There were monsters in the walls, watching as they made their way through the twisting, turning maze of hallways. They curled around corners, coiled along the pillars, their black eyes blinking in pace with his footsteps.
Maeglin, they called. Maeglin. Maeglin. Maeglin.
"Do not mind them, Lómion," the golden one whispered, laying a slender hand on his shoulder. "We will be out soon. Do not look at them."
Maeglin bowed his head and allowed himself to be guided along.
The world around slowly became a blur of red. Time was a strange concept here, and hard to keep track of, but the colors put him at ease.
The golden creature continued to speak in soothing tones which broke against his aches and pains in soft waves of warmth.
You will be safe soon. Safe and happy. Try not to dwell on things past. Things will be better soon.
"What am I to do when I get there?" he asked, pulling his mind briefly to the surface of its foggy depths.
The golden one smiled.
They had reached the end of the red, and a blackness loomed before them.
The monsters watched from a distance, quivering in anticipation.
"Do not worry. I will tell you when the time is right," the creature said. He took Maeglin's bound hands within his own, and slipped a long golden finger through the knots, parting the rope. "But first, you must be rid of these," he continued, frowning down at the purple ribbons peeking beneath the cord.
You must listen, carefully, and allow me to guide you. For it was never intended for any of us to be alone. And what you feel, that emptiness, that void inside you, is not for nothing. It speaks to the lack of order in this world. It is a challenge. An opponent.
Listen.
There is an Order to things. To everything that is known and unknown. And there are some who would have this Order confused, cast out, shattered and scattered. Thus you lose track of the order you once had, that balance that defines you, your true place in reality. And you long for those missing pieces, those fragments of dreams and thoughts, hopes and passions, all out of place.
You long for companionship, because it is what is due you. You long for power, for you have earned it.
And you also long for light, because you are of the darkness, and you require balance.
A long time ago, he had locked the sword away, hidden it in the wall of his mother's room to gather dust, and to rot where there was no threat of his father's will awakening and severing his mind from his body.
Now, he held it up and willed that its cold black metal swallow the sun.
You are mine. I will not surrender to you. I know my destiny.
He pressed the blade against his wrist until he felt blood flow down his arm in tiny rivers.
The purple ribbons hissed and fell and withered.
Maeglin laughed until the tears stung his eyes.
What mean you? That I am—that I am of the darkness?
The days stretched on and brought closer, with each sunrise, a dimness that pressed steadily ever onwards.
Maeglin peered out from the window, head rested against his hand, and smiled at the failing light.
Within the grip of his other hand he held Anguirel, and this he tapped lightly against the bottom of his chair, creating little bursts of red that dripped like blood onto the floor.
Listen. Understand. I wish only for your eventual peace, your healing. I say these things for your benefit.
Yes, of the Darkness, Maeglin. Child of Twilight are you not? You are the evening sky, longing for night, fading away from the daylight and the setting sun; it is your place, your being, reflected in your very eyes. You move ever onward toward the darkness, where the light fades away.
You have always been of the Darkness, Maeglin. You know this. You have always known. You are Sharp-Glance, afterall.
He watched them dance, losing himself in those swirls of color and mist and bits of thoughts.
And she, in all her glory, the fairest of them all, spinning and twirling and mingling with all that dirt. She couldn't have known. She couldn't see how it stained her immaculate image, how it stretched its hideous fingers around her shoulders, eager to strangle her light and drag her down into its murky, tainted waters.
He would save her.
But—But you are golden! You are a shining sun, cloaked in unwavering light! Are you not of the Darkness as well? Why do you dwell here? With the Darkness?
No, this was wrong.
He glared down at his pale face shining like a star within the black armored surface. Then he thrust it against the wall, shrieking as it burst into black smoke.
He was sick. This was wrong.
He bit into his lip and gripped the sides of his head.
Anguirel smirked at him from the shadows, whispering mockeries in his father's voice.
No, he would not listen!
He pressed his face against his knees and forced himself to smile against the pain.
It would not win. Not this time. He was not weak.
The darkness bubbled behind his clenched teeth and squeezed out from his lips—black blood dribbling down from his mouth.
Ill-gotten. You forsake your kin, Accursed child. You are unworthy even of death, and there is nothing left for you but darkness.
Maeglin tightened his jaw and swallowed.
I was destined for Darkness. I fear it not.
Think of me as candlelight, here to guide you and others to their proper places. For I am truly a being of fire—a flame encompassed in darkness—and I shine most brightly here. And it is in darkness that I am to play my part in this Order. The same could be said of you.
The world was chaos, and he was falling away from its confines.
He ran through his uncle's halls in a frenzy, straining to see through the whirlwind of carnage.
The monsters wailed and howled in glee, pouring into the chambers of the palace, bathing the floor in glistening red and black screams.
Maeglin waded through, Anguirel held high and the spirit of Darkness looming above his shoulders, blazing in icy fire.
Now, listen. There lies before you a great decision.
You are the Evening, the fading light, the descending darkness upon the land. The Night lies before you. And you are approaching it. You must go through. For otherwise, you shall dwindle, with the sorrows and pains of the day consuming you, and you will be lost.
The man was strong.
And they fought over the walls in rival spirals of gold and black that leapt and spun among their forms—the dancing of light and darkness, brought alive by the pulsing of their blood and the beating of love and longing.
Maeglin's grip was slowly slipping, as blood mingled with blackened tears, as the fires of Gondolin wavered and smeared in his eyes.
Her name rose to his lips from the depths of his throat, and in desperation's final pains, he sought to catch her gaze.
Just one glimpse of those fair eyes—that pale face.
That flawless yellow of sweetest dawn.
And in the blaring sunlight, hatred gleamed back.
I never loved you.
It is a lonely existence, Maeglin, that awaits those who refuse their destiny.