Hi guys!

Before starting I want to thank Celridel for her help in editing this story as well as thank to d'elfe for her reviews.

In the last chapter, it was told how was that Maeglin was captured and taken to Morgoth, what happened between the Prince and the First Dark Lord we all know. Now let's see the reaction in Gondolin after his disappearence. Oh! And don't worry d'elfe! We'll know a little more about Duilin's children little before the destruction of the city.

Waiting for your reviews, guys!


Chapter 62: By the Pricking of My Thumbs

FA 509, December

Lord Maeglin's POV

'I have learned, that like love, darkness is relative. I looked into Nothing and I saw Chaos, things untouched by the Song, and even a glance can bend the mind forever.

Like any hunted animal, I was smitten in my weakest place. I was made a ghost to go back out into the world to do what the living would never do, sent like a gray wraith to live what days I have beneath the light, and pretend I see my shadow.

Outwardly unmarked, I returned to indifferent eyes and mouths that asked questions and did not care for the answers.

When fire and steel come to arrest the destiny of Gondolin, I will not weep. Nor laugh. I will take my terrible gift, take it with both hands when it comes.

Fate has sunk its hooks into all our jaws. What will be, will be. I only played my single note to completion, I did not compose the melody.

Gondolin will be unlived. Gods tossed souls like small bones and read what was written in them when they fell. The rape of the city was foretold. So, it is written in the scars in my heart, the ones that are carved immutably deep.

He will delight-He, the Scourge, the Pursuer, the Nameless for we have no comprehension of true darkness, and thus cannot name it. He no longer looks at the stars. They are the inert tokens of a defeated people, how could they spell his defeat?

Turgon seeks to gather all the light to him, to hoard it like a dragon hoards gold. But that cannot be. Call me madman, call me traitor if you would. Yet without darkness, you could never see the stars.


The Prince's absence had been unremarked except by the Court. His lieutenant ruled the House of the Mole so that Maeglin could devote his life to metallurgy, and the Prince often spent weeks oscillating between his mines and his smithy, ignoring the rest of Gondolin.

After a month had trickled by, Turgon began to grow concerned, but that concern soon evanesced when Maeglin appeared one day for the morning meal, which he seldom participated in.

The others were already seated when the Prince came in. There was no place set for him, so he helped himself a persimmon, the December apple, and sat down in his customary chair, to the right of Turgon.

The King reached over and gently squeezed the younger Elf's shoulder. "We have missed you, Maeglin. Where have you been?"

"Deep in the mines, in an artistic frenzy," Maeglin said, smiling. "You must forgive my rudeness, Uncle, but inspiration is fleeting, and I wanted to make the most of it."

Turgon returned the smile, seeming to fill with happiness at Maeglin's sudden talkativeness, like a bowl filling with wine. "Of course. Like you were with the Seventh Gate. You nearly fainted from exhaustion several times, and Elenmakil had to all but drag you away."

"Yes, rather like that," Maeglin agreed. "Elenmakil has given me nothing but grief since then," he added, quirking an eyebrow. "He still grumbles about playing the royal nursemaid."

The King laughed, and Eärendil joined his grandfather's laugh, although Tuor and Idril stayed silent. Maeglin turned his gaze to the boy, still smiling. "Good morning there, little Master."

Eärendil, delighted with the sudden attention from his uncle, grinned back across the table. "Good morning, Uncle Maeglin. I'm glad you're having breakfast with us."

"So am I," Maeglin agreed, taking another bite of his permission.

"I will be five years in January," the boy announced.

Maeglin raised his eyebrows. "Five years is a fine age."

Eärendil fidgeted in his chair. "Would you make me a gift, Uncle Maeglin?" he asked shyly.

The Prince smiled. "Indeed I will. But you must tell me what you want. I am no mind-reader."

Eärendil seemed fit to burst with delight. "Will you make me a sword, Uncle Maeglin? I would like a sword."

"Of course. A great warrior like you needs a trusty blade," Maeglin said heartily. "But only with your Mother's permission."

