Hello people!

I want to thank Celridel as my beta but also for writing this chapter since the first part (when Maeglin is made prisoner) was written entirely by Celridel, the rest was with a perfect writing thanks to her incredible beta work. Also I want to thank d'elfe and Ducking Cute for their encouraging reviews.

This is where Maeglin is caught and we all know what happens later, along some other things.

Waiting for your reviews, guys!


Chapter 61: Run, Boy, Run

FA 509

The Fëanorian lamp illuminated the dark cavern, throwing a fairy ring of blue light. Straddling the edge of this light was Maeglin, driving a wedge under a massive boulder. He was deep in the bones of the earth, outside the Echoriath in a hidden tunnel of his own making. He had bled Anghabar dry of all its ores and had no intention of digging for scraps. Instead, he had followed a rich vein of silver out and under the Encircling Mountains, cleverly concealing the entrance to avoid Turgon's wrath. He liked it down in the tunnels and hidden ways of the earth, where the darkness was rich and primal, and he was the only light-bringer.

He forced a wedge and shim into the groove he had chiseled, then brought down his hammer with careful, deliberate blows, pausing to let the boulder react to the pressure. Like living things, stones could grow accustomed to nearly anything, given time. Until the final blow, that was. Maeglin swung again, and the boulder split. He laid down his hammer and examined the pieces, grinning as he noted chunks of silver ore as big as plover egg.

Then a glint of yellow green caught his eye. He caught up the lamp from its ledge and peered closer, feeling apprehension pinch his guts for the first time. It was a deposit of peridot. He must be far deeper than he realized.

Maeglin straightened, adrenaline sharpening his senses to a razor edge. A draft of stale air blew up, and he stepped over the cracked boulder, holding the lamp in front of him. His footing slipped on the narrow ledge, and only his uncanny balance saved him from a fall.

About two ells below him he saw another tunnel, this one more crudely made. The air was more than stale, it was putrid with the smell of rotting flesh and unwashed bodies.

Understanding widened his eyes, but it was already too late. Amplified by the tunnel, he heard the stamping run of many feet, like the slapping of great hands on the stone. They had come. They had heard Hùrin's cries-curse the man!

Imminent danger had always crystallized his thoughts into a precise, icy lattice. He understood he could not run. They would see his tunnel and come to investigate, following it straight to Gondolin. Even if he blocked it up behind him with the boulder, they would still hear the noise and be put on guard.

Maeglin sprang into action, moving like a madman. The lamp, made of slim chains, collapsed easily into his hand and he slid into his pouch. Then he stooped and seized either end of the boulder half he had just split. Tendons stood out on his face, his huge muscles bulging, and he gritted his teeth so hard he thought they would shatter. Finally, he had the boulder up, wedging it in so it blocked up his tunnel, and stuffing the cracks with smaller stones.

He heard mumbling down the tunnel and knew they had heard the noise. Without waiting, he put his dagger between his teeth, seized his hammer, and dropped lightly down into the Orc tunnel.

The stone under his feet was slimy and slick with some unknown substance, and the air was almost poisonous. The tunnel walls were rudely carved, but wide enough for four to run abreast.

Maeglin darted down the tunnel, his light shoes making little noise. It was dark, save for an occasional red torch flaring at a turn or curve, but he could hear the Orc party growing closer. They were in their own haunts, nimble and well-fed, running quick as weasels in the dark. But he was a stranger, already weary, and he had to run hunched over, as the cavern roof was very low.

There was no place for him to hide, no branching tunnels or crevasses large enough to conceal him.

The fretwork of his thoughts was beginning to disintegrate under the weight of his fear.

Run, boy, run. That was what his mother had said. He remembered the panic, how his hands had fumbled as he seized up Anguirel, and how they had fled into the night like thieves. He remembered the guilty weight of the priceless sword strapped to his back and wished he had with him now. Like a fool, he had left it in his lodgings, thinking it would hamper his mining.

Nothing was the same, he realized. His mother was gone, the sword was gone, the boy that had fled into the shadowy, tree-twisted night of Nan Elmoth was gone too.

Run, boy, run.

The time for running was over.

Maeglin put his back to the wall, the dagger still in his teeth, holding his hammer in both hands. An outcropping of rock helped hide him from view, and he stood still.

