The fog around his conscious perception seemed more dense, covering his sight and stripping him of any sense of stability. He squinted. There it was again. The dull, soundless noise, though high pitched to his ears, drowning his hearing. The desperate whinnying of dying horses and the smell of rot and death in the air.
"Maeglin..." a voice called, sounding so far away.
He blinked several times, his mind suddenly on fire as he strove to hear, to see.
"Maeglin, what is your stance?"
The question reaching the edges of his focus, he smothered the black dread down to the pit of his core forcefully, straining his mind to process and his throat to speak. His eyes met grey, clouded ones.
The king raised a questioning eyebrow to accompany the look of concern he was presenting his sister-son with.
Maeglin swept his gaze over the council members then, over their tired faces worn by war, worry and grief. They all mirrored, somewhat, the same sentiment or at the very least similar in the effect it had on him. Dreadfully he realized, it would not be easy to face the day. Ever since his return he had to concentrate and funnel his thought to comprehend the world around him, but try as Maeglin did, his mind drifted back to piles of his lifeless kin mounted carelessly atop one another, and a black, consuming hatred. The vicious cruelty of the foe they had faced was constantly playing in the corners of his vision, ever present, ever thrumming accompanied by a wretched, dry pain. His soul felt as a bird trapped between two broken cages, unable to take the skies.
"No, I am of the same mind with lord Cendaro," someone spoke, and faintly did he realize it was he who opened his mouth. "We must keep the forges running and producing. There is source material aplenty from the recent incursions in the Echoriath." He had kept his voice steady enough though the weariness, shame and grief of defeat was bearing down as a choking veil over his soul, as he feared it did over the souls of all those present and beyond. It was this, which coupled with the fatigue owed to the emotional turmoil and lack of rest from the previous night left him bare and raw, the pain a slab of stone carelessly falling after an avalanche, destroying all in its path.
The previous night.
He had kept all thought, sensation or memory of it barred deeply and dutifully within, but now it all began to simmer and his heart saw fit to rebel.
And the thought gained in persistence with all the harrowing strength with which the elf had allowed it to bloom. It grew in magnitude until it hurled his strained mind back to the fairest, wrenching and all too sparse moments Maeglin had ever lived, had ever felt, possibly ever since the awakening of his consciousness into the confines of his body. He had gone to her for no other reason than to offer an apology, but somehow the door to her chamber swallowed him, his mind, his very self, and in a deep trance he had followed. After knowing nothing but endless marching and death for days, weeks on end, it had been a whirlwind of emotion which stripped him bare of any pride, will or masks, until all that was left was a tired, frightened heap. The craven, needing her.
But, at the same time there was nothing quite like the realization that he was returned to a still hidden, yet standing city, heart beating in his breast; its bright people well away from the horrors some of the others have endured. And Idril had been there, ever in his thought as a balm to his despair, soothing and present though she were so far away. And so he had fallen irrevocably the previous night, to the sweetest though most unexpected reward. And it was the only time since his return that the soundless noises in his head ceased. Being with her aided in hedging aught which now felt broken and poorly knit within him, as an old lock, unhinged, rusted and fallen out of place with the mockery of life this war had been. But even the peace of her closeness had lasted little, and as the elf maid fell into a well deserved and weary rest Maeglin had gently disentangled himself from her, and left her chambers as dawn descended.
He had not seen Idril since. He had not seen her all day, and was astonished that a side of him preferred it this way. Coward.
Maeglin looked out the window and saw the darkening of the light, stray golden red and purple ribbons drifting across the skies. It was dusk, and there was yet more work to do. The raven-haired elf had skimmed his gaze over the rest of the council members and ordinance officers when the meeting was concluded, and though he felt the king's gaze on him, he chose to retreat.
He needed to retreat. As he went through the corridors and passed outside into the lavish gardens, the worrying hiss he had been struggling to keep at bay all day enveloped him. It cruelly sifted through his soul as its tendrils wormed their way under his skin, and a primal fear surged through his entire being. An image of bloodied maws snapping at him unleashed upon his mind. There was no escape from it, though the elf pushed his will forward with all the stubbornness he was capable of, to shield from it, to make it cease.
Defeated, weak fool. He had killed. This gruesome, life altering event which mutilated their kindred and left them hopeless to the bone marked the first time he had killed.
Nay, not the first time the scathing voice within mocked.