Both pairs of eyes turned to Idril. The Princess had been sitting silently, watching her son being charmed by Maeglin, and she saw it like a baby bird being fascinated by a coiled snake. Beyond her gift of clairvoyance, she had an intelligence that was unrivaled in Gondolin and was unimpressed by Maeglin's alibi, however thickly he slathered his tone with verisimilitude. "If it is not too much trouble," she agreed with a dazzling smile, and only Tuor noted how cold it was, like sunlight bouncing off a sheet of ice.

Maeglin grinned back. "None at all. Eärendil, give me your serviette."

The boy eagerly pushed the unused square of linen across the table, and Maeglin produced a stick of charcoal from his pocket, sketching on the cloth. He pushed it back to Eärendil. "Now tell me what design catches your eye. A rapier, a saber, a two-handed sword-"

"This one!" Eärendil exclaimed, nearly bouncing in his seat with glee.

"You have a good eye," Maeglin agreed. "A rapier it will be, made from damascened steel. You will not be able to get one like it for love or money." He laid a finger to his lips and winked at Eärendil. "Remember, you do not know a thing. This is a surprise!"

Eärendil nodded eagerly, his golden curls bouncing on his forehead. "I do not know a thing!"

Maeglin pushed back his chair and rose gracefully. "Uncle, cousin, Tuor, Eärendil," he said, nodding to each in turn. "If you will pardon me for being such a boor, I think I will leave you now."


Soon after, Idril finished her meal and excused herself, leaving the three she loved the most in the dining room.

She walked quietly, gathering her skirts about her so the swishing would not give her away, and after a minute of searching, found Maeglin in the glass corridor that connected the East Wing of the Palace to the West. He stood so that winter sun was to his right, turning his hand over and over, absorbed in what he was doing.

"What are you looking for, Maeglin?" she asked quietly, stopping an arms-reach away from him.

He did not seem surprised or even taken-aback by her proximity, nor did he look up. "Once upon a time," he replied quietly. "I heard that the shadow is your soul."

Idril pointed to the flickering shadow of his hand, splayed out on the pale pink quartz floor. "Your shadow is there."

His gaze followed her finger, but she did not think he saw anything there. He dropped his hands by his side and turned to look at her. For the first time, she saw how flat and dull his eyes were, as if they were not eyes, but the coins Men sometimes put over the eyes of the dead. "What are you doing here, Idril?" he said in a tone of soft rebuke. "After my first years in Gondolin, you have never willingly approached me."

Idril felt an inkling of pity in her heart, although she could not identify its source. "I do not know why," she said truthfully. It was cold here, and the stone floor was frigid beneath her feet. She shivered a little.

"How many tears did you cry for the Nírnaeth Arnoediad?" Maeglin asked suddenly. His face was impassive, mask-like, and unreadable.

"Battle of Unnumbered Tears. I could not count. How many did you cry?"

"None," he said, and suddenly he looked very old to Idril's eyes. "Tears came and burned in my eyes like magma, but they hardened there."

"Can you cry, Maeglin? Would you cry for anything?" she queried.

"I would cry for you, daughter of my mother's brother. Would you weep for me?"

"I would weep for the passing of any life," Idril answered quietly.

Maeglin studied her for a while, without the faintish flicker of desire in his eyes. "Then all is as it should be," he said finally. "Go back to your husband and child, Idril. Eärendil's gift will be finished by the end of this month."

He did not wait for her response, walking down the corridor in long, confident strides. He bypassed his smithy, instead taking the path that led from the King's House to the training fields.


He found Duilin and Glorfindel walking the opposite way and greeted them with a pleasant smile. "Good day to you, my Lords."

The two stopped, looking at him with surprise, and in Duilin's case, wary eyes.

"Good morning, Lord Maeglin," Glorfindel said. "You seem in quite a fine mood today."

Maeglin gestured around, at the snow that stretched like a field of diamonds in the sun, pushed into ridges by a bracing wind. "Who would not be? I was merely on my way to the Training Square to see how the recruits are progressing. I hope I may see some new faces in my House."

Duilin raised his eyebrows into cynical arches. "I thought you did not oversee your own House."

Maeglin smiled, ignoring the Swallow's remark. Out of all the Elf-Lords, he hated Duilin most of all, but there was no need for an argument, not now, when a colder vengeance than his was already in motion. "Glorfindel," he said to the golden-haired Lord. "You must come by my smithy soon. I have found some things that might interest you."

