonely secret Maeglin had kept in silence upon his return to the very people he had doomed.

Truthfully, he had tried to forget about Maeglin. For his own sanity, he closed the door and walked away after their friendship had shriveled away in the summer summer like that damned waterfall. Now, in the smoldering twilight, memories of the bright, fleeting years of his friendship with Maeglin came streaming back.

He remembered the spring night, the Nost-na-Lothion ball, and Maeglin at the edge of the room: so wounded and defiant, so darkly pretty in his plain colors. Nightingale, Glorfindel had thought, nightingale singing amidst the buntings, how beautifully you wear your loneliness. Each of your black feathers an injustice you bore, a battle you lost. Sit by me, wayward creature, and tell me from whence you came. Let us fly together tonight like birds of Spring.

As carefully as he could, he had shown Maeglin his heart. On the night where everyone fell in love, their two souls brushed aside an invisible veil and touched. Maeglin had laughed. He had danced. He had laid bare his own guarded heart. He had taken the hands Glorfindel held out to him and tried to walk a different path, a harder one: the right one. Though he had strayed, he found his way back alone.

Love came pouring through Glorfindel's bitterness. He hoped beyond hope he would have a chance to see Maeglin again. He hoped to be able to forgive him one day.

The orcs had passed him without noticing, and Glorfindel now tailed them covertly.

"How much farther till the pass?"

The other orc's answer sent a chill down his spine:

"It's just up ahead. A shame about Gothmog, but the other Balrog's on its way."

The ugly laughter of the pair was cut short by one swift arc of Glorfindel's blade. Two heads, both wearing an expression of vague surprise, rolled to the ground. Glorfindel wiped his blade and hurried in the direction the two orcs had come from: the direction from which the Balrog was coming.

Ø

Eärendil coughed and spat ashes out of his mouth. His vision was blurring with tears, both from terror and the blinding heat. A burning branch cracked overhead and fell in his path, showering him with hot orange sparks. He floundered, chose a new path, and ran. His seven-year-old legs burned in fatigue. He couldn't see. He didn't know where he was. He had let go of his mother's hand, just for a moment. And then she was gone.

"Mama!"

The sound was drowned out by the crackling of flame and the din of battle from beyond.

I'm going to die.

He cried as this thought popped into his head. The air was filled with poison. His head began to ache. He trudged on.

"Mama."

He hadn't the strength to shout anymore.

He crouched and hugged scraped knees to his chest. Surely he could rest for just a moment. He was so dizzy, so sleepy…

A pair of ugly black boots crunched gravel as they appeared before him. A rough hand gripped his hair and pulled him upward. Then his eyes were level with a huge, leering, leather-skinned face.

Cold terror consumed him, even in his exhaustion. The orc's yellow eyes took in the fine clothes Eärendil wore, the insignia of the House of the King that fastened his little cloak, the resemblance between the child's eyes and the late king's. Black lips parted in elation as, even in his dull mind, he realized his incidental captive was none other than Turgon's young heir.

Eärendil plunged his hand into his shirt and found his pocketknife. Gripped by adrenaline, he raised it and slashed across the orc's hideous visage. There was a roar of fury and pain, and thick blood coated Eärendil's hand. The knife was knocked aside.

Eärendil whimpered as the orc's giant hand closed around his forearm and began to twist hard.

"You'll pay for that, whelp. Morgoth wants you alive, not whole…"

The deep throbbing in his arm increased as the orc tightened his grip. Eärendil gasped in pain. Any second, he felt his elbow would surely burst from the force.

There was a sharp whistling sound followed by a grotesque, wet, squirting noise. Now an arrow-point protruded from the orc's left eye. Its face went slack before its arms went limp, releasing Eärendil, and it collapsed into the dirt. Eärendil rose, shaken, and looked up. An elf was standing where the orc had been, shouldering his bow.

"Uncle?"

"Eärendil, are you all right?"

Eärendil's shook with relief. He stumbled over to where Maeglin stood and wrapped his arms tightly around his waist, burying his face in his abdomen. Maeglin gently pried him away.

"I'm not going anywhere, boy. Breathe through this."

