They were always looking at him.
Lomiòn. Maeglin. The son of Eöl was what they should have called him, if they had been only half as honest as they claimed.
The only one who seemed to know his name was Idril. It came easy, in her mouth. "Lomiòn," she would say, "fetch me my quill, please?"
And he would fetch it, gladly, hoping for a chance that their fingers might brush as he handed it over to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. If they did, he would feel a little tingling thrill going along his spine. If they did not, he would wait eagerly for another occasion.
He was hooked on those moments like one is on ale, on wine, on mead, on power. He was addicted to his cousin Idril Celebrindal in the extreme.
Maeglin's palms were sweaty as he waited in the hall to speak to his uncle. His father? No, that was too easy. He knew all too well who his father was. It had take him weeks to prepare his argument. He had thought of everything, studied Turgon's habits, picked out the moment when he might be more amicable to his proposition.
It was just after the evening meal, when Turgon was listening to music in his study, up atop the highest tower of Gondolin. As if even the universe conspired to make this difficult. Maeglin had never had any love for heights.
His stomach sunk to his heels as he went up the endlessly winding stairs. Idril, he had to remind himself, this is for her. And for her, to be with her, to experience that thrill again, and again, and again, I would do anything.
The answer came immediately, half-way through his demonstration.
"One does not marry kin so near," the king told him, as one does a child not to play with fire.
At the top of the stairs, Eöl's son contemplated his descent.
Maeglin had never had much of a love for heights.