Duilin's eyebrows rose even higher. Glorfindel flushed, saying "Certainly, Lord Maeglin. I appreciate your kindness."

"Excellent," Maeglin agreed. "Now pardon me, my Lords. I am going to speak to the trainer."


Once the dark-haired Elf was a ways down the path, Duilin turned to Glorfindel. "Elaborate."

"On what?" Glorfindel protested, feigning innocence. "On the Prince's changed demeanor?"

"Don't play the fool, Glorfindel, even if you do it rather well," Duilin retorted. "You are taking up metallurgy?"

"Well...yes," the half-Vanya faltered. "Not for long. I just needed to make something...for somebody," he ended weakly.

Duilin grinned. "Practice your lying, Glorfindel, you're no good at it. So, you too have fallen from the bachelor ranks."

"Hush!" Glorfindel said. "This is a secret between you and me, understand? Woe to you if you let it slip."

"Friend, you don't have to threaten me. But I will tell you something Egalmoth told me when I met my wife: 'Love is something you cannot hide,'" Duilin replied.

The half-Vanya was about to answer when an angry shout shattered the glassy winter silence.

"You goddamn Judas!"


Maeglin had approached Laura, who was watching her recruits with folded arms.

She kept her eyes on the trainees, her voice calm and emotionless, stone-cold. "Get lost, Maeglin. It's too late to apologize."

"I am not coming for forgiveness," Maeglin said civilly. "I only wanted to hold a conversation with you."

Laura tapped her fingers on her elbow impatiently. "Is this going to take long?" she said cuttingly. "Do you want to see if your venomous words work on me as well as they worked on Alassë? If so, get to the point. I can't stand your presence for long."

"Others seem to stand it remarkably well."

For the first time, she turned to look at him. His face was pleasant, but there was nothing else there. "Why the big act?" she spat. "People like you don't change without miracles."

"Perhaps it was a miracle."

"Sure. You had a revelation in the mines?" she mocked. "Who appeared to you? Manwë? Ulmo? Or was it someone more your type? Maybe someone who lives up North?"

Maeglin's quiet eyes did not flicker, but Laura felt a giant hand reaching around her heart, crushing it with an iron grasp. In those quiet dark eyes, she had found the truth, a truth that would have consequences greater than one could even imagine, and it siphoned dread into her veins.

"You goddamn Judas!" she screamed at him.


When Glorfindel and Duilin came running, Laura had knocked the unresisting Prince to the ground. She was kneeling on his chest, her hands wrapped around his throat, throttling him.

"Laura, enough!" Glorfindel cried, horrified.

Duilin, quicker and far more pragmatic, buried one hand in Laura's hair, grabbed the collar of her tunic in the other, and hauled her off the Prince.

"Let me go!" Laura screamed at him. "This fucking murderous bastard betrayed us all!"

Duilin shook her hard. "Enough, woman! You have already brought enough on your head. I'm taking you to the King."

"No," Glorfindel interjected. "Duilin, let me talk to her. You stay with the recruits."

With a grimace, Duilin pushed Laura away from him and crouched on his heels beside Maeglin's prostrate form. The Elf's face was nearly purple, livid marks already beginning to stand out on his throat. He choked in huge, hoarse breaths.

"You reek of treason, you fucking bastard! You murderer of innocents!" Laura screamed back, as Glorfindel guided her away from the Training Square.

Duilin helped the young Prince sit up.

"How's your throat?" he inquired compassionately.

Maeglin shook his head as a fit of violent, lung-tearing coughing overtook him. After a minute, he spat blood into the packed snow, and said in a hoarse voice, "It has seen better days. Thank you for your concern."

"On your feet. We'll find Glorfindel and Laura and take you to the King."

Maeglin shook his head again, holding up a hand. "No need, Lord Duilin." He struggled painfully to his feet, holding his head for a minute as the blood rushed to it. "Her past has made her paranoid...irrationally suspicious. Please do not tell the King. There is no point in being punished for something that was not her fault." He walked away, leaving Duilin amazed.

Finally, the Swallow turned and clapped his hands loudly. "Not a single word of this!" he shouted commandingly to the field of recruits. "Carry on with your exercises!"


