Title: Into Darkness
Author: Esteldil
Author’s email: esteldil@yahoo.co.uk
Pairings: Tuor/ Maeglin
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Tuor and Maeglin should be sworn enemies. But then why is their story a
tragic one? Perhaps the records of something else were lost...
Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine. They all belong to Tolkien and the
Tolkien Estate.
Notes: I've always felt a lot of sympathy with Maeglin and thought that there
should be a hidden story between he and Tuor. It would help very much if you
were familiar with the story of Maeglin/ Tuor/ Gondolin. I've tried to make this
story as canon as possible and have spent the longest time on this; so hope you
enjoy!
---text--- indicates chapter heading. (quotes from Silmarillion/ my own head!-
major respect if you can distinguish the Sil. quotes and where they're from ;-))
*text* indicates italics
Betaed by Tyros Luyur- thanks again!

Feedback: PLEASE!! This story is my personal little baby so comments/
constructive criticism v. welcome!


Into Darkness:


---“…and his love turned to darkness in his heart…”---

There was always darkness. He could never escape it. Dank darkness, which
swelled around him, ensnaring him, choking him in its wintry clutch. And it
would always be accompanied by images of his father’s last curse to him as his
body broke upon the rocks of the cliff side. He would not be able to breathe. He
would not be able to feel where he was, losing all senses save that of fear and
dread. Then the pain would start, ice and shadow twisting his heart in a vice.
Not physical wounds, but the throbbing of his whole soul with unknown anguish.
And interlaced with these would be images of Idril. He would see himself, could
almost feel himself, take her, possess her. But it would not be beautiful. Of
late, the images had turned brutal. There had been pain and there had been
blood, so that whenever he looked upon her now in his waking hours he could hear
her screams and see darkness cross her delicate features. 

And slowly, his true heart started to turn from her and he saw her ever in veils
of darkness and terror.

Then he would wake, sheets damp with perspiration and sometimes with his own
blood for even the blanket of sleep could not prevent him from harm as he
thrashed wildly in the night. 

The darkness was growing in him. His father had been the Dark Elf but his legacy
still haunted the son.

~~~

The stranger named himself Tuor, son of Huor of the House of Hador. He was a
Man.

But he bore himself after the manner of the greatest Elven lord. After many days
hard journeying, his cloaks were travel-stained, but when he revealed his
armour, a collective murmur had swelled the Gondolin court. The swan wing, the
emblem of the old city, was emblazoned just as sharply as if freshly wrought and
the mithril inlaid in the hilt of his sword shone brightly. He wore the arms of
Vinaymar as if he had been born in them and yet his mortal descent was clear in
his broad shoulders and muscled limbs, the raw strength evident in his every
movement. His nobility was clear upon his chiselled face, his dark unkempt locks
framing the authority of his glittering, deep blue eyes.

This was no mere wanderer of the wild. He was a Man of the Edain, a Man of noble
birth, the Man chosen to be Ulmo’s herald in these dark days.

And thus he spoke his warning in high words and with a fluency of the old tongue
that seemed to surprise even him.

Tuor’s words stirred Maeglin’s wrath and contempt. He had no real knowledge of
the Younger Race than what he had learned from the scrolls of lore and had
always thought them uncouth, uncivilised and unshaven. It seemed as though his
prejudices were correct. What would a mere mortal know of the Hidden City of
Gondolin? How could he even begin to appreciate its exquisite beauty, built in
the image of Elven Tirion? To leave the only stronghold left in Beleriand, save
the Girdle of Melian, was, to his mind, a folly.

The Man was speaking again.

“My King, though your fair city be the last to stand against Morgoth, its days
are fast numbered. Ye will suffer betrayal from your own, as the Lord of the Sea
once warned. Love not too well the works of thy own hand for they will bring you
ruin if you do not depart for the West and the Sea, where the true hope of the
Noldor will always lie.”

Maeglin regarded the Man through narrowed eyes. When the stranger had spoken of
betrayal, his heart had seized as if clamped by a great vice and, momentarily,
he had felt that familiar feeling of bewilderment that so often crept up on him
now unawares. He had looked at the Man closely then to find that his deep blue
eyes were fixed upon his face, yet there was confusion in them, as if he did not
know himself why he should be drawn to that particular Elf. Then, the moment was
over and Maeglin heard Turgon asking for his councillor’s thoughts.

Maeglin hesitated. It was not his wont to speak freely his thoughts unless
pressed but something inside him was forcing him to oppose Tuor’s words.
Something inside him was compelling him to give council against this Man,
perceiving him as a threat. 

“Tuor of the Edain, your words are grave indeed.” 

It seemed to Tuor that the Elf’s fair voice was laced with the harshness of
contempt and hate.
 
“These perilous words are delivered from the lips of a mere mortal, one who is
ignorant of our life and city, even if he be one of the Edain. My council is to
stay.”

Tuor clenched his teeth together in anger. The pride of his sires would not let
him suffer insult, even from an Eldar so high in the favour of the King.

“My words come from Ulmo, it is a Vala which gainsays your fair city.” 

These words, spoken with a vehement passion, prickled the hairs on the back of
Maeglin’s neck.

“The Valar may choose mere mortals to bear their messages faithfully, lest an
Eldar’s pride leads him to lend his own wisdom!”

These words drew sharp exclamations of disbelief from several of the Eldar
councillors as they looked to see how Maeglin would react. All knew that the
fire of the temper of this seemingly serene Elf was dangerous when lit. But
Maeglin was silent. The calm did not leave his face and the graceful composure
of his features showed little change. Only Tuor noticed how his black eyes
darkened as they fixed searchingly upon him, as if an inner menace gathered
behind them, threatening him wordlessly. He felt the threads of tension crackle
through the air between them as he held the gaze defiantly. At length, Maeglin
spoke softly, but there was barely concealed ice in his voice, as though he
fought himself to check a hidden fury.

“Take care, Edain, for rash words go oft astray. Your message may herald from
Ulmo but my council remains unchanged.”

“And my decision rests,” declared Turgon. “We will not leave our city. Morgoth
knows not where we dwell and my people are loyal.” He smiled down at the Man
before him. “By my laws, Tuor son of Huor, you may not leave our realm but it is
rather my hope that you wish to stay. We may have much to teach you. But, I say
to you now, and to all, we will not leave Gondolin.”

Tuor bowed deeply, “My King, my heart would be glad to dwell in your fair city.
I offer you my services, as little as they may seem to your superior skills.”

Tuor could not help glancing at Maeglin as he said this, briefly catching his
narrowed eyes staring at him. As he turned to swear his allegiance to Turgon, he
could sense Maeglin’s dark gaze still upon him and did not know if he should be
fearful to stay in the same city as one who seemed to despise him so much. But
he felt an inexplicable bond with this Elf. In him, Tuor thought he saw
something that was not so different from himself. He had glimpsed it in the raw,
liquid stare of the Elf as their eyes had met. Under the surface. Mesmerising
him, appealing to him and calling to him, like Sirens upon a rock.

Maeglin wondered at this Man. The compelling force within his own mind was once
more directing him to despise this Man. But another part of him, a new part,
welcomed the Man’s presence. Despite himself, Maeglin wanted to discover more of
this Man. He assigned it to mere curiosity but a voice deeper within told him
that it was more complex. This Man would not just pass through his life
unnoticed.

This Man would change him.
~~~

Blackness gripped him in its shadowy clench and he could not escape. In his
mind’s eye he saw the fair city of Gondolin burning, swilled in angry grey
smoke. And always there was the brutal image of himself possessing Idril,
bringing darkness upon her, amid the ruins of their city. Her blood mingling
with the redness of the city’s flames. He recoiled from this vision, sickening
bile rising in his throat. But the cage of his darkened dreams trapped him in.

~~~
~~~




---“…but Maeglin spoke ever against Tuor in the councils of the King…”---

He work with a start, his heart racing, sweat dampening his skin. Still his
father’s last curse echoed in his mind, “…may you yet die the same death as I!”

He shivered as though cold. The bright sun filtering through the windows brought
little relief and he could not break the ice over his heart as he made his way
to the King’s Council.

The Man was among the High Table in the great Hall. Within the space of a few
years, Tuor had risen high in the favour of Turgon and claimed a regard equal to
his own among the Elves of Gondolin. And by the King’s daughter, Tuor had been
regarded with love. They had married and she had given him a fair son;
surpassing even in the beauty and light of the Eldar.

Maeglin seated himself opposite Tuor at the table, offering no warmer greeting
than that which the strictest politeness required. As if by force of habit, his
gaze strayed towards Idril. At once, the shadowy memories of his dreams clouded
his mind and he beheld her beautiful face stained anew with fresh blood.
Forcibly, he tore his mind and eyes away from the repulsion that pervaded his
mind.

Idril had noted Maeglin’s gaze with her usual coldness. But her brief glance was
stayed this time by what she saw in his eyes. The yearning seemed to have gone,
displaced by a less innocuous element. As soon as his eyes had met her face,
they had narrowed and a dullness had crept into them, as if glazed over. She
thought she detected traces of fear. Or perhaps that was her own expression
reflected in his eyes, for this new fellness that she had glimpsed sent cold
tremors through her body.