A cool rag was placed over his nose and mouth. He held it to his face as Maeglin picked him up. Eärendil wrapped his other arm around Maeglin's neck.

"Rest now, Eärendil. We're going to find your mother."

He complied, half-closing his eyes. He dimly noticed Maeglin produce something bright white and shimmering from his pocket. A stone… no, a jewel. It shone like a star through the ash-ridden air… it was beautiful. Eärendil's eyes followed this point of light, transfixed, as Maeglin tucked it into the front of Eärendil's clothes and looped its mithril chain over his head.

"This is the Elessar, Eärendil. It will keep you safe. Don't lose it."

Eärendil nodded. In the years to come, he would only half-remember the events that had just come to pass, as though in a dream. He would never be quite sure whether or not it really had been his uncle who placed the Elessar on him. The jewel hummed with life, warm against his chest. The world somehow seemed to brighten even as they made their way through flame and ruin. Somehow, the Elessar's light could reach inside him, and gave him hope.

"Eärendil!"

Eärendil's eyes flew open at the sound of the voice.

"Mama!"

His mother's arms were around him, pulling him out of Maeglin's.

"Idril-" began Maeglin, but Idril never gave him a chance.

"Traitor! Coward! You will die before you touch my boy again!"

Idril held Eärendil tightly and turned him away from Maeglin, shielding him from the man she believed would hurt him.

Maeglin had had started again to explain, to say something, anything, to he hadn't meant to harm the boy- but something about Idril, throwing her own body between Maeglin and her son, stopped his tongue. A mother, in a heartbeat, throwing herself in danger to save her child. Is this what Eöl had seen seconds before his javelin hit home?

"How could you?" screamed Idril, "After all he did for you? After everything?"

Tears were streaming down her face unchecked, tears of anger and grief she hated to give Maeglin the satisfaction of seeing.

"Idril, please…"

He took a step closer to her, but she fumbled at the chain she wore around her neck and flashed her knife at him.

"Don't bother. Don't tell me you redeemed yourself with a change of heart. Don't tell me you've won back your innocence by betraying Morgoth like you betrayed us. You waited six months. Six months. You think one noble deed atones for your failure? You think it will shine through your darkness and erase your poison? You deserve to die, not us. You deserve to burn."

She stood there with specks of ash on her face, with red and exhausted eyes, with her son cradled in her arm and her knife out, shaped like the crescent moon. The gentle-hearted barefoot girl, the carefree, forgiving fawn she was, had died in the Tower of the King.

A she-wolf stood before him now, a thing with teeth and claws. And she would not grant him his redemption. She would have flayed him alive all over again with her own hands, a hundred times over, to have her Papa back. She would have cast his wretched, beaten form over Caragdûr herself.

Dread filled Maeglin as he realized this. It hadn't been enough, after all. If he was still damned in Idril's eyes, then he really did deserve to burn. As he searched for words, Tuor appeared behind his wife with his sword drawn.

"Papa, wait," said Eärendil, but no one heard. Idril cast one more venomous glare at Maeglin and spat on the ground before him. She sheathed her knife and carried her son toward the pass without looking back.

Tuor and Maeglin stood alone at the edge now, circling each other like dogs. Blood tinged the edges of Maeglin's vision. In his ears was a muffled ringing.

"Tuor," he said again, "I wasn't going to harm Eärendil."

"You're a damned liar," said Tuor, and raised his sword with both hands. Their blades clashed as Maeglin parried Tuor's blow, but not easily. Tuor fought clumsily, his judgment clouded by anger. He swung, missed Maeglin, and nearly lost his balance. But Maeglin did not seize the chance to strike him then.

"I swear," said Maeglin, "I would die before I hurt your son. I was trying to help-"

"Like you tried to help Turgon?" yelled Tuor, his face blotched in rage, "And Ecthelion? They're gone, better men than you, braver men than you. You dare to stand before me and speak my son's name? Fight back, you damned coward. Tell me you didn't betray us. Tell me you're not the reason they're dead."