He could hear them now, and to his surprise, found he could decipher the general meaning. It seemed to be a pidgin mix of coarsely pronounced and mangled Sindarin, intermingled with gutturally suggestive sounds. It was a brutal, hideous jargon, but at least Maeglin was able to understand it.

He heard their muttering, aware that they smelled him, and they would be on the alert.

The first Orc rounded the curve, and its bloodshot eyes barely had time to widen before Maeglin's hammer crashed down, smashing its skull like it was a rotting melon, the huge maul bedecked with blood and bits of brain.

He was not so lucky with the second. It was wearing an iron helmet, and it yelled a warning before his second stroke finished it off.

Then they came swarming around him, blackened scimitars and spears howling for blood.

Maeglin brought his hammer smashing down again and again, until carcasses sprawled in a knee-deep pile around his legs, but the Orcs continued flooding in until he could not move, his arms pinioned to his sides by the swarming bodies.

One of them spat in his face, a gobbet of phlegm mixed with fragments of rotting meat dripping down his cheek. Another held a blade to his throat, hissing, "I'll make you squeal, you bloody-handed Elf!"

"There's no time to kill him properly," moaned a yellow-fanged Orc on Maeglin's left.

"Enough!" A huge, gravelly voice snarled, and another Orc shouldered his way through the throng until he stood in front of Maeglin, nearly nose to nose. The Orc Chieftain's hair was pale as a bone, and he stood nearly Man-high, only slightly stooped. His eyes were yellow like the eyes of a cat, and a strange mark that Maeglin could not identify was tattooed on his right cheekbone, curling like a tail around his ear. He wore full armor of boiled leather with metal plates, a spiked helmet on his head, and a necklace of bleached fingerbones looped around his thick neck. Strips of serrated tissue hung down from his square jawline, a fleshy fringe.

Maeglin stayed perfectly still as the Chieftain studied him. Finally, the Orc's lip curled to reveal filed fangs. "We ain't killing him, boys."

There was some cursing and scuffling among the ranks.

"He killed Azga," a voice in the back ventured.

"Azga was a fool," the Chieftain snarled back. "We don't find an Elven Lordling every day. Tie him."

Clawed hands seized him in an iron grip. His hands were lashed behind his back and a noose made of coarse rope was put around his neck. He felt two Orcs get behind him and fall to quarreling over his sable jerkin, pulling at it until it ripped and his torso was left naked. The Orcs tore it off him and retreated, letting the Chieftain step up again.

"Where yer from, maggot, eh?" he asked, his voice raspy and guttural as if his vocal cords had been strained by many screams.

"Doriath," Maeglin said carefully. The Orc Chieftain slammed him against the wall so that the back of his skull ricocheted painfully of the stone.

"Doriath's gone, maggot. It's under the bloody rule o' the Bat now."

Maeglin cursed inside, remembering Glorfindel's words that 'News travels slow.' He had not known Doriath was destroyed. "I escaped from Doriath," he said, his face cold and expressionless. "Now I am a wanderer."

Again, he was slammed against the wall, and pain pounded through Maeglin's head. "Your clothes are made for a maggot wiv brass. And yer too well-fed to be a stray. A dog you are but not a stray one." The Orc Chieftain kicked Maeglin in the kneecap with an iron-tipped boot, and it was all the Prince could do to keep from falling. "Lie to me again and I'll squeeze your eyeballs out, you miserable rat!" Then something flickered in the Chieftain's urine-yellow eyes, a spark that boded no good for the Prince. He dropped Maeglin and the Elf slid against the wall, the last pale splinter of hope dying inside him as he read his interrogator's eyes.

The Chieftain's face curved into a grin, his filed fangs glittering in the flickering torchlight. "You're the Prince!" He threw back his head, howling with grisly laughter. "Boys, we caught ourselves a bleeding Prince!" He jabbed Maeglin in the chest with a long, pointed fingernail, as if encouraging him to share the joke. "The Bat told Our Lord all about you. Her Ladyship was right talkative, she was." Again, Maeglin thought of the night they had fled Nan Elmoth, and how he had often looked up, thinking some winged nightmare was hovering above them, a fear that was dispelled as soon as the sun rose.

Confused mutters came from the throng and the Chieftain turned. "No more stinking scout duty, that's what it means, boys. We'll be sitting high and dry in Angband, eating roast meat for a year. Much man-flesh as you greedy louts want! We caught ourselves the Hidden City's Prince! Ya hoi!"