As Tuor received the stack of parchment from Maeglin, their hands brushed. Tuor
felt strangely excited by this unlooked for contact with the brooding,
dark-lidded elf. He had been attracted to the fairness of this creature from the
very first, despite what he saw as the other’s obvious dislike of him. Behind
the Elven grace, Tuor sensed deep passion and an untamed energy not unlike that
of a warrior of the Edain; so strange, yet so alluringly unexpected in an Elf.
The Elf did not seem to notice nor aknowledge the stroke expect, thought Tuor
sadly, a slight flinch as if alarmed and disgusted to have touched the Man.

But Maeglin had felt it too; a little shock, causing him to flinch slightly. The
rough warmness of the Man’s hand contrasted with the smooth cold parchment. Just
as before and just as inexplicable, a blackness briefly swept over him, pushing
his thoughts towards disgust of this Man, but some other thing was chasing it
away. It seemed to be holding back the sudden dark spells that were now creeping
into his waking hours. He welcomed this new power, wanted it to take the place
of the dark. He wondered if the solemn, handsome Man across the table had any
bearing upon it or if it was all just serendipitous.

***

Tuor felt frustrated as he left the Council. Maeglin had been, as ever, the most
vehement and forthright of his critics. Even when their counsels agreed, Maeglin
always viciously attacked Tuor’s stand in some other way, usually on minute
details. It was as if he delighted in pouring his scorn and hate on Tuor, never
entertaining the thought of agreeing with the Man.

And yet Tuor was still hopeful that Maeglin did not wholly detest him. Whenever
Maeglin denounced his advice, he did not always seem fully aware of what he
said. Tuor could have sworn that his eyes were not quite focussed and, at times,
he would seem to wince as he spoke, as if at odds with his own words.
Occasionally, regarding Maeglin from the edge of his eye, Tuor even thought he
could detect esteem in the Elf’s intense gaze upon him. He was not sure if
others noticed the Elf’s mannerisms, but then, he did not know if anyone else
had observed him as carefully as he had done in the years that he had spent in
Gondolin. Whilst lusting after a male was not a strange thought to the minds of
Men, Tuor felt drawn to Maeglin in a more profound way. Maeglin’s force called
to him, and he did not know what, or even if, to answer.

He paused as he passed the balcony overlooking the practise yard. Maeglin was
there, alone, as was often his way. Tuor always liked to watch the skilled Elf
practise with his long, white knives. The deliberate, deadly movements of his
blades as they cut the air echoed the fluidity of the Elf’s graceful, powerful
limbs. When he was so focussed like that, Tuor knew that he could admire the
Elf’s skill and fine figure without fear of being seen. For Maeglin, as in so
many things, was an intense fighter whose black eyes glittered with a fierce
flame and whose face displayed power, assurance and an undercurrent of cold
brutality. 

Tuor was always fascinated by what he could sometimes glimpse under the mask of
Maeglin’s deep yet impenetrable features. He sensed that Maeglin could be
stirred out of his Elven grace. He knew that black fire resided in him as well
as cold ice. He remembered the focused, vicious way Maeglin had systematically
maimed his enemies before killing them in the hunts in Dorthonion, before it was
forbidden to leave the Hidden Kingdom. When he had questioned the need to maim
before a swift kill, Maeglin had simply replied, “I have learned to always makes
certain.” He remembered being fearful of this cruel streak in the fair Elf but
had felt, as he felt now watching the Elf duel with his imagined foe, an element
of excitement. The darkness of Maeglin’s feral spirit drew Tuor almost as much
as his physical fairness.

“What do you see?” Idril’s gentle voice made him spin round in surprise. So
absorbed had he been in regarding Maeglin that he had not noticed her presence.

He knew what her question meant, his attentions to Maeglin had apparently not
gone unnoticed by all. But then, Idril was very perceptive and could sense the
hidden character of anyone.

She saw him tear his gaze away from Maeglin and take a deep breath.

“I do not know, Idril,” he said. “It seems that he despises me with every fibre
of his being and does everything in his power to undo all my actions and
counsels.” He paused, looking at the masterful figure still, without fatigue,
relentlessly pursuing an unseen prey.

“Yet, it also seems sometimes that he is not himself as he seeks to refute my
words. His gaze seems distant and his gestures are not entirely his own. At
those times, he talks as one unwilling, possessed by a spirit.”

“Mayhaps he is. More lies hidden within Maeglin than he has chosen to reveal.
His present is as murky as his past”

“Nay, that is not entirely my meaning” Tuor frowned, searching for the right
words. “He now condemns my words merely as though by a habit. As though he will
not allow himself ever to show agreement or the slightest tolerance of me. Whom
he tries to persuade of this, I do not know. Perhaps himself. But, it is as
though he fears allow himself to like me.”

“And what of you?” Idril asked evenly. “What do you feel?”

“I know not.” Tuor bowed his head and pressed his fingers to his forehead in the
manner of one chasing some elusive thought. “I suppose I should be wary of him,
fear his hate even. But because I do not truly believe it, I cannot. He is
strange and fell but I feel myself drawn to him. Aye, like a moth to a flame.”

*And yet a moth may burn if it strays too near the flame.*

But Idril did not say her thoughts. She had feared what Maeglin’s spirit hid
from the first moment that he had entered Gondolin from Nan Elmoth. Whilst his
mother radiated light even after many years under the dark eaves, she had seen
that Maeglin bore a shadow with him into the city. His silent scrutiny with his
dark intense eyes sent chills down her spine and she could ever sense his shadow
clinging to him like a musk, as the scent of smoke clings to silk. She feared
that the gloom of his father’s dwelling still held him in thrall.

Tuor looked at his fair wife who now stood silent. She was also watching Maeglin
as he practised down below them, oblivious still to their presence. But he did
not see in her face admiration or awe, but disquiet and fear.

“You are sombre, vanimelda. Tell me, what do you see?”

“I see darkness,” she said, her voice suddenly fearful. 

A cold wind seemed to whip around them even as the sun streamed down upon the
balcony. 

“I see him watching you.” She whispered. 

“I know,” said Tuor. “I feel sometimes his discerning gaze upon me as I speak.”

“No.” she shook her head, “He haunts your steps. More times than you have
noticed yourself. He seems to perceive no other when you are in his presence.” 

Though he would never admit it to his wife, a strange thrill ran through him at
these words. He had thought that contemptuous glares were all that Maeglin
reserved for him. That he should capture more filled him with a secret delight. 

“How does he watch me?” he asked lightly, not wanting to betray his interest.

She stared at him, silent for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was flat.

“He watches you as a hunter stalks his quarry.” She fixed her far-seeing, blue
eyes upon him. “He hunts you, Tuor, and you do not know it.”

Even as they prompted some alarm, Tuor felt a frission of excitement at her
words. 

An Elf such as he may pursue me, he thought, I do not fear it. I welcome it.
Lustful visions entered his mind. Nay, I desire it.

And so, he did not hear Idril’s last words, quietly spoken.

“I fear for you, Tuor. I fear lest his darkness take you.”

***

Down below them, unaware of their eyes upon him, Maeglin battled with an unseen
foe. He had been practising well over an hour and his muscles were fatigued and
he could feel drops of sweat blinding his vision. But he would not stop. Now
that his sleeping hours were so plagued with ever darker nightmares, only in the
trance-like state of fighting could he achieve some semblance of peace. And he
needed the peace now. To think.

As he practised the complicated knife strokes over and over again, making his
muscles scream with pain, internally, he fought his own feelings in a battle no
less arduous. He could no longer deny to himself the strange feelings that Tuor
always prompted in him whenever he was near. 

On one hand, Maeglin told himself, I hate him; absolutely, passionately,
ardently.

*The same passion which drives potent hate can drive ardent love.*

The thought which darted into his mind was so unexpected to him that he almost
lost his rhythm. Shocked and frustrated, he pushed it away.

Of course I should hate him. He seeks to make us leave the city which I love,
the city which my mother suffered much to reach, the city in which I was saved.
He has risen high in the King’s favour, giving incompetent advice. He has the
heart of Idril. Yes, he thought, momentarily triumphant, that’s the reason. Her
heart has turned to him where I have failed; my anguish is for lack of her
affection. He tried to picture Idril’s fair face in his mind but all he could
see was the darkness storming in and his heart did not feel glad in seeing her
image. He stabbed viciously, in frustration, at the air in front of him,
desperately trying to imagine Tuor as his adversary. Unbelievably, his blade
faltered.

Rage against himself boiling in his blood, he threw down his knives. He could
not carry on like this. Tuor haunted his thoughts continuously. Everything about
Tuor drew him. His words, high and noble as one of the Eldar. His voice, deep
and strong and comforting to hear. His wisdom and sharp wit drew Maeglin’s
attention more than he cared to admire. In those moments, Maeglin had felt
respect; an emotion he always dismissed with irritated disbelief.