Tuor had seen the guilt in his eyes. He took it for a confession, and lunged at Maeglin again, who leapt aside. Maeglin was not as strong as Tuor, but he was quick, even now. In a bitter stalemate they pushed each other at the edge of the wall, their shadows elongated in the dancing light of the flames below. Suddenly, Maeglin's blade flashed a bright, pale blue. His face blanched in the firelight.

"They are coming," he said, "Run, Tuor, I'm begging you."

"You're not getting away so easily," snarled the man.

The elf gave the faintest of nods then. The time had come. He lowered his sword. A sudden, inexplicable inspiration seized Tuor, and his hand flew to the hilt of the sword he wore at his hip: Anguirel, the black blade Maeglin's father had forged, Maeglin's gift to him at Eärendil's birth. So much for good will. So much for a new start. People didn't change, after all.

Anguirel arced through the air with its signature liquid swooping sound. Tuor sensed almost a sentient will in the blade as its tip found its mark. It pierced through Maeglin's chest with a triumphant splintering and hum.

Tuor yanked the weapon back. Blood sprayed from the wound, speckling Tuor's face. Maeglin fell forward, and the man caught him with both arms, as though trying to soften his fall. Maeglin gasped for breath, eyes glazed in shock, instinctively fighting for life despite the sure, swift onset of death.

"May- you- burn," hissed Tuor, and threw Maeglin over the wall. Maeglin struck the wall twice before plunging into the flickering darkness. Impulsively, Tuor hurled Anguirel into the crevasse after the body. That strange, sentient presence of the sword was gone. It had fulfilled its purpose.

He turned and followed his wife and son to the pass.

Ø

Elemmakil waited by the stable door. Inside, a woman was groaning. His eyelids flickered at the sound of a long, drawn-out scream. He gave the faintest exhalation of relief at what came next: a loud, healthy newborn's cry.

A few minutes later, the door opened. Gilwen stood there, holding a baby still flecked with caul and blood, swaddled in a mantle.

"How is she?" asked Elemmakil.

"Narfin's well. Thank Nienna. The baby's early, but fine. Come in. We must hurry."

Elemmakil hesitated before following her.

"Does she know?" he asked quietly, and Gilwen fixed him with a hard stare.

"No. And you mustn't tell her, understand? Not until they're both out of the city. If she asks—if she says anything about Ecthelion—you'll say you don't know. You'll say the last you heard, he was alive."

If Elemmakil felt anything in response to Gilwen's words, he did not show it. He placed his hands over his heart and bowed: the Noldorin sign of a sacred promise. He led his horse into the stable to where Narfin lay, her brilliant red hair lank, and her cheeks glistening with sweat, but smiling.

"Where is Ecthelion?" she asked, catching her breath, "When will he meet his father?"

Elemmakil bent down and carefully wrapped a horse-blanket around her. Then he lifted her sideways onto his horse.

"It won't be long, my lady," he said, "He'll be very proud. He always wanted a son."

Gilwen placed the infant in Narfin's arms.

"Go. Quickly."

Elemmakil nudged his horse. They cantered out of the stable, leaving Gilwen alone.

Just then, there was a second whinny, followed by the sound of hooves growing closer, not fainter. Gilwen frowned. Had they come back? But the horse that trotted up to her was not Elemmakil's. It was Mothwing: saddled, bridled, and riderless.

Ø

He fell. The silhouette of Caragdûr shrank rapidly above him. Bright red beads of blood fell alongside him, so that they seemed suspended in midair. The wind whistled past his ears, laden with his father's laughter. Then…

Then he was weightless. Then the pain was gone. In the instant before the impact came, a memory struck him: the memory that had not come the last time he had searched for it-

It's early on that winter afternoon when he walks through the front doors. Icy mud covers his riding boots, but he is flushed and warm from his ride. Father's away today, and has permitted him to take the day off. Besides, the spiders are hibernating.

He has just turned sixteen. His black hair is cropped at the chin and brows, typical of Doriathi youth. His shoulders haven't filled out, and he is slim and dark as a willow branch. His brow is clear and smooth, his thoughts preoccupied with the thought that he is fairly hungry. Humming, he steals down to the kitchen where Gilwen might have made his favorite tarts.

