He had thought he could outsmart them. They were but orcs, brainless slaves. He would run away as soon as they turned their backs.

Those brainless orcs had more wits than Maeglin imagined. Their eyes were always upon him, as well as their blades. They had bound his hands and had dragged him around. They had prodded him, cut him, whipped him. They had shoved their rotten food down his throat, pulled at his hair, took away his weapons.

He feared what they could do next. He was exhausted and ashamed.

The humiliation stung, deeper than any wound.

Here he was, a prince of the Noldor, the heir of a king, the hero of the battlefield. Incapable of dealing with a group of mere orcs, treated worse than a slave. His threats were empty and brought only more pain. Nothing he said seemed to be heard or understood.

When he heard them debate – kill him here or taking him as a prisoner to their Master – he took his chance. He offered them the only valuable thing he had.

He vowed to himself, he would never be humiliated again.

Morgoth never touched him. He played with his mind. He used Maeglin's own power against him: words. Convincing, promising. Poisoning.

He told him about his own family. He told him about the Valar, the Noldor, the Sindar, his father, his mother. He spoke of their crimes and their vices, their lies and their betrayals. The hate and the bloodlust.

Where was the truth, where the lie? Maeglin could not see it.

Did your dear mother tell you all about Valinor?

"Yes"

Did she tell you that one day you would see it?

"Yes"

Did she also tell you that she was Doomed?

"…No"

She was exiled.

"I know"

Exiled from Valinor. Doomed to die here. And you know who exiled her? Who condemned her?

"The Valar?"

Yes. Them. Would you trust them?

"You're a Vala too."

And do you trust me?

"No"

So why should you trust them? Your enemy is of their kind. And for all their power, did they answer all your pleas for help? Did they prevent ruin and death?

Maeglin didn't know what else to say.

Would you like your name to figure in songs? To be sung in the halls of men and elves, forever? Celebrated in glory and reverence? Would you like people to turn and admire you as you walk in your city of marble? Would you like them to stutter while talking to you, to obey to your every word, to praise you, to love you as their lord, as their true king?

"I already have this."

Do you? Do all of your people love you? Does your princess love you? Do you command her heart? "No. I don't." And do you want it?

"You offer me this…how? Why?"

I created Arda, I have power over everything, its men, its kingdoms and their fate. I can make you a king or a slave. But I am also generous. I need someone like you, with your mind, your abilities. I will reward you with glory and power. You offer me your knowledge. Does it seem a fair exchange to you?

"It does."

Remember well, Maeglin Lómion. Elves are bound to Arda and I am its Master. And if you doubt it, look around you.

Maeglin looked.

See those creatures? Orcs, you say. Yes they are orcs, now. Ever wondered were they come from?

"You…created them?"

'Created'. Yes, you can say I created them. As I did for other creatures. Dragons, Worms. I created wonders no one had ever seen, I did things no one dared to imagine. And more importantly, they all answer to me. I need but to raise a hand and they will do my bidding. And I gave this power to my lieutenants. See, you can be a lieutenant too. You will have legions that will answer to your hand. Or you can be one of those orcs.

"But I am an Elf"

What is an orc, if not an Elf twisted, tortured, deprived of his will? Think carefully about what I offer you, Maeglin son of…Ar Feiniel.

Maeglin shivered.

The Vala pinned him with his gaze. He felt as if he was looking into a dark abyss – nothingness brought into reality. He wanted to flee but he couldn't. He wanted to scream but he stayed silent.

Slowly something changed inside him. Some small glimmer of hope withered and died in those fire-lit dungeons.

"I accept your offer…Master"

I am glad. You will have your city and your princess, do not fear. And do not fail me. You made the right choice, prince."

He waited for years. He worked in the dark, nobody suspecting him. He smiled and spun his web of lies. It became easier with time, although all his doubts plagued him when he looked at his uncle – no, his king.

No, I won't betray myself. I made a choice.

He wasn't sure where all that hate had come from. He knew for certain that she should have never married that atan. She did it to spite him, he knew. His love he had given her freely. He would have revered her, with all his soul. He would have given her everything he could – a kingdom worthy of the Queen she would be.

He would have reached for the stars, plucked them out of their velvet nest and gifted to her. But she had lied to him, all those years. He had hoped, hoped so strongly. She had kept her smile, her gentleness, but her eyes and her heart were cold for him.

A small part of him knew that it wasn't her fault. He remembered Hurin's words that day in battle. It was already written, how the story should have ended. There was nothing he could do to change the course of things.

But he had crushed that small, treacherous part of himself and tried to change fate in any case.

One night he dreamt. He was struggling with somebody at the edge of a cliff. Maeglin couldn't see. It was a moonless night. Only the stars shined, distant, cold. The fight was raw, they were using teeth, nails; blood rendered their holds slippery. He could hear his own laboured breathing, the fresh air burning in his aching lungs. They were both growling like beasts. They were feral, they were desperate. And then…

Then they both slipped and fell but they didn't stop their fight. They hit the ground. The cutting edge of the rocks hit them, opened their skin, broke their bones. But Maeglin wasn't dead as he should have been. He was awake, though he could feel his fractured body aching. He crawled towards the other body – his opponent had died in the fall. He noted with detachment that it was already decaying, rotting.

But he recognised him now. Eöl's face was contorted in something between a grin and a grimace. Those accusing dark eyes – so similar to Maeglin's – were staring up at him.

You shouldn't have your eyes anymore, thought Maeglin.

"I hate you too, old man", he said.

The body of course couldn't answer him. He sighed and nestled himself beside Eöl's body. He felt his own warm blood spilling and soaking the earth beneath him. He closed his eyes and drifted.

Maeglin woke up with a start, panting and sweaty. His hands were as cold as ice. A dreadful certainty settled in his guts. So that will be my end. Fitting. With a sigh he turned and tried to resume his sleep.

The bells of the city rang in alarm. When the fire finally came and Gondolin started to burn, he should have rejoiced. But the acrid smoke filled his lungs and the ashes tasted bitter in his mouth. His victory would bring him nothing.

He must have been mad, for in that moment, when the attack began, he prayed. He prayed to gods he never new, distant figures of tales told long ago in a candlelit room, when he was safe in the arms of his mother. He prayed that his mother would forgive him, one day.

He prayed that those gods would tell his uncle that he was sorry. But no matter how much he desired it, prayers were no use now. He had to play his part. So he drew out his sword and honoured his bargain.

He had to be brave – braver than any hero had ever been. There would be no songs of glory for him, no reward.

He had been a fool. He should have imagined it, really. He had been used as a pawn in a game as old as the world – no, older. And he had been so blind.

Morgoth's plan had been bigger than him, of course. He had played into fate's hands. Nothing had changed and the dark old tale had come to an end. He lost consciousness while falling. He didn't mind.

At least the pain will finally go away.

The last thing he heard was his erratic heartbeat.

The last thing he saw was his hands, red, glinting in the morning light.

For the sixth prompt - torture/death

This has been the most difficult piece to write and I'm still not sure if I'm satisfied with it - but I post it now, otherwise I will never do it. And also, it has been the most difficult chapter to upload here. I've had problems with this site and I think that this chapter has some spacing problems :/

I would suggest you - if you like the band - to listen to "Mordred's Song" and "Thorn" by Blind Guardian. Also "If I had a Heart" and "Keep the Streets Empty" by Fever Ray. I mean, these are the songs that helped me get in the right mood.

Enjoy :D