"What was that?!" Glorfindel said furiously. He had dragged her to the outskirts of the city, where they were alone, knowing that the fewer people heard of this, the better. "Do you understand that you tried to kill the Prince of Gondolin! The King's nephew!"

"He's a fucking traitor! He's a killer!" Laura shouted back.

Glorfindel took a deep breath and held it, then let it go, watching it plume out in the frosty air. Then he took one of Laura's hands in his. "Maistalda, I do not understand."

But Laura snatched her hand away, her green eyes filled with rage again.

"Do you want to know why I call him that?" she challenged. "Come on, let's get our horses and I'll show you."


Laura and Lord Glorfindel dismounted on the edge of the grove. The snow had turned Alassë's gravesite into a fairy-tale world, making everything unrecognizably beautiful. It wrapped the place in a perfect blanket, and the only variation in the white landscape was a bouquet of pale pink hellebore, placed carefully in the center of the copse.

"Do you know what this is?" Laura demanded.

Glorfindel shook his head.

"It's Alassë's tomb," she said, her voice becoming choked.

"The tomb of your friend?" Glorfindel repeated without understanding.

"Yes, the tomb of my friend. Alassë loved Lord Maeglin, loved with him all her heart. She taught him about emotions, what it is to feel, and how to say those feelings...the same thing you taught me. The only difference is Alassë gave Maeglin her soul...and that motherfucker trampled it. He made her believe he loved her, he even kissed her, and then he broke her heart. Alassë faded. She died of grief and I had to bury her myself. So, tell me he's not a goddamn murderous bastard."

There was a long silence as Laura stared at the mound that was her friend's grave. Glorfindel looked at her. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and the snowflakes had melted into droplets on her eyelashes, dripping down and mixing with the tears on her cheeks. Some flakes clung to her straight black hair, and he realized how intensely he wanted to comfort her, to hold her and warm her with his body. Instead, he took one of her hands and caressed it with infinite tenderness. "I'm so sorry, Maistalda. I didn't know. He is a murderer, but that does not mean he is a bastard, or even less, a traitor."

Laura snatched her hand away again, folding her arms over her chest as if to make doubly sure he wouldn't try to do it again. "He's a bastard. Maybe not by birth-I don't know the specifics, but he's a despicable person. He's a fucking traitor, just like his father."

"And why do you think that?"

"The last time I saw him, when I came to confront him on Alassë's death, he told me he would tear me to pieces if he saw me again. Now today he comes to have a conversation with me." Laura's jaw clenched. "I saw it in his eyes. Something happened in the mines, Glorfindel. He's found a way to chop us into dog meat."

"Laura, that's hardly clinching proof," Glorfindel protested.

"I'm not stupid, Glorfindel!" Laura replied angrily. "I was a spy my whole life. I know when someone lies. I can read a person like a fucking primer book, and I know Maeglin has betrayed our city."

"Why?"

Laura scoffed. "Why not? The Nameless One gets to take out the Noldor and Maeglin gets his revenge and his ultimate prize, the Princess."

"Laura," Glorfindel said carefully. "Perhaps Maeglin has always followed the Princess, but I do not think he wants her as you suggest. We do not wed kin so near."

"What do you think he wants her for, then! To play chess with? You are very innocent, Blondie."

"Laura-"

"Listen, Glorfindel. Even angels of light can sink very low. Maeglin is not an angel of light, but he can still have a long tumble into darkness." When seeing that the Elf-lord opened his mouth to refute her words, Laura raised her hand. "I see that you don't believe me, and I won't bother to try and convince you anymore. But I can tell you that Maeglin is a bastard, a traitor, and a murderer of innocents."

She leaped nimbly back onto Viento Nocturno, but Glorfindel called her back.

"Laura, I do not know what to think about this, but you cannot do what you did today again. Do you know what happened last time someone assaulted a member of the royal house? I cannot protect you from that."

"I heal myself, remember?"

Glorfindel smiled grimly. "In the Council, you told the King that there was a way you could be killed. I am certain that after a few attempts, he would find that way."

Laura looked down at him, her mouth working. Finally, she replied coldly, "Okay. I promise to behave."

Glorfindel drew another deep breath. He knew he could trust her promise.


Idril woke up screaming, the sheets beneath slick with her sweat. She struggled through thickets of fear, writhing in the tangled beddings, staring up into the atemporal darkness.