And his physicality. In battle, Maeglin had watched the Man. He had seen his
solemn, noble features come alive with the heat of battle and had been unable to
take his eyes off the way Tuor’s body stretched under the fabric of his
clothing; tantalising in what they concealed. In those moments, Maeglin had felt
something akin to desire.

Yet the thought repulsed him and he denied it. He did not know what to feel, how
to reconcile his conflicting emotions about the Man. Indeed, he did not himself
understand why he should feel hatred towards him nor why, at the same time, feel
such an irresistible pull.

~~~
~~~




---“By my blood, may your darkness be healed.”---

Stinging pain seared the darkness. He thrashed out in his feverish sleep,
wounding his hands yet would be oblivious to their pain until the morning. His
mind was too clouded to register anything but the damp, cold dread seeping into
every pore of his dreams. He felt as though his chest would burst as his starved
lungs screamed for air.

Then suddenly, the black suffocation lifted and he saw himself fall. The sharp
teeth of a cliff edge yawned to enfold him into their darkness. With a shock he
recognised the cliff as the one over which they had cast his father. He opened
his mouth in a wordless plea for help and tried to fight the unseen forces which
were dragging him into a bottomless pit. The gloom was swallowing him and his
vision began to cloud.

Suddenly, he could perceive a chink of light above him as he fell. He reached
towards it and, to his amazement, the dark forces seemed to fleetingly release
their deathly grip. As he floated upwards he began to discern a figure standing
in front of the light, reaching down to him. Gasping, he grasped the proffered
hand and found himself being lifted above the dark shadows. Strong arms embraced
him and he sank into their warmth. He felt a light kiss on his forehead and a
strangely familiar voice whispered to him: “Light awaits you.” Breathing in an
earthy, strong scent, he opened his eyes to seek the face of his saviour.

He woke with a start, his breathing harsh, eyes mad with disbelief. It cannot
be, he whispered into the black night. The shock of the face he had seen had
wiped away all traces of the contentment he had felt in that warm embrace. It
cannot be, he whispered again.

But the face of Tuor remained engraved in his mind.

~~~

Tuor could not help darting a quick glance towards where Maeglin sat as he
entered the great Hall. Maeglin was watching him, as always, but today his
intense black eyes burned with an agitated fever that appeared to devour him.
Tuor quickly looked away. He could not hold such a stare, fearsome in its hungry
concentration. And he did not want the Elf to know that his stares were noticed.
Indeed, Tuor was almost afraid that he would stop being the object of
contemplation of those smouldering eyes, if Maeglin knew that his observations
were themselves observed by the one he watched.

Maeglin had felt restless from the moment that he had walked in to the great
hall. Tuor had not yet arrived and when Maeglin sat down, he thanked Iluvatur
that his chair faced the doors. He wanted to see Tuor, needed to see if it
really was his face that now haunted his dreams, not as a terror, but as his
redeemer.

When Tuor had walked in to the Hall, it was if the shock hit him anew. Here was
the vision of his saviour that he had glimpsed in his dreams, exactly as he had
seen it. Almost fearfully, Maeglin’s eyes roamed over Tuor’s face, searching for
answers to his questions. For a brief instant, his gaze met Tuor’s. For a brief
instant he plumbed the depths of the Man’s deep blue eyes. For a brief instant
he felt the same relief that he had felt in the night. He wanted to lose himself
in that beautiful healing azure for eternity, feeling a need for Tuor so strong
it felt as a physical hurt.

Then suddenly their gazes broke as Tuor turned hastily away. The sense of peace
that he had momentarily tasted, vanished, and he felt almost ashamed to have
longed for Tuor so much. Deliberately ignoring Tuor’s greeting, Maeglin turned
to his papers.

***

It was late but Tuor could not sleep. His mind were still filled with Idril’s
words. She had been afraid. Verily, he knew that many, even among the bravest
fighters or wisest counsellors were afraid of Maeglin. They were wary of him as
one would be wary of an untamed beast. But Tuor could help but be ever more
intrigued by Idril’s warnings. Whatever darkness it was that she feared, he did
not think that it could not be undone. Above all, he desired to discover what
depths lay behind Maeglin’s cool features. He knew that there was more than what
most saw displayed; he saw cunning, strength of will and a kind, noble heart.
And Tuor desired to know Maeglin thoroughly; mentally, physically, carnally.
Without knowing why and where he was going, Tuor found himself wandering towards
the deserted practise fields.

***

Maeglin slashed his blades ferociously, trying to drive away the persistent
images in his mind. He was plagued by them whenever his mind was not occupied by
anything else and, very frequently, even when it was. He tried to force his mind
to focus on the ritual of the knife work but his body had long learnt them by
heart and left his mind free. Free to wander and imagine.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Tuor’s face again close to his, radiant and joyful,
welcoming Maeglin into his embrace. With a start, Maeglin realised that the
image was changing. Not aware of how it was happening, he felt the lips of his
saviour brush his own. They were warm and Maeglin wanted to surrender to the
tendrils of light rushing into him from the touch.

The ring of metal against metal woke him out of his reverie when he felt the
jerk of his knife as it was parried in mid-stroke. His eyes flew open and it was
as if he had not been aroused from his trance, for in front of him, the silver
luminescence of Ithil casting a halo of light about his face, stood Tuor.

As if struck, Maeglin recoiled, taking a stumbling step backwards, but could not
break the contact that their knives made. His heart was beating wildly in his
chest for now that Tuor stood in front of him, he felt flustered.

“It is late, Edain, what do you seek?” Maeglin managed to say, hoping that Tuor
did not notice his lack of composure.

“Not what. Whom.”

As Tuor breathed these words silkily into the gap between their lips, he
realised that he had indeed wandered here in hope of observing Maeglin. He had
not known why he had disturbed the Elf but now that he had, he did not regret
it. His proximity to the feral splendour of the Elf inflamed his veins with
passion and desire.

“It seems as if I have found him.”

With a wicked smile, Tuor moved an imperceptible inch closer to Maeglin so that
he could feel the heat radiate from his body. He felt little resistance as he
pushed their knives lower.

“Did you want to be found?” Tuor whispered teasingly, moving closer still so
that he could feel Maeglin’s ragged breath play upon his lips.

With one smooth arc of his arm, he brought both their knives down and pinned
them across Maeglin’s chest.

Maeglin, renowned for his lethal skill with the knife, reacted automatically to
the movement. Turning quickly, his dark hair flying about his face, he had
pushed Tuor away and assumed a defensive pose.

Tuor laughed appreciatively for he had not failed to admire the lithe form of
the Elf as he spun round. “My fair Elf, I meant no offence. But as we are…alone,
in this late hour, let us engage in a little challenge. I am assured that we
will find much to admire in each other’s…skill.” 

Parting his lips slightly, he ran his tongue slowly over his teeth, relishing
the stunned look on Maeglin’s face which soon turned to intense desire, barely
concealed by the attempt to maintain a cold façade.

“All challenges have stakes.” Maeglin managed to choke out. “What, Edain, are
yours?”

Tuor merely lifted an eyebrow, allowing his gaze to roam noticeably over
Maeglin’s body, pausing significantly over his groin. He lifted his azure eyes
and fixed them upon Maeglin’s dark ones, “That would depend on your
inclination.”

Maeglin could barely deny the response of his own body to the openly erotic Man
before him, tempting him. And he realised that he did not want to. Maeglin
attacked with lightening speed and ferocity.

With a clear ring as metal once again clashed with metal, the two grappled for
the advantage. The moonlight flickered upon their blades and lit up the passion
of their faces. 

As he fought, Maeglin forced his mind to be clear, to focus on the responses of
his blades and not of his body. He forced himself to think of Tuor as a mere
enemy and not the object of such extreme desire.

Tuor had never felt so exhilarated in any duel before. It was not just the Elf’s
skill which made his pulse race, his breathing short and the hairs upon his neck
tingle. He relished every contact of their blades, every brush of skin upon
skin. As they twirled together in their dangerous dance, Tuor could feel the
heat of the Elf’s body envelope him like a scent. As their arms locked in a
swift stalemate, Tuor imagined to himself the touch of the Elf. Would the caress
of such an ethereal looking creature be gentle or rough? And how would it feel
to touch an Elf? To run his hands over the sculpted lines of his body, to elicit
moans as he…

And it was thus distracted that Tuor lost his challenge. Before Tuor was aware
of what had happened, Maeglin was behind him, divesting him of his knives,
crushing his arms between their bodies with one hand, the other holding a steady
knife tip to his throat. They could each feel the heat of the other’s desire
through the thin fabric of their tunics, their bodies were pressed tightly in
Maeglin’s triumphant embrace.

Victory was his. He no longer needed to deny himself any longer and he intended
to fully take his due as the victor. Throwing his own knives down, Maeglin
roughly grabbed Tuor’s wrists and pushed him to the ground in one swift
movement, falling upon him as he did so, crushing him against the rough grit of
the bare ground. 

Tuor’s excitement reached a new level when Maeglin pressed their lips together
in a brutal kiss that took his breath away. Their tongues duelled and moans
escaped their lips as they fought to explore every inch of each other. Their
hands grazed the hard muscle of each other’s chests and arms, the friction of
cloth upon skin pleasurable to both. Stroking, clutching, gasping, they writhed
together on the ground.

Roughly, impatiently, possessively, Maeglin tore at Tuor’s clothing, revelling
in the heady, masculine scent that he had breathed before only in his dream, his
mouth claiming each fold of Tuor’s skin as his own, kissing, licking, biting.
When the taste of blood washed on his tongue, Maeglin felt himself grow hard but
he did not stop. A wild desire was driving him on and he crushed his body ever
harder against the Man’s, feeding their erections.

Tuor gasped when Maeglin drew blood with a cutting kiss on his chest. The force
of the Elf had taken him by surprise at first but now he relished the ardour of
their love-making. He curved an arm around the waist of the lithe Elf, flipping
him over and reversing their positions. He trailed his hand along the sensitive
sides of the Elf and bent down to kiss the beads of sweat forming at the base of
his long throat.

He did not see the lustful, frenzied light gleam in Maeglin’s eyes or the quick
movement of his arms. Caught unawares, the Elf had pushed him aside and moved
from under him, only to swing his weight on top of him again, trapping the Man
between his legs and straddling him from behind. All the while, Maeglin’s
demanding hands did not break contact with Tuor’s feverish skin.

With a shock, Tuor realised that, to Maeglin, the challenge had been to see who
would be taken and who would be the taker. A shred of fear started to creep in
to his mind but he could not stop his back arching in response to the heat of
the Elf straddling him.

Maeglin divested Tuor of his breeches with a ruthless efficiency that sent
shivers of excitement through Tuor’s heaving body. He could hardly contain
himself when Maeglin grabbed him in his hands and roughly thrust his legs apart
with his thighs.

Maeglin leaned over Tuor’s back, replacing the cool night breeze with the
searing contact of burning skin. His eyes looked glazed.

“I am glad you found me, Edain-nin.” The words made hairs on the back of Tuor’s
neck stand up. The words had been whispered mockingly, thrilling as a threat in
its unspoken promise of fulfilment.

Tuor stifled a cry as Maeglin thrust in to him fully, without warning, in one
firm penetration. The feel of Maeglin inside him was almost too much to bear in
its intensity that swung between  unbearable pleasure and wrenching pain. He
could only grunt and moan as with every hard thrust, Maeglin’s hands worked him
skilfully and forcefully, bringing them both towards an orgasmic completion.

Maeglin rocked himself towards his release within Tuor, a deranged acceleration
in his mind, relentlessly fuelling his passion. Screaming a feral cry, he spent
himself within Tuor and felt a piece of his darkness crumble away.

Tuor heard only the loud rush of blood in his head as his body spent itself with
Maeglin’s release. Maeglin’s cry chilled him, it had sounded too much like the
triumphant battle cry a warrior crows over the body of his vanquished enemy. As
Maeglin had thrust ever deeper within him, the pleasure had all turned to a
bruising agony, something he had never felt before. Ice and shadow gripped his
heart in a vice. When Maeglin found his release inside him, Tuor felt a black
cloud obscure his vision so that all he could see was darkness and, for a
moment, he was not able to draw breath for the heavy weight upon his chest.

Maeglin withdrew himself, a sudden tranquillity settling in his mind. The silver
light of Ithil gave now his fair and dark, Elven features a glow of delicate
iridescence.

The bright stars of the velvet sky gazed silently down upon the two males thrust
together. Maeglin leaned over, hand flush across Tuor’s chest, pinning him close
against his own. Their hearts pounded in rhythm, burning skin pressing together
in a clinging embrace which stung Tuor’s heated, tortured body.

“I am glad you found me,” Maeglin whispered again. This time, he spoke the words
with reverence and gratitude. In this Man, he had felt a tranquillity he had
never thought would come to him again. Whatever darkness was possessing him,
driving him towards hatred, seemed to have now diminished.

Tuor did not answer. Maeglin’s heart sank as he glimpsed his face. No longer did
the silver light of Ithil lend his features an angelic beauty but now they
looked listless and graven, beads of cold sweat giving them deathly sheen.

Tuor turned to smile weakly at Maeglin. It reassured him and made him believe
that what he had seen in Tuor’s face was just a trick of the moonlight.

To Tuor, Maeglin seemed to have lost that ferocity and cruelty that he had shown
when he had taken him. Indeed, he could hardly believe that it had happened, so
beautifully and serenely did the Elf now regard him, his eyes clear and shining.
But he could not ignore the pain which racked his body and the shadow of a cloud
shading the horizon of his mind.