There was a wild clamor babel of baying voices, hooting laughter, and loud cheers.

"Ya hoi! Ya harri hoi!"

The rope around Maeglin's neck was picked up and spears point pricked at his back, goading him on. The Orc regiment ran through the tunnel at a steady, relentless pace, gobbling up the miles until Maeglin was numb with exhaustion.

He allowed his mind to slip free, until the sounds of hoarse singing and the pain that encompassed his body was only faint things, far away and unimportant.

First, he thought of Idril. The Idril in his mind had no child or husband. She was a wild thing, made of jeweled light, lovely and utterly inimitable, a creature he must tame. He thought of Idril's many gifts that lay scattered on his workbench, unfinished now, and unfinished forever, in all likelihood. They were not so much attempts to gain her affection now, but an increasing desire to bind some of her light, to keep it with him like a talisman. He remembered one gift he had never been able to finish, sitting lonely in some dusty corner, and he thought of what had happened that day.


Flashback

'He turned the brooch over in his hands, admiring it. He rarely felt satisfied in his work, but this one sat right in his heart and hand. It was a penannular brooch, made from silver, set with extraordinary delicate filigree, consisting of spiral forms and interlaced patterns. On one end of the brooch was a pearl, pale and perfect, with a sheen like starlight on seafoam. On the other end was a circle of amber, polished smooth, glowing gold, so it seemed like the sun and the moon had been shrunk down and sat on either end of the ornament.

He smiled at it, but the sound of footsteps quickly erased the expression off his face, and he looked up irritably, expecting Glorfindel, who had been coming more and more frequently to work on his gift.

Instead, the black-haired woman stood framed in his smithy-doorway. "Laura," he said, raising an eyebrow slightly. "How kind of you to visit."

"You goddamn murderer," she answered, her voice cold and emotionless.

"I beg your pardon?" the Prince inquired blandly. "I have no idea what you mean."

Laura stepped inside; her fists clenched into tight balls. "Then I'll refresh your memory since you don't have the decency to think of her. Alassë, our mutual friend, approached you. She was kind to you; she gave you everything without asking for anything in return and-"

"Ah! So that is her spin on the story?" Maeglin interrupted. "And I suppose you believed her? I thought you were more insightful than that, Laura."

"Yeah? Well, you know what else I thought? I thought you might actually be a good person, so that shows how insightful I am. You're not only ungrateful, but you're also a murderer."

Maeglin laughed mockingly, and a spasm of anger passed quickly over Laura's face.

"Murderer, aye? So, she told you she was going to fade, like the tragedienne she is."

"She didn't just tell me, she did! I was there, you goddamn heartless bastard!" Laura shouted at him.

The Prince looked at her for a moment and saw hatred in her green eyes. So another one hated him. That was no longer fresh news.

"If she did, it is her fault," he replied, looking back down at his brooch. "She made the situation a tragedy and cast herself as the leading actress."

In one quick gesture, Laura leaped forward, snatching the brooch from him and stomping it under her booted heel. "You disgust me," she hissed at him.

She kicked the ruined brooch back at him: it scudded across the stone floor and he stopped it with the tip of his foot, his thin, handsome face going deathly white, a cold anger rising in him. "What do you know of disgust, Laura?" he asked. "How could you be disgusted by anything when you are one of the lowest life forms that ever crawled out of a midden heap?"

"Why's that? Because I'm a former assassin? I'm the picture of reform. I've achieved things you'll never achieve."

"Oh? Pray do tell. Have you gained Glorfindel's love yet? He thinks he knows you, Laura, but trust me, once he sees your true self, he'll be repulsed. You think you can fool anyone? I know that your reform is nothing but a veneer to hide behind, to trick the world, just like Hwa-Yong was."

Laura paled, but the voice that called Wilwarinda erased some of the sting. "No, Maeglin," she said coldly. "Change is real. I changed. I got friends. You've changed too, but the other way, and now you have nothing but victim syndrome and madness."

"Save your pity for yourself, woman. I am a Prince, not one of Nature's miscarriages," he said, hoping to provoke her into attacking.

Laura smiled dangerously. "No, you bastard," she replied. "I'm not going to kill you. As I said, I've changed for the better, but it looks like the acorn doesn't fall far from a Nan Elmoth tree."

At that rage blazed in Maeglin's heart to a sudden fury, and he closed the distance between them in a single step.