Then calm hands were stripping away the cloth, holding her shoulders.

"Idril. Idril, what is it?"

Idril felt as if she was looking at her husband through the compound eye of a dragonfly, and in each eye was a different aspect of Tuor. She saw the child, waving goodbye to his mother, his eyes wide, solemn, uncomprehending. She saw a youth, his chin still untouched with the first hint of manhood, an iron collar around his neck, the whip of an overseer carving bloody crosses into the flesh of his back. She saw the young man, his beard frozen, trekking across a white wilderness. She saw a man standing on the shores of a grey-green sea, his golden hair wild, his face exalted, turning with the wheeling of the gulls. She saw the man that tossed her up into the air on their wedding night, spinning her around until they were both giddy and nearly sick with laughter. And she saw a charred corpse, a skeleton burned clean of flesh, the ring she had given him melted into a pool of gold beneath its blackened fingers.

Idril's whimpers began to mount into a crescendoing wail. "Oh no no no no no Tuor no!"

Tuor pressed her against his shoulder, muffling her cries, stroking her golden hair in smooth, tender gestures. "Idril, let me understand. Let me understand, darling."

His golden beard was prickling her ear and the side of her face. It was good and right, and Idril felt her heartbeat slow. The terror trickled away, along with all her strength, and she slumped against him.

Tuor held her tightly, still marveling how well her body fit against his as if they had been carved for each other, her curves matching his angles. "What is it, Idril?" he asked again. He had seen her pale eyes and knew this was more than a nightmare.

She drew a long shuddering breath. "Go see if Eärendil is still sleeping, love. Let me gather my thoughts."

Tuor did as she bid, getting up and going over to the bed by the window, where his son was. By some miracle, Eärendil was asleep, his face angelic in the light of the westering moon. He smiled lovingly, stroked his son's golden curls, and returned to Idril.

He sat on the bed, feeling it dimple under his weight, taking her hands in his. They were cold and shaking as if with palsy.

"I dreamed," Idril began, her voice low. "I dreamed that Gondolin was burning. I dreamed I ran through the streets calling for you, although I could not remember your face. I tripped over piles of corpses, and I beat away the carrion and I screamed your name, but you would not come to me. I saw dragons and I saw Balrogs. I saw orcs and trolls and wolves and other monsters, but they did not see me, for I was a dreamer still. I saw Gondolin become a sepulcher, our fear and hope and suffering buried beneath its crushed walls. There would be no resurrection."

Tuor held his wife's hands tighter. "So, the Lord of the Deep has come to you in dreams since my message fell on stone ears."

She nodded mutely, very beautiful in the dim moonlight.

He sighed; his eyes downcast. "Great is the Fall of Gondolin," he repeated gloomily, remembering the words of the Northern Prophecy.

Idril's hand left his grasp, taking his chin and pulling it towards her. "There are things to be done," she said, and he was inspired by the blue fire in her eyes.

"What?" he whispered.

"We need cunning before boldness. My father always thought if the Unnamed found this place, he would lay siege. That is why there are so many cisterns and reservoirs underneath the city. But there will be no siege. The Unnamed will throw the concentrated force of his servants in one blow. The cisterns will not be needed for water, but they can give us a way out. We dig," she said firmly. "We make a tunnel in our own house. Go under the Main Gate and through Amon Gwareth, out into Tumladen." Her eyes were blazing now, intense. "We do it, Tuor. We and the most trusted of your house. We tell no one else. No one!"

"That is a long tunnel," he said slowly. "We will need advice in the building, Idril. Should we not ask Maeglin?"

An expression of horror crossed Idril's face, and realization pierced Tuor as if with a blade.

"No," she said. "No. My cousin has held the seeds of evil in his hands for many a year, and now he intends to sow them in his mother's land. We seek help from no one, especially from the House of the Mole. Maeglin gathers the grimmest and most battle-hardened of the Noldor in his House. Some-most-there are good of heart, but there are some less good. Do you understand me?"

Tuor struggled to do so, to reconcile the idea that the Prince had betrayed Gondolin. "Are you certain, Idril?" he asked, but her eyes, white like seafoam, left no room for questions.

He took her hand and kissed it. "Then so be it."


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