~~~

Pain engulfed him as he relived a memory so clear that only the absence of the
moon told him was not real. He could not draw breath, could not see anything
through the darkness enveloping him, could not feel his senses. Only the cold
fingertips of fear and dread caressed his prickling skin, giving him no peace in
sleep. He could not fight this darkness, this new, ferocious element haunting
his night hours. It held him in its jealous chill.

~~~

Maeglin awoke to the dappled sunlight bathing his face in soft warmth. For the
first time in many years, he smiled as he awoke, relishing the blissful rest
that a night of unplagued sleep had brought him. He had overslept for the first
time he could remember and as he strode lightly in to the hall, he beamed widely
at the court.

Maeglin did not notice the collective gasp from the seated court. For as darkly
compelling as his black eyes were when shadow clouded them, when they sparkled
with real mirth, they were stunning to behold. Only Idril did not smile at the
sight, for upon her heart lay a mantle of foreboding.

Some time in the night, Tuor had left her side and she had not been aware of it
until she had been woken by a primal scream shattering the quiet. She had felt
dread seize her heart then, for she was far-seeing and feared lest her words on
the balcony had proved true. She had waited until the grey dawn peeked its rays
over the Encircling Mountains but he had not returned.

She had looked for him in the cold daylight but her search had been futile.
Whilst no one else considered his absence alarming, for Tuor was known to simply
wander off up into the cliffs occasionally to think, Idril trusted her instincts
enough not to be appeased.

Especially not this morning. A light seemed to glow in Maeglin, as if he had
vanquished his darkness. But Idril was wary still, for the change seemed to her
too sudden, the new luminosity in his face too bright, as if it would burn
itself out. And it was too much for her to believe that the fates of Man and Elf
were not somehow bonded, as if Tuor’s absence was mere coincidence.

***

He cowed on the damp floor of the woods outside the practise fields. He had not
moved since he had crawled there the night before, exhausted and tortured. He
had not understood his own reaction. This was not his first time, yet no Man had
made him feel so powerless, had driven in him so much darkness, had left him in
such a sorry state. He had crawled away, not wanting to be found, not wanting
anyone to see his scars, not wanting Idril… Idril! He blinked hard and dug his
nails deep into his palms, punishing himself with the pain. He had betrayed his
beautiful wife with the very Elf that she feared! He felt that remorse would
shatter his heart.

Another deluge of pain and swirling turbulence invaded his mind and he grasped
at it with a grim, savage satisfaction. Oh, how he deserved to be punished! She
had warned him against the darkly alluring Elf but, blinded by his lust, he had
been faithless to her and had opened the door to myriad unnamed, destructive
demons.

He tried to stand up, but shards of blinding agony pierced his consciousness and
he slumped down once more. Slowly, he slipped yet again in to black, troubled
oblivion.