"Come on, you fucking bastard," Laura goaded through clenched teeth. "I want to see you're as good at fighting as you are with poisonous words."

Maeglin raised his chin, taking a deep breath. He was not willing to do this. Not yet. "I see you have changed sides," he said coolly.

"Right, because everyone hates you. They goddamn well should," Laura spat.

The Prince studied her for a few minutes. His eyes matched the way he felt towards the world: dark and cold. The depths of his black eyes were pitless, like holes opened up in space, eldritch and distant. "Very well then, Laura Kinney. It is clear that we are no longer friends. The door is over there. Use it. And if I see you again, I will treat you the way I treat my foes. I will end you."

"I'm looking forward to it, Prince," Laura said, making a mocking curtsey. And without further ado, she left. They would never see each other again at the smithy.

End of flashback


Maeglin saw the brooch in his mind's eye. The framework had been bent, and the amber piece shattered. He could have salvaged the pearl, and he had intended to, for pearls were a rare currency in a landlocked city, but for some reason he never had. That brooch had sat on his workbench, a silent reminder of things he'd rather forget.

He had not noticed any general change in the city's manner towards him, nor heard anything about Alassë. It seemed Laura had kept that tragedy to herself.

The spear dug into his shoulder blades and he bit his lip to hide a groan, stumbling at the sudden force. An Orc jabbed a knife-handle into his back, just above the kidney, and the pain was excruciating and deep.

His mind drifted back to Idril, like a lodestone swinging North. How remote she was, how far above his grasp, standing goddess-like on her plinth. If he wanted to have her, he would have to burn her pedestal down. And she would be his phoenix, his darling, his light-giver, and she would dance for him among the ashes...


"Again, again, again!" the little boy exclaimed, jumping on the bench in a burst of childish delight. He clapped his hand and giggled with joy. He was a handsome child, not as broad-shouldered as his father, but with eyes blue as the sea, hair the color of the summer sun, Gondolin's own golden child. Ecthelion sat by his side, dressed in grey breeches and a blue tunic besprent with diamonds that looked like drops of morning dew. His eyes gleamed with joy, and he held a silver flute in his hands.

"Velindo, play itagain, pleaaaaase?" Eärendil begged, smiling at the Elf-Lord with the smile only a happy child can have.

Ecthelion laughed, the child's exuberance giving him a new love for life. How much the Princess's son reminded him of his little Lindil! Those childish gestures, the insatiable love for music, the pleading smile, the wheedling ways.

"No, my little one. Amil is going to come and scold me for letting your stay awake past your bedtime?"

Eärendil shook his head solemnly. "No, amil will not know. It will be a secret, Velindo."

"A secret, aye?" Ecthelion, pretending to be thoughtful. "And what secret would that be?"

Eärendil gestured with childish seriousness for the Elf-Lord to lean close. "We will not tell amil," he whispered in Ecthelion's ear. "We will stay up all night long and you will teach me to whistle. So go on, go on, go on, Velindo!" he added so loudly that Ecthelion jerked his head away.

"Very well," he answered gravely, rubbing his leaf-shaped and sadly abused ear. "But on one condition."

Eärendil stared at him questioningly, eyes rund. And before the little prince could say or do anything, Ecthelion took him in his arms and began to tickle him. The peredhel's laughter rung in the main garden of the palace. Once he was on his feet, the Elf-lord began to toss the little boy into the air, which made Eärendil laugh harder.

"I see you two are having a good time," a female voice said.

Elf-lord and Elfling turned to see the Princess, standing in the entrance, a smile on her lips.

"Ah! Pardon me, Silverfoot," Ecthelion said, the little boy squirming in his arms. "But Eärendil must fulfill his promise if he wants me to teach him to whistle tomorrow."

"Not tomorrow, today! Today! Today!" exclaimed the boy.

Idril smiled. "No, my son, is it tonight, and night is the is time for sleep."

"I'm not sleepy, amil! Right, Velindo?" the little prince protested.

In response, Ecthelion began to sing, and his silver voice seemed to intertwine with the moonlight, bringing serenity.

"I see the moon, the moon sees me

Shining through the leaves of the old oak tree

It shines in my arms, on the one I love

Who I love more than the stars above.

I hear the nightingale, the nightingale hears me

Singing from the leaves of the old oak tree

It sings to me; it sings to the one I adore

Who I will love more and more."