But Gilwen isn't there. Instead, it's his mother he sees through the doorway, bringing a pear to her mouth, lost in thought. Her other hand is folded over her waist, and she's slouching, leaning into her hip. He turns to leave her to her moment of tranquility.

But for some reason, he hesitates, and doubles back for another glance at her through the doorway, idly eating that pear. It gladdens him somehow to know she's around. That he might turn any corner, look through any door, and find her standing there.

He clears his throat.

"I'm home, Mama."

She startles and straightens at the sound of his voice. Then she looks straight at him and smiles a smile filled with love. She opens her arms, the bitten fruit still in her hand. He comes into them. Her long, black hair is against his cheek, the scent of her clean linen in his lungs.

He settles into the familiar shape of her embrace. She is alive. She is warm.

She is there.

Ø

Night had fallen, and with it, a steady rain. The ash began to clear from the sky. A few fires still burned dimly in the desolate remains of the city. Idril held Eärendil's hand as they ran southward, soaking wet, toward the secret tunnel. Tuor followed behind.

Eärendil was panting, and began to lag behind.

"Faster, Eärendil," said Idril, "We can't stop."

From the distance, a keening screech rent the air.

Idril's heart stopped. It was the cry of a Balrog.

Eärendil sobbed in terror at the sound.

"I can't, Mama," he cried, "I can't run anymore. Help me, Mama, please-"

Tuor caught up to them and picked up his son. There was another shriek, another footstep that sent muted shockwaves through the ground. The sounds were closer this time. They weren't going fast enough. They wouldn't make it.

Husband and wife locked eyes with identical looks of desperation. There was nowhere to hide. There was nothing left between them and the Balrog.

"Id," said Tuor under his breath, so his son could not hear, "Take him and keep running. I can buy us some time."

Idril's lip trembled.

"You can't," she whispered, horrified, "Not a Balrog. You'll be killed. And for nothing."

"Ecthelion took down Gothmog, Id," said Tuor, "I can hold my own for a few minutes, at least. It's our only hope. Please, love. Save our son."

But despite these brave words, there were tears in Tuor's eyes. He was mortal. His flesh and blood alone held him to this world. There were no Halls of Waiting, no shores of Valinor for him. It would be the last time he saw them. He had always known this day would come, but not so soon. Not like this.

"Idril! Tuor!"

They both started, bewildered, at this new voice that came from up ahead. Who was headed away from the pass, back toward King's Square?

They turned to see Glorfindel approaching through the fog and rain. There was a gash across his face. He seemed otherwise unhurt. But the smiling and joyful Glorfindel they knew was gone. The elf that stood before them had a cold, weary stare.

"Are you all right?" asked Glorfindel. His voice was brusque and clipped.

"We're fine," gasped Idril, "But the Balrog-"

"Go. I'll fight it."

"Glorfindel-"

"Go!" commanded Glorfindel again, more harshly, "There's no time. I'm not saying I can kill it. Go now, and don't look back."

But Idril hesitated still, and Glorfindel's face softened. A ghost of his old smile reached his blue eyes as they found hers. He placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Let me do this for you, Idril," he said, "Please. Let me give you this life. You're the only hope the Noldor have left."

A ragged sob tore through her. She knew he was right, and it hurt all the more. Her oldest friend. Her first love. Her Glorfindel.

Eärendil began to cry, too, in earnest.

"No, no, no," he shouted, struggling in his father's arms as he reached for Glorfindel, "Not you. Not you too."

The Balrog's footsteps came closer still. Hastily, Glorfindel took Eärendil's face in his hands.

"Be brave, Eärendil, do you understand?" he said, "Listen to your mother and father. Be good. Can you promise me?"

Eärendil cried all the harder.

"I promise, Glorfindel. I promise."

Glorfindel straightened up. He exchanged resolute nods with Tuor. He leaned down to receive Idril's tearstained kiss on his forehead. Harder and harder the rain fell, washing the blood and dirt from his armor. Lighting flashed across the sky. Glorfindel drew his sword. The stones Maeglin had set in the pommel glowed bright red.