~~~
~~~




---“Forgive me, I knew not what he would suffer…”---

“Orcs are abroad. My heart is fearful for it is dangerous to travel outside the
protection of Gondolin.”

Maeglin frowned. “Do you doubt your captain?”

The Elf riding beside him lowered his eyes from the sharp gaze of his captain.
“Nay, my Lord. None who come with you doubt you.”

Maeglin gave a smile. 

“Then trust in your captain now. We will be beyond the safety of the Encircling
Mountains no more than five nights. We seek only the mine we discovered last
time, nothing more. We will be back in our fair city ere Ithil waxes full.”

The other Elf could barely contain his surprise. To behold Maeglin in this way,
who showed emotion, let alone joy, so rarely and who said only what was
required, was astounding to him. He had never before seen his troubled Lord look
so serene or mirthful as he did today. It was as though whatever shadow had
plagued him all these years had lifted overnight.

“Aye Lord. My heart believes in your word.” He hesitated, then added gently,
“You seem joyful today, more so than has been your wont.” 

Maeglin turned to look at his companion and, for a moment, a dim cloud stirred
in his eyes and his companion grew wary, wondering if he breached the line. But
then, it was gone as fleetingly as a wisp of smoke in a gentle breeze, and
Maeglin smiled again.

He had not seen Tuor that morning at the court and he had to confess that he was
disappointed. Whilst he was no innocent to the desire between males, he had
never considered them more than a release in long travels away from Gondolin.
That he should have been tempted and yielded to his attraction for a mortal Man
was something he had never seriously contemplated. He had wanted this Man, he
admitted to himself now. And when he had taken him, his fantasy had been
fulfilled. But he had also felt himself be freed. Just as the image of Tuor
seemed to have released him from the darkness of his nightmares, it was as if
the body of Tuor had shattered the chains of his dark thrall. 

He had feared that he would never escape, but it seemed now that Fate had dealt
him a gift. With Tuor’s help, he could overcome the bondage of his father’s
curse. Maeglin smiled to himself wickedly, he would show Tuor just how grateful
he was when they returned.

He rode on in companiable silence together with the rest of his companions. The
day was clear and Anor shone brightly in the heavens, her rays fractured into
many fragments of evanescent light in the green canopy above their heads. Their
hearts were cheerful as they made their way through the forests of Dorthonion
and, occasionally, one of their number would lift his voice in a lilting song.
Maeglin breathed in the purity of his surroundings and sang softly in
accompaniment, truly believing that he had been healed.

***

He drifted in to a deep sleep, body exhausted by the day’s long journey and mind
unburdened. But his dreams had not yet left him.

He saw once again the face of the Man in front off him, a smile playing upon the
corners of his lips, breathing heavy, a lust burning his sapphire eyes. His mind
relaxed, welcoming the memory of what was to come. He savoured the remembrance
of the hard kisses they had inflicted upon each other. He relished the reliving
of the pleasurable pain they had forced on one another. Even now, out in the
wild, his body responded as he recalled the heat of the Man crushed beneath him,
yielding to his thrusts.

But something was changing, slowly his dreamscape altered. He was no longer just
taking the Man beneath him, he was defeating him. He tried to recoil from the
perversity of his sexual satisfaction in the pain and destruction of another’s
soul, but forces stronger than his will held him on in his brutal actions.

As if his spirit resided in a body which he could not control, he felt and saw
himself beat and break the Man he was dominating. He heard the anguished screams
fill the night air of his dreamscape. He saw, felt and tasted again the bitter
blood which he drew. He saw the light in those blue eyes die as though the very
life in their bearer was being snuffed out.

And still he did not understand what he did.

***

He could not digest fully the terror of his dream. The one night which he held
on to with hope had now been violated by darkness. And he had been the one to
pervert its beauty. He had thought that his saviour would bring salvation but
his saviour had now become part of his darkness, engulfed by the same shadowy
demons that had chased him.

What had happened to his hope? Why now did his darkness return?

***

Chill cries rent the night of his dreamscape. Bewildered, he looked around him
and, as the mists of a clouded, fragile peace lifted from his eyes, he saw
clearly. Fire and destruction met his every gaze. A fair city in its death
throes. Gondolin burned.

And at his feet, writhing in torment, submitting to an unseen shadow, was his
Saviour. No more did he seem a beacon of hope. The pain-wracked figure slumped
on the sandy ground before him was sweating, the burning flames reflected in an
evil dance across the patina of his twisted features. The body of his saviour
was naked, bleeding and broken. And he was standing astride him, like a hunter
over his fallen prey.

No! His mind scuttled from what it saw, tried to push away the images of
destruction and the sound of anguished screaming. He raced hysterically, tearing
through the dark forests of his nightmares. A mocking voice pursued him, the
unseen ghost tormentor of his blackest visions.

You are the cause of this, it whispered insidiously, you seek to be saved, but
look what price your saviour pays! With the malevolent cackle pounding in his
ears, the impenetrable gloom of the forest disappeared to be replaced once more
by images of his saviour, claimed by physical and mental torture, devoured by
his own darkness, stripped of his dignity and light.

He saw again the fair city of Gondolin burning, swilled in angry grey smoke. And
once more, the brutal image of him spending himself callously, wantonly in the
body of a Man, amid the ruins of their city.

He felt a scream rise in his own throat as he fought the realisation of his
vivid visions.

For he knew what he did.

***

Maeglin awoke, gasping, eyes wild, broken sobs catching in his throat. He raised
his eyes heaven-wards, in a silent plea to the Valar.

“Forgive me, forgive me.” He whispered again and again, desperately hoping, yet
knowing the hopelessness of his wish, that by spending his regret to the night
sky, he could somehow undo the damage he had wrought upon the messenger of Ulmo.
“I knew not what darkness was in me! I knew not what darkness I brought him. I
have yielded to my desire, not knowing what drove me. But I see now! And I beg
to take back my desires!” 

But Maeglin’s plea could not undo what had already been sealed that night under
the waxing light of Ithil. Too late did he see what Tuor would become if he were
to save Maeglin in that way. Too late did he realise the bitter taint of his
ardour for Tuor. Too late did he realise that his darkness could never be
destroyed. It could only destroy. 

And now it would destroy either he or Tuor.

Too late did he realise all this. For on that one night, he had already
embarked, no matter how unknowingly, upon the path to saving himself.

