In his mind was always present the day his father named him. Maeglin was the name, sharp-glance.
When he was still a child, his mother told him that with his large dark eyes he would one day see right into Aule's own mind and he would learn every little secret.
All his questions would be answered and he would surpass his father in his skills. Perhaps he would even rival Fëanaro, that strange and looming figure of which his mother spoke in a hushed voice, her eyes wary and never, never when father was at home.
He had heard even the Dwarves speak of that Elf with deference and admiration – however much the Dwarves could have for an Elf. But still, in his young mind his greater idol was his own father. No matter what happened over the years, Maeglin the craftsman always held a reluctant respect for him. What hurt more than anything, was the fear to never match his skills.
It didn't matter that in Gondolin the king himself was always pleased with his works. It didn't really matter that he held all the court's admiration. His father had taught him, had shared his secrets with him, had brought with him among the Dwarves so that he could learn. And the first thing Maeglin had done had been stealing his sword and running away.
When his father too had found his doom, Maeglin had thought that he wouldn't set foot in a workshop anymore. He didn't need to in any case, he was the nephew of the king, a prince of the Noldor; he would never need anything. But the first years in the city were dedicated to his education – he hadn't been educated as a prince in Nan-Elmoth – and were filled with much studying and less actual doing. And perhaps he had taken it from his mother, Maeglin had to do something.
Taking the request to the king had been his first step and by far, one of his most frightening experiences. He didn't know that man, at all. His mother's descriptions of her brother perhaps belonged to another time, another place. The man Maeglin had met was a stern, serious king, prone to command more than to laugh.
But his mother hadn't been wrong.
"Lómion, my dear"
His voice had been warm when he had seen Maeglin approaching him in his private study.
"My king" had said Maeglin, stiff and formal. A shield for his insecurity.
"None of that", Turgon had waved a hand, "I am your uncle, am I not?"
"Uncle, then"
The king had smiled: "What is it?"
"Uncle, I have a request", he had hesitated.
"Speak, nephew. Anything that is in my power I will gladly grant you. Do not fear to speak freely with me."
Maeglin had swallowed. He had noticed then, for the first time perhaps, how much Turgon truly resembled his sister. "I… I want to be useful" he had managed to say, sounding young even to his own ears.
Turgon had both frowned and smiled reassuringly. "Yes?"
"I am skilled in the works of hand. I know how to craft objects, from common tools to jewels. I am also quite versed in mining and in the art of extracting gems."
"And you want to put your abilities to use, I imagine. You are right, of course."
"I know that you have already given me a small place in your court and for that I am grateful, uncle, I don't want you to think I am not…"
Turgon had laughed: "Don't worry! It is not an unreasonable request, nephew."
"Truly?"
"Yes, truly. I will see what I can do"
And so Maeglin had begun to frequent the workshops in Gondolin and the mines. His skills were noticed and under the tutelage of several masters, he learned much and in turn could share his knowledge. Yet, he kept for himself most of the techniques he had learnt from his father and the Dwarves. Over a few years he became a recognised master of his art and his following grew.
He loved the rhythm, the fatigue, and the labour. The joy he felt every time he would see the results of his hard work was unparalleled. Nothing, nothing in his life could compare to that. He loved to shape and bend things according to his will. In time, while working also in the court of the king, he learned what in his heart he called a universal truth: crafting was not much different than dealing with people.
Yet there were people he could not understand, to whom he could not get close to.
She was a golden vein in a dull grey stone; pure and bright, like the morning sun over the white marble of the city. She was wise and sharp like an owl and Maeglin had began crafting jewels for her. He couldn't speak properly when in her presence, the depth of her gaze unsettling, knowing, what precisely he could not tell. So he resorted to the easiest way he had to approach her.
The bells of the city were ringing in celebration. It was the day in which the Noldor remembered the rising of Rána - the moon, as they liked to call him - and their arrival in Beleriand after the hardship of the Helcaraxë. On a day like this, Maeglin had the perfect opportunity to approach the princess with a gift. Surely she would not object.
She was radiant, dressed in pale pink, with fresh blossoms pinned in her hair. Maeglin swallowed, his tongue dry and heavy. He looked at the parchment in his hands and took one step after the other, drawing closer to her.
He didn't know how it happened, the moments blurred in a flurry of gold and gentle laughter. One moment he was bowing, the next he was clasping the necklace he made on her neck. His fingers brushed her delicate skin and he shivered and fumbled.
She turned and looked at him, thanking him with a kiss on his cheek. Perhaps his fingers had lingered too long on her hands; perhaps his gaze betrayed his inner turmoil. Her smile became a bit too polite and less unguarded, something flashed in her eyes but Maeglin couldn't be sure, for in an instant it was gone.
She liked the necklace very much, she said. Soon he would outshine all the other artisans in the city.
He revelled in her admiration. He hoped that it would for but one moment ease his heart.
For the third prompt: mining/creativity
The feast mentioned is my own invention.
As always, enjoy and let me know what you think! :D