His mother's touch as she lay in his arms, her gasps the loudest sound, the feeling of his chest crushing in on itself.
Your doing.
The anger, the boundless hate. The dying scream of his father pierced his mind as a long forgotten enemy, and then it multiplied and grew menacingly into a terrifying ensemble of screams and metal against metal, bone against blade, body falling upon lifeless body. It was his doing, all his doing... His hands came to his head, fingers scraping against his scalp.
The elf wavered in his steps, his hand shooting outward in vain to find no support. He willed his mind to still. Enough, this is enough. Master it, you can master it he commanded his wearied self, unknowingly now grasping at his chest. It is over, it is done. The war is ended, the city is safe.
She is safe.
He clung to the thought of his kin, the feel of her fingers running through his hair, the silk of her skin and warmth of her thrumming soul. The trembling of her under his touch.
She will be your doom, the hidden, obsidian voice said anew, throwing all and any peace to the wind. Aye, they knew somewhat where they stood now, after what had happened. For his part, Maeglin dreaded the outcome. What if it had been simply, a momentary lapse of reason and will on her part? Then he considered the thought. Had it not been the same for him? It was he who told her those words, it was he who kissed her, who would not stop. And now his heart withered with a new black thought forcing its way into his frayed state of mind.
What if she regretted what happened? A cold, steady stream of grief filled him to the brim. What if Idril now stood somewhere in a hidden corner of the palace, recoiling from it all in shame? What if, with the return of reason and a new day, the maid had seen their actions for what they were: unnatural mutilations of the spirit, dark desires of the body, decaying on the mind.
But that is not so. I wish her well, I wish...
You desire her, the voice hissed, for your own base gratification.
He snarled at the bare truth of the black whisper, biting back. I desire her, but I also care for her, and I would rather die before hurting her.
His steps took Maeglin through the Alley of Roses, white marble lined on either side with elegantly subdued green arrangements, imbued with freshness and light. He found it rather cruel and a mockery, how such an innocent place with its pleasant scent coexisted with the endless pile of rot composed of his kindred, lying as carrion somewhere in the North. Without thought and completely unlike himself, his hand reached and crudely ripped a white rose from the nearest bush, crushing it mercilessly between his fingers as his boots sounded coldly against the cobbled street.
The forge stood grim as most smiths had left at the end of the day. Life was not the same as before, how could it be with so much loss and sorrow engulfing their people? But still, they tried. All ran as before, as ordained by Turgon. But there was one horse in the stable, and it did not belong to Tanwetamo whom he had wanted to speak to. Warily Maeglin went inside the structure either way, closing the heavy main door behind him. As he went deeper into the smithy he heard the clang of metal being struck in regular, even intervals. Each hard stroke was granted with furious strength, and cadenced sorrow.
Maeglin approached, and despite the roiling feelings that the figure before him aroused within, he kept the diverted, unaffected composure which now seemed worryingly easy to achieve.
"Mercion," he said by way of greeting, though the presence kept beating heavily away, sending sparks through the air.
The other elf lifted his head in what may have been acknowledgement.
Unsure whether he should take his leave or wait, Maeglin lingered. He watched the golden-haired elf, his deep frown. He took note of the lost look in those eyes, that had not been there before he left to fight a hopeless battle, lined with betrayal and the near annihilation of their kindreds.
The other elf seemed to pay him no heed, nor even allow any of his usual discontent show.
Mercion had saved his life.
"I know you and I have never seen eye to eye," Maeglin found himself speaking, heading to a different corner where a set of tools were. Long it seemed since he had touched them. And then there it was, the fog again. He forced it all down, burying it, stifling it under the force of his will. "But I must thank you for your essential aid during the battle we fought." Together, he may have added, but his seemingly innate dislike of the other elf prevented such words from leaving his mouth.
"I did not do it for you," came the cold reply in a voice as hard as granite, accompanied by the hard, desperate pursuit of the hammer. Maeglin noticed the piece the other elf was beating was dangerously close to being ruined. Mercion said nothing else, nor even lifted his head to the other again.
The raven-haired elf saw then, that all made do in their own way. His own state worsened with the dull sound resurfacing in his ears and suddenly the fires were unbearable, the heat of the forge suffocating, Mercion himself a drifting shadow. He had to, needed to leave this place.
And so with as much dignity as he could muster Maeglin turned on his heel slowly, and left the forge without a word. When he reached the outside world, the air pleasant and fresh, he scowled. Disgustingly weak fool.