~~~
~~~




---“…no weakling or craven, but the torment wherewith he was threatened cowed
his spirit…”---

Morgoth knew the prize that was chained in the hellish pits of Angband. His foul
emissaries had indeed brought him back a worthy gift.

Morgoth considered the mighty Elf he now held in his possession, under his
power. How careless, he thought maliciously, to have wandered from the haven of
his city. But how providential for me, he crowed gleefully, almost as if the
Valar themselves willed it! 

For the black greed of Morgoth could not be quenched until every city in
Beleriand fell under his dominion. Gondolin was the Hidden City but ever did he
seek to discover it. No Elf or Man had betrayed it yet but every day Morgoth
grew in malice and power. One day, he would find a hidden key that would break
his victim. One day, into his cruelty would be delivered one in whom darkness
had already taken a hold. And then, that day, would Morgoth have his knowledge
and his victory.

After all, who knows what one lone Elf ensnared in the wild could be forced to
tell?

***

Maeglin was weary. The red fires enclosing him spun sickeningly before his eyes,
painting a fiery cage from which he could not gather the strength to escape. His
body was punished. The work of burning metal had left indelible scars upon his
white skin. The wounds burned with acute poison. He could barely draw breath in
the heat and stench of this living hell.

“I see your suffering.” A silken voice flowed as a balm out of the shadows of
his surroundings. Maeglin tried to turn towards the voice, it sounded so sweet
and welcoming. For a wild moment, hope fluttered in his heart. Mayhaps he was
not forsaken here in Angband.

Suddenly the voice changed. No more did Maeglin find it soothing. “It is a
fortunate life you lead, Elf,” the voice remarked acerbically, “For in my
fortress do the immortal taste mortality!” Cruel laughter accompanied the words,
stinging his wounds as sharply as salt.

But the spirit of Maeglin was yet strong and he was no coward. Pain seared his
every move but, pride and a memory of light lending him strength, he stood up to
face his invisible foe.

“Ye, Dark One, exile of the Valar, who cowers in these dark depths, seek ever to
dominate the will of Elves and Men. But I do not bow to you and I fear ye not!”

Morgoth was wrathful at these bold mocking words yet he hid his displeasure well
for he had not yet fulfilled his purpose. There was much to be forced out of
this captive.

“You are proud, Elf.” His emphasis on the last word seemed to turn it in to a
slur. “Yet your pride will not avail you here. No matter what your wont or your
prestige in your fair city, in my hell are you far away from the defence of
Gondolin!”

Maeglin felt light-headed, his senses numbed, his body wracked with agony.
Morgoth’s minions had done their job thoroughly. But Maeglin struggled against
his pain, he would not show weakness to the Enemy of Beleriand.

“You are not worthy to utter its name, you great Defiler of Good!” he hissed.

An amused chuckle emanated from the shadows, as of a patient sovereign over a
wayward courtier.

“Your simple loyalty is admirable but ill-placed. There is no place for virtue
here.”

The tone suddenly darkened and questioning menace crept into the voice.

“Do you still see your beloved city now, Elf? Where are its people? Strange
reward such a city seems to render to its loyal defenders if it would abandon
them to me. Do you not see how your city has forsaken you?”

The question was so unexpected to Maeglin that he could not think what to
answer. He did not dare allow himself to consider the answers. He could only
stammer out, “Those who love Gondolin seek no reward save to dwell in its fair
halls.”

A quick burst of mocking laughter rang out and the fires about him seemed to
leap and flicker, as if joining in their master’s mirth.

“Ai, you are right! Gondolin gives no rewards. None will come to aid you for
they fear too much my darkness. And they are right to fear! For am I not a Vala,
more powerful than any creature that walks upon Arda? None can free you now save
by my will.”

Maeglin clenched his teeth and whispered, almost fearfully, for he realised the
damning fact of that last claim, “But ye would not.”

“But I would.”

Despite himself, Maeglin turned sharply towards the voice. He heard a quiet
laugh, soft and triumphant. He coloured, angry at his unintentional betrayal of
the despair he felt.

“And what price would you demand for my freedom, Morgoth? My blood? Or merely my
soul?” The bitter sarcasm of his words hid the desolation of his soul.

“You estimate overmuch. I ask of you only something you can easily give. And
something which you should be glad to give for the city holds nothing for you
now except soured memories and the taste of abandonment. I merely ask this of
you: Where is the Hidden Kingdom and by what route may I come to it?”

Maeglin closed his eyes tightly for with that question he believed his fate
sealed. For whilst he still held his darkness at bay, he would not betray
Gondolin. He loved Gondolin. There he had been saved. Twice. He never wished
reveal its paths and location to Morgoth, for he knew only evil would mar its
fairness. His throat cracked with scorching dryness.

“I will not tell you.”

The voice of Morgoth remained as soft as ever, its tone cajoling and sugary
sweet.

“I offer you your freedom at so small a price. Your city has forsaken you. You
owe it no debt of gratitude for it has paid you none. Since you love it so well,
I promise you this; the lordship of its people and walls when I take it. So, I
ask of you: Where is the Hidden Kingdom and by what route may I come to it?”

Still, Maeglin resisted. “I will not tell you.”

The voice of Morgoth grew in menace.

“I ask of you, Elf, and do not defy me. Do not compel me to rescind my offer of
freedom. Where is the Hidden Kingdom and by what route may I come to it?”

But Maeglin, believing all hope lost, eyes wild and disregarding the pain of his
body, mocked Morgoth. 

“You are weak, Morgoth! If your power was great, you would have discovered the
Hidden Kingdom without the need to torment me. But you will not avail your
purpose through me! Though my darkness is taking the one who could save me, it
has not destroyed my honour!”

Morgoth pondered upon Maeglin’s last words for they were spoken with the candour
of dying words, no longer caring but to speak the truth of the burdens of his
heart. He wondered what they could mean.

But Morgoth was also proud and stirred to great fury by the ridicule of Maeglin.
The flames and darkness surrounding Maeglin seemed to grow in threat and
closeness. So great was the force of their heat and glow that Maeglin’s skin
blistered and his spirit was fearful for the briefest of moments. Morgoth’s
voice fanned the flames of his hell with its injured pride.

“Elf, you dare to scorn a Vala! I offer you freedom but now I offer you only
torment. You will pay dearly for your contempt for I am powerful beyond your
reckoning. Do I not have Húrin bound to my mountains and his kin to my curse?
His brother, Huor, lives no more and his children will fall under my blackness.
His kin is bound to his doom and my curse!”

At this, Maeglin found again his strength to face the scorching flames. A fell
light shone in his dark eyes and he spoke with the courageous desperation of one
condemned.

“Nay, Morgoth. Tuor, son of Huor, still lives and your blackness does not touch
him in Gondolin!”

But though his words were defiant, his spirit valiant, Maeglin did not see the
knowing gleam in Morgoth’s eyes as this new knowledge was unwittingly presented
to him.

Mockingly, pretending disbelief, Morgoth claimed, “I believe not your hasty
words, no one has yet escaped my curse.” He would draw what he could out of this
desperate soul, who had given up all hope.

“Aye, but he does!” proclaimed Maeglin, his words proud and foolish. “He lives
yet and has a son.”

Pride yet guilty sorrow lacing his words, Maeglin repeated, “Tuor sill lives and
your blackness does not yet hold sway over him.”

And thus did his words betray his soul to Morgoth. His cunning was always his
advantage. But darkness holds sway over you, he thought, satisfied, and a curse
of darkness can I still lay upon you, Elf.” 

And thus Maeglin, not knowing what he did, continued in his defiance. He had no
faith left for his own life, not knowing of the designs of Morgoth, and sought
to absolve his passions in the darkness. For that was all that now seemed to
remain to him.

“Do your worst, Morgoth, for I do not fear your shadow. Under the eaves of Nan
Elmoth was I raised and from its dark warden did I escape!”

Alas, in these rash defiances, did Maeglin reveal himself and his lineage to
Morgoth.

“Think you that a mere Elf can escape the shadow of a Vala?”

And saying this, he laughed and left Maeglin to his torment. He would go now to
ponder the jewels of information unknowingly exposed to him. And great indeed
was his joy.

For Morgoth had at last now found his key.

***

Embraced by the cold shadows of his creation, Morgoth sat upon his throne and
plotted his schemes. For chance had given him what he had searched for. A weapon
with which to bring down the last stronghold of the Noldor.

For Maeglin, in his proud words, had betrayed much to the evil scrutiny of
Morgoth. Though he had not yet told Morgoth the knowledge he seeked, Morgoth now
knew by what methods the knowledge could be extracted from him. 

It was plain to him that Maeglin still lived under the shadow of his father’s
darkness even after so many centuries of escape from Nan Elmoth. But the
darkness was held at bay, not yet controlling him, by the valiant struggle of
his own mind. And, Morgoth marvelled, held at bay also by his passions for, and
with, a Mortal.

But Morgoth could not understand any further Maeglin’s rash words for into his
mind had never entered pure feelings for another. Thus he misperceived in
Maeglin only base lust for another male. Yet Morgoth could recognise the
distress which rested heavily upon Maeglin and, though his black heart did not
allow him to comprehend it, he knew how to fuel the inferno of Maeglin’s
precarious darkness with his own guilt.

Not for Maeglin did Morgoth prepare an eternity of physical torture or slavery
in the fires of Angband. For Maeglin, the torture would come unheralded and
unfelt until it had wreaked its worst upon him. In the end, he would drive
Maeglin to such a madness that would make him purchase his freedom at a dear
price.

Morgoth would feed upon and engorge Maeglin’s remorse, and the chink that it
left in his armour, to allow darkness to invade his entire soul. He would cast a
smothering cloud of forgetfulness over the damning consequences of his passion,
fuel the flames of a base desire for Tuor and twist the memories of that
bittersweet night so that all which remained to Maeglin’s consciousness would be
a corrupt remembrance of physical pleasure. 

Morgoth would make Maeglin forget that he had found peace that night, would make
him forget his gratitude to the Man, replacing it with a seed of hatred. Into
Maeglin’s mind would Morgoth pour his own will to dominate so that all that
drove Maeglin’s waking hours would be an addiction to possessing Tuor, forcibly,
brutally. Morgoth would reduce the brave Elf to a crumbled, haunted wreck,
consumed with guilt and darkness and burning with unexplained hate and a base
thirst for the Man who should have been his to love.

~~~

---“…but oft to him came strange fleeting memories of a forgotten past…”---

The subtle voice wormed inside his mind and he could not escape its words. He
tried to grasp at memories from happier times but an iron curtain of darkness
seemed to have cut off all thought save his present suffering. His senses seemed
to be unnaturally aware of all that was happening to him. The sensuous,
taunting, persuading voice breaking his resolve of silence. The blazing pain of
scars branded upon his body. And always, always, always the darkness.

Only the waking up, gasping and knife in hand, futilely ready to attack his
demons, reminded him that it was not reality. He had escaped the torture but now
his nightmares contained the horror of its memory, more potent than reality.

~~~

His return had been nothing short of miraculous. Or so they all told him. But
whenever another came up to him and spoke with reverence, Maeglin could not help
but feel a sense of self-loathing.

You deceive them with fair face and brave words, a keen voice would whisper in
his mind. He always tried to chase that thought, for it seemed to stir in him a
murky memory of a clouded past. Of what, he could not quite say. But, the voice
would disappear, as if suppressed, as intangible to him as contentment.

When the admiring faces pressed around him, clamouring once more for the tale of
his escape, he heard instead the silky voice of Morgoth, “See these people, do
you not now scorn them? Whilst you ran a gauntlet of fire, they forgot about
you. But now, they press about you as if you were their King.” And to Maeglin’s
enthralled mind, the words seem to hold truth and he forgot the keen voice of
his suppressed soul. “For you will be King of this rabble and do with them as
you will.” And he would snap at the teasing voice; greedy to know yet despising
his own eagerness, “When?” And Morgoth would laugh, amused at his victory,
“Soon, Elf. Soon.”

And so, Maeglin would tell a wondrous story of valour and renown in a dull
voice, for he had no recollection of what he said. He merely repeated what
Morgoth had instructed.

Morgoth had instructed him on many other things too, but they would not be
revealed until the time Morgoth had chosen arrived.

***

Tuor watched the Elf surrounded by his admirers from afar. Maeglin still
possessed the untamed beauty and intensity which had drawn Tuor before, but now,
Tuor felt no lust but fear. He knew that the Elf had suffered much in the
dungeons of Angband; the scars upon his flesh were plain to any casual observer.
But that night had bound their minds in a way that allowed him to sense
Maeglin’s thoughts and darkness as never before. He could feel that Maeglin now
seemed perplexed when he spoke. And sometimes, prompted by an unknown trigger,
he would stop mid-sentence and cast around him in an abstract manner, as though
searching for the truth in what he spoke. 

Tuor wanted to ask him what had really happened to him in Angband. What had
really happened on the practise field. And what Maeglin had really felt in that
moment of climax. 

But he knew that he could never again approach Maeglin with peace in his mind.
He could not even regard him now with mere primal lust. For that night had
scarred him. Maeglin had scarred him. The nightmares which had now come to haunt
his nights left him exhausted and weak. But at least not as drained as that
night. He did not recall how he had managed to drag himself back to Idril’s
chamber nor how he had managed to not betray the blackness gripping him. 

Although he did not understand what had happened, the darkening nightmares of
his sleep warned him that he had been touched with great evil. The nightmares
had increased in terror and number since Maeglin’s return and though he did not
know how he might be rid of this plague, he knew that coming near to Maeglin
would finish him.

Yet still he did not think that this darkness could not be defeated. Whatever
darkness that Maeglin possessed, he could not, dared not believe that it could
not be vanquished. For in the hope of Maeglin’s redemption, lay his own.

“What do you see?” Idril’s soft voice, tinted with foreboding, disturbed his
thoughts.

“I see darkness.” This time, Tuor’s voice was fearful and he could not meet her
eyes.

He had not told her of the brutal passion under the stars and he did not tell
her now of the darkness encroaching upon him.

“Whose darkness?”

“I know not. His father’s? His own?” He paused and turned to stare at her with
questioning blue eyes. “Mine?” And he would not speak further.

He knew Idril suspected more. He knew that his absences from her bed since that
night were marked. But he would not lie with her again until he had battled his
guilty demons, until he was delivered from the darkness, lest it consume her
too. Already, with the return of Maeglin, dark premonitions had appeared again
to her and she became ever paler.

At least his son was yet safe from darkness. In the light of heaven which shone
from his son’s face, Tuor placed his last hope that not all those he loved would
be marred by the very darkness which was slowly devouring him.

***

Maeglin knew that Tuor watched him. For Maeglin, in turn, watched Tuor.

He watched what Tuor did with veiled intensity. He watched Tuor’s face. He
watched Tuor’s body. Whenever he saw Tuor, he felt a heat flare deep within his
body, a lust raging through him, desiring Tuor with a ferocity and baseness that
both alarmed and aroused him. And at the same time, he was aware of a burning,
indescribable, incomprehensible hatred that threatened to spill over into
violent action whenever he saw the Man.

He wanted again to force the Man down before him on all fours, begging for
relief as he took him at his will. He remembered, indistinctly, one night before
his capture; he had dominated this Man but in his memory he only recalled the
pleasing iron taste of blood as he marked the Man for himself, the intense
pleasure as he controlled the Man to serve his needs.

Anything further than the physical gratification that he had felt could not be
recalled, try as he might to find those memories. It was if they had disappeared
under the surface of an implacable lake.

But the forgotten memories troubled him not. He lived now only to wait for
Morgoth’s signal to complete the final step of his betrayal. How he had come to
harbour such strong hatred for a man after whom he lusted, he neither knew nor
cared. All he knew and could remember was his release and instruction. Morgoth
had promised him much and he was ready to deliver