By the first verse, Eärendil's breathing had begun to come slow and steady and when Ecthelion was done, the boy was fast asleep. Carefully, he gave the sleeping child to Idril, whose blue eyes were grateful and misty with tears, like a field of bluebells after rain.

Ecthelion smiled back at her, feeling his heart sing with joy. If he could string a necklace of memories, he would take this happy one and put it so it would sit over his heart. Carefully, he smoothed back the boy's curls from his eyes. "He reminds of a little Elfling I knew many centuries ago," he said.

Idril shifted the child, hugging Ecthelion with a free hand. The Elf-Lord returned the embrace, although it surprised him. It was not common for the Princess to offer such displays of affection.

"Ecthelion, there is no better person Eärendil could be with," she said fondly. "If I had to choose who would care for my little one, it would be a difficult decision between my Atar and you, Velindo."

Ecthelion's eyes were soft and grateful. "That means a great deal to me, little Lindil," he said, leaning to kiss her forehead like he had when she was an Elfchild.

Idril smiled and Eärendil shifted in his mother's arms.

"I best take him to his bed," said the Princess softly "Thank you very much for spending time with him"

"Always a pleasure, Lindil," replied the Lord of the Fountains.

She smiled again and walked away with her sleeping son in her arms. Ecthelion stayed still, lit by moonlight, so engrossed thoughts and memories that the voice of his dearest friend startled him.


"What are you thinking, Ecthelion?"

The Noldo turned to see Glorfindel. The half-Vanya's long golden hair was loose, and he nodded cheerfully towards Ecthelion. "Is this the time for happy memories or sad ones?" Glorfindel continued, seeing Ecthelion did not answer.

Lord Ecthelion smiled. All his memories of Idril were happy. Seeing the smile, Glorfindel dangled the necklace in his hand, showing to his friend. "What do you think?"

The Noldo took it from Glorfindel and examined it carefully. It was a simple chain necklace made from platinum. The silver-white pendant, crafted from the same material, was shaped like a galloping horse, its mane and tail flying out behind it. On either end of the pendant was a lush green emerald, set in circles of silver.

"It is a pretty piece, but I hardly think that the one who made it will be accepted by the House of the Mole," he replied, returning the jewel.

"Hardly!" the half-Vanya said triumphantly. "I made this necklace."

Ecthelion raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Forgive me, I did not know who the crafter was. When will you give it to her?"

"In a few weeks. I have some finishing touches, but I wanted your opinion."

"My opinion is that it is quite delightful. Why the horse?"

"It is the animal she loves the most," Glorfindel said instantly. "And you should see how she skilled she is at horse-riding, Ecthelion. She is a true master!"

Ecthelion smiled. "You are most assuredly in love, my friend."

Glorfindel felt blood rush to his cheeks. Yes, he was deeply in love with Laura, he loved her now and he would love her to the end of time.

"Do you think she will like it?" he asked shyly.

The Noldo nodded slowly. "Glorfindel, you poured your heart into it. When you give it to her, do not give into platitudes or truisms. Speak the words that came from the very wellspring of your soul, and she will understand you." He nodded towards the necklace that shone in the palm of Glorfindel's hands. "You have some time to pluck up the courage. There are still some details you could refine."

Glorfindel sighed. "I know, but I am not sure what to do."

"Find Maeglin," Ecthelion suggested.

"I have scoured the city, and I cannot find him," Glorfindel complained. "It is like he was been plucked off the face of the earth. If he does not appear soon, I will have to ask his second-in-command."

Ecthelion raised his eyebrows. "Rnondro? He is a grim one."

"Grim hardly covers it. He could kill a dragon with one glance."

"Be patient," Ecthelion said, smiling. "Sooner or later Maeglin will materialize. It is not as though he has left Gondolin."

Glorfindel sighed. "As usual, you are right. Ecthelion, will you do one thing for me?"

"Ask away, my friend."

"Pray for me, so that she will accept my affections," Glorfindel said, his eyes blue and liquid in the moonlight.

In response, Lord Ecthelion smiled at him.


*Note by Celridel:

I know that Orcs have their own language, derived from Westron, but since Westron doesn't come into play until the Númenoreans come around, and since Orcs are corrupted Elves, I imagine that they would use their previous language until Westron becomes the Common Tongue. :)

P.S. Also, tattoos have been around since Neolithic times, so I don't think it's an anomaly to put them in Tolkien's world.


Waiting for your reviews, guys!