He shook his head, and suddenly a wild, hopeless need came over him. Her eyes, her scent, his arms closed around her slight waist. He had to find Idril. No matter the aftermath, no matter the possibility of her shunning him - again - the elf would attempt to speak to her. To make sense of at least one part of his now grey, uncertain days.
But as he reached the upper levels he floundered, and his courage left him. And so his feet returned him heedlessly to the place he found solace in more than any other place in Gondolin. The place he had retreated to in the past, hidden from most with its cold, narrow stairway.
As he ascended, his eyes cast downward, he missed the presence seated to one side of the stairs.
"Maeglin," came a soft voice, one he had heard in his dreams and nightmares alike, one which crushed him down to the lowest depths and yet lifted him to the soaring heights of hope.
His head snapped upward at the sound of his name, and his eyes fell on the figure of Idril, seated atop the stairs with her arms circling her knees. A brief thought speared his mind and the raven-haired elf realized this was where they exchanged their first words, back when he and his cousin were wary and distrustful of each other.
Finding her was all he had wanted but now a freezing fright coursed through him, and all his courage dwindled away into dust, and he hesitated. What was there left to fear, though? Maeglin bitterly thought he had reached the pinnacle of anguish and fear upon seeing those wretched beasts, upon fighting and fleeing from them, all the while attempting not to retch his whole being away or lose sight of his own.
She was regarding him with bright, worried eyes, and the elf could not guess whether Idril was glad for this meeting or not.
"I was about to search for you," he managed, cursing the hollowness of his voice.
Idril showed what may have been a smile and rose, coming to where he stood, unable to move. "And I hoped, this was where I would find you."
Silver light shrouded their figures, dispersed from the giant moon looming above the White City. Glancing about the darkened streets, it all seemed no different than before. But he knew, that its towers were bent with the sorrow of those returned, those mourning and living through the same nightmare as he.
When she faced him, so slight, so near, Maeglin had no notion of what to do. His feet were leaden, his chest and mind about to cave in on themselves with the memory of her naked skin under his fingers. But, at least, thankfully the ringing in his ears had ceased, and the raven-haired elf had little doubt as to the cause.
The sudden shiver he felt was the small hand touching his face, his cheekbone, smoothing a strand of black hair away.
"Idril, do you regret it?" he asked softly. The slight waver in his voice was the sole physical sign of the craven and wanton fears which he knew, were so clearly written in his black eyes. "Do you..." Do you hate that it happened, do you loathe me for it? Do you wish to keep your distance now? His tongue felt swollen and dead in his mouth, and words failed him.
When she kissed him it felt as if the elf had been lain on a soft bed of grass, akin to the gardens they once frequented together, surrounded by healing wisps and mild, aromatic plant life. The destructive pain which he kept strangled in the pit of his core roiled and thrashed but soon dispersed to his wonder, leaving an empty barren nothingness. The gliding warmth of lips and the feel of slender, tender hands were an unsought for antidote, and Maeglin suddenly, desperately craved more of it. He pulled the maid to him without realizing, holding her so tight Idril gasped though she never ceased nipping at his lips, her arms winding around his neck in a caring, compassionate embrace. She seemed a beautiful clinging vine, bringing life to a wearied, dying tree.
When she broke the kiss their chests were rising and falling against each other, their breathing shallow and hitched, soaring in light mists into the cold night air. Maeglin had cradled her body completely into his, and felt her heartbeat, a singing, erratic rhythm against his own.
"I regret nothing," her blue eyes held a light in them as the maid said the words, dividing, dispersing and crushing the darkness in his own eyes; eyes now ever lined by dark bruising shades.
There was nothing like the wash of relief and strain of forgotten joy suffusing, overpouring within at her words. Then his hands were in her golden hair and Maeglin tilted his head, though for a time he did nothing other than stare at every detail of the face he loved. Her beautiful eyes, her fair, cherry red mouth, her slight oval face. Her determined brow. The daring, fearful notion that she could... that she might, become his, slammed against the walls of his mind with furious, debilitating strength. It hurt, it was despairing but it was elation, and he could make no sense of it all anymore. Nor did he care to. His lips found hers and before Idril could draw breath, he deepened the kiss.
A/N: PTSD? Shell shock? Our character seems to have garnered them all, in exchange for losing a good chunk of mental stability. That's the Nirnaeth for ya.