~~~

Still sat the Elf upon his balcony, clad in light trousers, gazing out over the
dim, deserted streets of the city. In the black depths of the night, when all
others had taken to their sleep, he escaped the devils of his nightmares by
veiling himself in the shadows of night. The speckled light of Varda’s gifts
shone brightly in the jet sky but he did not notice them, absorbed in his own
thoughts, a cool night breeze occasionally lifting a strand or two of his dark
locks. He seemed so tranquil, enveloped by the shadows and fluttering folds of
the curtains. Only the unnatural brightness of his black eyes belied his
unsettled mind.

Briefly flared the cold glint of silver light upon metal. He slowly and
deliberately turned the slim, sharp knife in his hands, his soft fingers
caressing the hard steel of the blade. Quick as a flash, the point bit his arm
and dark, crimson blood trickled from the shallow cut, a singe drop tracing a
path down the blade before pooling in his palm. A barely perceptible gasp
escaped his lips. He barely flinched as he forced the knife deeper into his
flesh, relishing the pain he inflicted. The mad look of his eyes swelled as they
stalked the pathway of the ruby drops, leaving a darkly glistening trail upon
his moonlit skin.

With slow, horrid fascination, he lifted his hands to catch the blood dripping
from his veins. In the night, his blood did not look red to him but a deeper
shade, almost black. He rubbed his hands slowly together, feeling the slight
stickiness as his blood coated his hands.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against his chair. He imagined Tuor before
him, subservient and weak, bound by his will to do anything he desired. Slowly
taking himself in his blood-slicked hands, he saw how he would take Tuor,
prepared with Tuor’s blood. His mind spinning out of his control, his hands
working in an oblivious frenzy, his thoughts sprang alive before him.

He moaned with pleasure as he saw his desired enemy fall and writhe beneath him;
defeated and conquered whilst he, the victor, bent to claim the spoils. His mind
heard the echoes of screams and he revelled wildly in the pleasure he took from
Tuor’s pain. For a moment of pained ecstasy, no shards of disgust and guilt
pierced his conscious, only an intense physical climax as he brought himself to
his completion, the dewy white of his release flowing over the dark dye upon his
hands.

“What else is there,” he thought recklessly, arching his back against his chair
as if to offer himself to the fresh wave of darkness that engulfed him, “ which
gives so much power and control? What else is there, but the darkness?”

Wiping his blade upon the folds of his trousers, Maeglin tried to push away the
feeling of hollowness which always followed and which left its tarnish like
grease smeared upon paper, each time more strongly felt.

“What else is there?” he thought again, but this time stubbornly and with
regret, struggling to convince himself. Upon the white handle of his knife, his
hands, darkly stained with his own dark blood, left hesitant traces.

Yet it would not be his own, but Tuor’s blood, which would ultimately stain his
hands.

~~~

The screaming of women and children, the crumbling walls of a fair city and the
hotness of greedy fires set the milieu of his duel. He was battling on the cliff
side. His enemy was gaining the advantage, parrying and thrusting with his
sword, forcing him close, so close, to the edge. Below him yawned a chasm of
rock and flame, and his father’s skeleton lay there in wait. He tried to counter
the strokes of his opponent with his own deadly skill but his limbs seemed heavy
and powerless. A glint of triumph shining in deep blue eyes, his foe thrust
forward with fatal accuracy. In his dream, he was not quick enough to meet the
stroke. With a gasp, he felt the cold blade pierce his skin and cut his warm
flesh. With disbelief he watched the sword enter his body and his blood flow
out, staining the ground with a crimson blush.

And then he fell. Deep into the black abyss his body fell, spiralling towards
the rocky bottom. But as he fell, he saw suddenly sorrow breach those azure eyes
of his assassin and a look of regretful farewell cross his noble features.

~~~
~~~




---“…and his body as it fell smote the rocky slopes of Amon Gwareth thrice ere
it pitched into the flames below…”---

A time of festival in Gondolin brought forth the attacking armies of Angband. As
ants towards spilled honey, the swarms of Orcs breached the northern hills, by
paths which had be shown them by Gondolin’s traitor. Unarmed and unprepared,
vast numbers of Elves fell under the foul blades of Angband, their scarlet blood
making the white stone of their walls, built to protect them, slippery with
their spilt blood.

The host of Morgoth was merciless in its massacre and pillaging of the Hidden
Kingdom. The wolves and dragons scattered all before them with fang and fire.
Those who were not quick enough perished quickly and painfully. Balrogs, the
feared servants of the underworld, wreathed in their mantles of shadow and
flame, descended upon the city, bring only terror and death.

Many Elves lay dead before their warriors had rallied their defences. Then great
was the battle for Gondolin. As its foundations were unmade and the white stones
of proud, fair halls were cast down, the Elves valiantly defended their city.
Wrath lent the skill of the Noldor great power and they avenged themselves many
times over on their enemy for their slaughtered kin. But they had been betrayed
and the enemy knew well how to assail and break down their defences. Soon, those
who still survived saw the futility of their cause and cursed their walls, which
before had been a protection, but now seemed to trap them.

The King fell defending his crown in his great tower and his steward found his
doom in a bitter victory against the Lord of Balrogs. And in desperate defence,
many deeds of valour and sacrifice were made, tragic tales to be forever
immortalised in song.

But of one tale, no song will ever tell.

~~~

Maeglin leapt up the steps of the eastern court in pursuit, his knives at the
ready. He had already slain her personal guard, his body seeming to work
automatically, mind barely registering the slaying of his kin. No remorse did he
feel, for soon he would be rewarded for his treachery. Gondolin would be his to
rule and Tuor his to claim. But first, he had to bring Morgoth his prize. He had
been instructed to bring the child, for Morgoth feared what the child would
become. Even the Lord of Angband was not above fear of the will of Eru and he
had perceived that to let the child live would be a great threat to him.

Idril had Earendil shielded with her own body and she stood defiant, backed into
a corner of the eastern turret. “Ye will not lay hands on him, Maeglin!” Though
her voice was steady, her heart beat rapidly. She knew that she was powerless
against his strength.

Maeglin could not look directly into the eyes of the Elf lady before him. He had
found her beautiful once but though her looks had not diminished, her image was
ever clouded in his mind with darkness and blood and he could not look upon her
face with calm. 

He advanced towards her. Behind her was Morgoth’s prize.

“Traitor of Gondolin! Touch them not, for ye will pay in blood!” Tuor’s voice
rang clearly against the white stone of the courtyard, the cold fury of his
words stinging the night.

The city had been attacked by its least guarded passages, and from the moment
the Orcs had flooded in, Tuor knew that Gondolin had been betrayed. Not knowing
why, he had been drawn to search for Maeglin as a galling suspicion took shape
in his mind. Seeing Maeglin slip away from the milieu of the slaughter, the
knots of dread confirmed for him then who the traitor was. But just as anger
rose in his blood, so did panic as he feared for his young son; defenceless
against the designs of evil.

