The smithy burned its way through the day to the hammering music of the forge. Though the still open wounds of war were fresh in the minds and hearts of all, life took its course. Maeglin stopped and wiped his brow before leaning with his arms propped against the metal working table. Despite his role having turned more overseer of the trade in most of Gondolin, he still found he needed the smith work to keep him grounded. And so the elf went whenever time allowed to feel the heavy hammer in his hand, to sharply control the beautiful lines of hard unyielding metal, molding it into existence to the usefulness of all. Unyielding... as was her grip of him the night before. And with that thought all other voices and sounds around him dimmed, even that of the master smith Tanwetamo speaking and working so close to him.
I regret nothing...
And then she had kissed him, chasing all his shadows away. And they had spent much of the night together, on those same stairs, her lithe figure draped over him. And he held her as tight as if Idril were a dream, and the elf had never understood how deeply and strongly tenderness could reach, not until then. He already missed her.
Both their duties required much of their days and so both knew it would be difficult to find more time for one another. And they had spoken of keeping it all between them, for now. It was all yet new and both elves were coming to terms with what this actually meant. What it could mean. If they were to marry, he would eventually be the heir of Turgon. An interesting prospect to be sure, and one Maeglin had admittedly thought about in his previous ambitions. But that was before... before the war, before their loss. Now, he barely managed to keep his mind free of the sickening, wrenching sounds of trampled bones and dying groans. Ever the dim sound would ring in his ears, and Maeglin craved the cure, his cure, with even more fervor than before.
It was in the afternoon when he left the smithy, the blue skies and gentle breeze a calming balm to his frayed nerves. He took to the palace, and soon through the shimmering gate he went, where its brilliance, unlike before, awoke nothing inside of him. Now even the city itself awoke nothing within him, if he were to be honest. Its bright streets and lavish gardens, its majestic fountains and soaring towers, all of it, all of it was an illusion. His mind and heart were hewn between endless white marble walls and roaring, destructive battle, fire and blood.
They had agreed to search for each other and share the midday meal, and so now he roamed the corridor leading from the king's throne, searching for her. Recalling something, Maeglin took a left turn and soon his feet brought him before the library. He entered and closed the door behind him before his eyes fell on another presence, who was just placing a book back in its place within one of the tall wide shelves.
"As fate would have it," Idril smiled gently as she approached him.
Maeglin smiled unsteadily, wishing the blasted ringing in his ears to cease, needing her to make it cease. But since they were here, the elf yet wished to show her something.
He went ahead and took a large scroll from a nearby table, and caught her eye as he unfolded the heavy material, beckoning her closer. Idril approached curiously. He felt her scent, that of elanor and aught which was solely her own.
"What is this?" the maid asked, her eyes wide with curiosity and wonder. It was a plan, the sketch of a highlighted structure by all accounts.
Elegant fingers trailed over the straight lines, and absorbed as she was Idril failed to notice him until his arms were already tightening around her slim waist. She sighed and smiled, feeling herself drawn into him until her back was pressing into his chest. His soft breath ghosted her ear. "After the disaster which was this war, there needs to be more precaution, added protection," he whispered the words as if they were a caress. Idril lost focus on the map, the sketch and all else with his hand now pressing into her middle. The maid allowed herself to drift with him, pale hands reaching along her hips before returning to her waist and upward, slowly roaming over her softer curves.
As under a spell the elf turned her to face him and lifted her by the waist onto the table. Lips barely touching hers, he smiled. "A gate - the seventh gate, it will be," he whispered, pleased with the appealing flush blooming across her face. Maeglin reached and lifted the skirt of her dress slowly until sure fingers reached the sides of her hips beneath the material, and sharply drew her lower body to him. He felt the silk of her thighs as his hands followed their path, his lips ghosting hers in what could only be described as slow agony. "It will be of steel," he whispered as Idril tilted her head back and he followed, feeling worryingly close to losing much of his control, such was the effect her golden scent had on him. "And, nigh indestructible," he managed as Idril began teasing his lips with hers. "Unbreakable..." he managed and unable to resist crushed her into him, her legs having long encircled him, her arms tightly locked around his neck as he leaned forward against her.
"I suppose, the king had already blessed this...," Idril spoke softly, though none were focused on words any longer.
"He did," he breathed, leading her down with her back against the table, her hair as golden rays fanned about her over the sketch.
Maeglin kept her trapped so and continued to kiss her, their surroundings melting away with the gliding slickness of her mouth, the shivering tautness of her beneath him. How he would take her here and now, marry her, make her his.
The clashing sounds of metal, and piercing screams as bodies fell flooded his vision with a violence he had never felt before.
No, no, no, not now, not this he closed his eyes tightly, and ceased his ministrations, his breathing uneven. He held his kin tighter, wishing the darkness to recede, his kiss become slow and shallow. He tried to hide within her, tried to keep the shadow at bay, hoping her presence would aid, as it had before.
Ill-gotten son... the whisper fired anew through his mind, and his father falling took precedence as the chief image in his thoughts, and though he was looking at Idril, he was staring right through her.
"Maeglin, what is the matter?" the maid whispered worriedly, seeing him stare so blankly at her, his dark eyes shadowed anew by that dread and desperation she had only seen in them since his return.
He was holding his mother close as the poison seeped the life out of her. How could you?
How could you, father?
A deep, sordid and relentless hatred engulfed him, try though he did to cling to the present, to her warmth, her touch.
He hated him. He hated Eöl so strongly it felt as if it would consume him, until naught but his writhing spirit remained. Nay, you must not cast blame onto the dead. He was your father.
Your doing.
If you had died, she would still be alive.
"Maeglin!" the sound of his name was dimmed and barely reached him, as many, many times before lately.
And then he could not breathe, he needed air, he needed her and Idril became his crutch, his salvation as the elf kissed her wildly, uncaring of how she was repeatedly calling his name. This had to stop, this had to cease. He willed the face of his father to disappear, the hatred to vanish, the pain to lessen.
"Maeglin, stop!" the words were shrilled and finally reached him, and his eyes refocused to find a frightened Idril staring back into them. Her lips were reddened and bruised, and he saw dark marks already forming where he was previously gently brushing his fingers around her neck.
They gaped at each other before Maeglin straightened as if charred by burning metal, and appalled he took a few steps back from her. He hurt her? He would never hurt her! What had he done?
In her face he saw worry, and fear, but also care which only lengthened his distress and guilt. Yet it somehow lessened the reckless beating of his heart. Idril very slowly righted herself from the table and stepped forward, even as her cousin took another step back. "What have I done...I did not mean- ," Maeglin croaked, unable to meet her eyes, retreating as she came closer.
"Maeglin," and his name now sounded both torment and bliss from her lips. "There is aught the matter with you," the maid gently reached for him when she was close enough. "Will you not tell me what it is?"
He looked to his hands, then back to her. Falling to his knees he sought the support of the wall, leaning into it with his shoulder. It was all whirling again.
Idril was on her knees beside him. "Tell me," she hedged, one hand smoothing black strands of hair from his face.
His breath came hitched and his vision blurred. "I hate him, Idril," he rasped.
"I hate him so much... my mother... I hate him," he repeated endlessly, and Idril could do nothing but place her arms around his shoulders, and hold him against her as her kin whispered fragments of his inner turmoil, pieces of pain. She listened, even as a dark foreboding filled her, try though she did to smother it.
"How could he, Idril? I was his only son, she his wife..."
After a while he quietened, repeating the same words, over and over.
"How could he?"