As though through a dream, Glorfindel walked into the Balrog's gleam through the fog, as Tuor, Idril, and Eärendil ran for the pass. And as the flaming maw of his final adversary came into view, he thought he could hear singing, the singing of a thousand voices, though he could not be sure where from but his own heart. He thought he could hear words in the mysterious song: Have courage, Glorfindel of Gondolin, have faith, and stay true. We are with you. We are with you until the very end.

Ø

The surefooted mare carried Gilwen to the foot of the mountain, to the bottom of the abyss. Night had fallen. The rain made little rivers around the rocky crags. They were far from the battle now. It was quiet here.

"Bring me to him, Mothwing," said Gilwen, "Bring me to your master."

Mothwing shook out her mane, sniffed the wind, and loped onward.

He lay still where he had fallen, his face upward, washed clean by the rain. She slipped off of Mothwing's back and knelt in the dirt next to him.

Gently, she lifted his eyelids and stroked the surface of his eye. There was no response. She had not expected one.

The tears poured out of her, tears she did not bother trying to wipe away. She had brought men back to life before. Men without pulses. Men who had lost basins full of blood. But she couldn't save him, after all. Her cleverness, her books, her training, her experiments. What had it been for? Damn it, what had it all been for?

She stroked his cold cheek with the back of her hand.

"Lómion, you little fool, couldn't you have waited for me? I would have followed you. I would have come with you, to wherever you're going."

It was so unfair, that the world would let him go like this: all alone in the rain at the bottom of this mountain. No last words, no final farewell. But Gilwen knew by now that people died in all sorts of ways that they did not deserve. And the world was not fair to any one of them, least of all to Maeglin, son of Aredhel. Though she couldn't save his life, she had loved him when he needed to be loved, and held him, when he had needed to be held. Perhaps she had done enough.

"Where are you, my dear one?" she said in a voice more subdued, "What do you see right this minute? I'm sorry you suffered so much. But no more. They can't hurt you any more, Ló. You're safe now."

A distant rumble of thunder answered her. She knelt a long time next to that familiar body, inert to the chill of the drenching rain. She filled her eyes with every contour of his face so she could not forget it. She ran her hand along his shoulder as though to comfort him. But he wasn't there. It wasn't him. The only person left to comfort was herself.

"Goodbye, now, Lómion. I wish I could have sung you one last song. I wish I had told you one last story. But as long as I draw breath, I promise you: I'm going to tell yours."

With that, she released his hands and rose from the ground. Maeglin's story was over, but hers was not. There were so many things she knew about him, so many things she had learned. And now she would have to learn how to live without him.

I miss you, he had written to her one morning, I miss you and can't wait to see you again.

She would learn to make peace with the cavern he left inside her. She would learn to love as he learned to love in the last years of his life: fully, tenderly, and selflessly. And when the world tried to crush her into the dust, she would close her eyes and hear his laughter, his laughter of defiance. Come what may.

There was pride, fierce pride in her aching heart. Good had won in him, in spite of everything, in spite of the cold and bitter world he knew. She loved him to the end of that cold, bitter world. They had been children of the forest, the two of them, and their spirits were as strong and wild as the rivers that coursed through the trees. They would never be broken.

Mothwing walked slowly to her side, snorting softly in grief. Gilwen embraced the mare's gray face, felt her warm breath through her wet clothes.

"It's not the end," she whispered, "We'll see him again. I don't know when, but we will."

Love, Maeglin.

She climbed onto Mothwing's back. Together, they cantered away, into the night, leaving Maeglin behind. In their wisdom, they knew they were needed where they were going.

The End

Author's note: hello all, and thank you for joining me on this journey. I can't believe it's actually over (well, maybe- there might be an epilogue). I just wanted to say how much it means that you read this little story, especially those of you who took the time to tell me what you thought. I really, REALLY loved writing it, as I've said before. I hope the ending was to your satisfaction and I didn't leave too many questions unanswered. I'm going to miss Maeglin, Gilwen, Glorfindel and Idril very dearly, and I'm going to miss coming up with what happens next every week! I wish you all the best in your own lives, wherever they are. In the wise words of Wilco: "Our love is all God's money/everyone is a burning sun." I'm still reachable through this site, if anyone wants to chat. Goodbye for now! ~Dolias