Disclaimer: I will say this once and once only:
All characters, places, things and the original conception of this story belong the Tolkien Estate. I use them only for my enjoyment, and make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: This is the beginning of a story that I came across while rummaging through old things, and decided to take the risk of posting. I say it a risk for many reasons, but mostly because it is a different style compared to what I normally write. Therefore, feedback is greatly appreciated.
As far as the story goes, it was born of a hidden interest I have always harbored for Maeglin, and a try at explaining why I always pitied him, aside from the obvious.
Maeglin Lómion
Introduction
A mother looks down upon her child, and she cannot see the light in his face. She hears only the pain, the sorrow of his tears that echo in every dark crevice of the forest. Never before have these woods- old beyond all memory- been the home to a child. They are the home of the miserable, the tainted, the lost. The thick air and ominous trees do not welcome innocence. They do not understand happiness. As the mother looks upon him she is moved nearly to tears with him. Already crying. One breath of the poisonous air and he is choked by the same dark blanket of despair that she unwittingly stepped into so long ago. Yet as slowly as the days- the nights –pass it has been just over a year and no more since she first stepped into this breathless dark.
A father looks down upon the child and he does not hear his heart-piercing tears. He only sees the light- the light that seems to come from within him. The light of one who has not seen the dark. Though to most the light of the child would be dim indeed, it is blinding to his father. Blinding as the light of the child's mother was. Yet this light is not the same. He cannot say why but it is a light so bright that it is darkness. It is not a light created by light, but a light created by the darkness surrounding it. As the father looks down upon him, he cannot help but wonder. How can his own son have a light of his own? For he, though he has seen light, has never made it. And to look upon his own son, his son who seems so unaccustomed to darkness, and see that light, that innocence in his face, is something he cannot comprehend.