Ignoring the fatigue and wounds of the battles he had endured to arrive at the
courtyard, his voice rose in challenge.

“Kin-slayer and traitor, the designs of your master will not be availed in
Gondolin while its warriors still stand!”

Slowly, almost mockingly, the Elf turned round to face him, a strange smile
lifting the corners of his lips.

He is beyond redemption, thought Tuor, dismayed, as he beheld the twisted glint
of the Elf’s eyes. Only darkness now lives behind his fair exterior. He could
feel himself become more wrathful, fed by his anger at the betrayal of a city he
had grown to love.

Without warning, he swung his sword round to attack.

Maeglin, unwearied and in a state of peculiar calm, saw the sword stroke form
and moved swiftly to one side whilst crossing his knives together in defence.
His back was now turned to Idril and he could sense that she had fled with
Earendil. To one side was the cold night sky, lit up by the flames of a dying
city and its crumbling ruins, to the other a steep fall from the cliffs of Amon
Gwareth.

Stroke met stroke, strengths matched, skill even. The two tested each other, not
yet commencing their last fight.

As screams filled the air and the latent heat of the flames engulfed the
courtyard, Maeglin recognised with a start his dreamscape. Briefly, triumphant
joy flared within him. It was a warning, he thought to himself. Sent so that I
might be prepared against my foe. Encouraged by his thought, Maeglin thrust out
more forcefully than before, almost sending Tuor off balance. For a split
second, the Man and Elf drew apart and regarded each other. Tuor frowned.
Maeglin raised his knives in a questioning taunt.

He had thrown down the gauntlet. 

Tuor drew his sword across the front of his face, murmuring a brief prayer, and
pointed his blade at Maeglin.

The real duel now began.

***

Maeglin fought for survival, a vague recollection of his dreams fuelling him on.
Because he doubted not a victory against the wounded Man, he relished every
ringing contact of blade upon blade and every brush of skin against skin as the
whirled together in this most deadly of dances. A sadistic, fell light glinted
in his eyes as he kept them intensely fixed upon the body and movements of Tuor.

Panting heavily, his wounds weakening his thrusts, Tuor desperately swung his
sword, seeking any way to break the precise defence of the Elf. 

The cold pale light of dawn seeped into the clouds of the dark night sky as
their battle spilled on to the very edges of the eastern cliffs. Soon a red
sunrise would break over the black rock to pierce the evil night. Tuor caught a
glimpse of the broken city and his rage burned in him more strongly.

His fury spurred him on, lending him renewed surges of strength. The feeling of
betrayal stung him and gnawed at his anguished soul. He has betrayed Gondolin,
he has betrayed his kin, he thought viciously, he has betrayed me. 

But as much as his wrath was directed at Maeglin, the bitterest anger and regret
he aimed at himself. He tasted guilt and self loathing as he remembered his lust
for the evil Elf he saw before him. He remembered his belief in the goodness of
Maeglin. And now he was shamed to remember how much Maeglin had changed since
that night. The darkness finally possessed him because of me, he thought,
because of my weakness, Maeglin was turned to evil. For he no longer believed in
the redemption of Maeglin; no longer believed that Maeglin felt any more than
hatred for him. And so it was his pride and guilt which drove him on in this
bitter battle. 

He wanted to punish Maeglin for his treason and he wanted to hurt Maeglin.
Wanted to slay him to save himself. His duel was now for him his last chance to
drive out the darkness with which Maeglin had tainted him. Brief flashes of a
dream had disturbed his fitful sleep not so many days ago. He could not
understand much of what he saw but what he did remember was an image of his
vanquished demon before him, slain by his own hand, and it had borne the face of
Maeglin. And so, he fought for vengeance, for wrath and for his own redemption.

But it was thus distracted by his anger that Tuor failed the duel. Before Tuor
had realised what was happening, Maeglin had swiftly attacked in the brief
breach of Tuor’s defence, scissoring the sword from his hands. He moved more
quickly than a striking snake. With one hand crushing Tuor’s arms between their
bodies, the other pushed a steady knife deep against the skin of his throat.

Once again, victory was his. He could feel the heat of Tuor’s body. His desire
to dominate the Man and the closeness to achieving his base longing was almost
too much to take. He would draw out the pleasure, mingling it with Tuor’s
torture and blood. His mind crowed with delight as he pinned the Man in a
triumphant, perilous embrace. 

“Whose blood shall be ransom now, Edain?” he sneered, running the sharp edge of
his blade over the skin on Tuor’s throat. The blade drew a thin scar from which
red blood flowed. Tuor winced but did not reply. Maeglin watched with a rapt
thirst as the thin streams of scarlet flowed down Tuor’s pale throat, down the
blade of his own knife, staining his hands. He suppressed the sudden desire to
brutally kiss Tuor’s throat, tasting the life blood as it streamed out of his
enemy. 

The new rays of Anor peeked over the far off cliffs of Dorthonion, not yet
reaching the sheer face of Gondolin’s eastern defences, where they stood. Soon
it would be a new dawn.

Regret and despair haunting his voice, Tuor whispered, “I wish that I had never
found you.”

The words took Maeglin by surprise, for they stirred in him the memory of a
forgotten realisation. The first rays of the new day’s sun breached the outer
eastern cliffs behind him and fell upon where they stood, illuminating all that
was before him. As the sky was shot through with a new radiance, he saw, for the
first time, the clear ruby red of Tuor’s blood staining his hands.

And he remembered.

All his sense at once rushed to overwhelm him. Devouring flames seemed to rear
up more menacingly their fiery heads, scalding him with a fierce heat. Bitter,
acrid smoke curled about him, stinging as they choked his nostrils.His eyes saw
clearly the red of Tuor’s blood glistening upon his hands like a crimson dew. It
had a fresh, iron smell which pervaded into his consciousness. 

As a veil lifting from his eyes, the spells of Morgoth evaporated from his mind
with Tuor’s words and the sight of his blood. He remembered clearly that night
under the stars and his remorse as he realised what he had done. He saw again
clearly the vivid horror of what Tuor would become if he chose to save himself.
And the same feelings of numbness and despair hit him with full force as he
beheld his knives in his hands, stained with the blood of his kin.

With a shocked, tormented cry, he suddenly released Tuor from his grip and
dropped his knives as though they burned his hands. He cast his eyes wildly in
front of him, his mind suddenly recognising the destruction of his beloved city
as his own treason. Feelings of failure and futility in his struggle against
darkness assailed his heart and his spirit reeled as if from a physical blow.
And he squeezed tightly shut his eyes, weeping silent anguished tears of shame
and sorrow.

***

Tuor had steeled himself, waiting for the inevitable bite of cold steel to tear
his skin and flesh. But the cut never came. Instead, he had felt the heat of the
Elf’s body suddenly break away and he had stumbled forward with the force of the
Elf’s movement. He spun round, still wary, to behold the sight of Maeglin, hands
redly stained and standing precariously close to the cliff edge. The Elf’s
breathing was ragged and he stared, unseeing, at the ground.

Tuor retrieved his sword for he knew that he should move now, attack when this
chance was ripe. But he could not strike against an unarmed fighter. And though
his wrath still burned hotly, he now thought he saw a softening of Maeglin’s
face. He thought he once again saw the noble heart of Maeglin displayed. He
could not tear his eyes away from the turmoil and struggle written in Maeglin’s
face as he fought an inner battle. He watched in fascination as Maeglin’s
features flinched and twisted in agony, in guilt and then seemed to smooth over.

The light of Anor penetrated further over the cliff sides of Amon Gwareth.
Maeglin looked up, as if dazed out of a dream. Tuor saw no longer evil and
mockery in his features but a mournful resignation.

But still there was darkness. And he knew what destructive potential was held in
that darkness. Even if he would be engulfed by it, he could at least save his
son. He could at least ensure that he destroyed forever the root of this
encroaching gloom or die in the attempt. He could, at least, perform his duty as
a father since he had so willingly forsaken his duty as a husband.

So, once again, he raised his sword and cried a challenge.

“Do not throw down your weapon in the hope of mercy; the memory of Gondolin
cannot allow me to forget a treachery such as yours. The only path you can tread
whilst I still draw breath will be death!”

To his wonder, Maeglin did not react. Instead, he remained silent and still, as
if in deep thought. And when he spoke, his words filled Tuor with astonishment.

“Then so be it. I choose death by your blade.”

***

For Maeglin had seen, in a moment of foresighted vision, that to which he had
been blinded by the malice of Morgoth. As he recognised in the dim dawn the very
place over which his father had been cast, the very place where he had lain his
curse, the very scene of his last dream, he realised the meaning of his fate.
His darkness could never be destroyed; it could only destroy. There was only one
escape from his darkness for both of them and he did not shirk from the path. He
embraced his doom now with pride. Morgoth had laid his honour to ruins by
leading him to treason but he would not suffer that a Man upon whom rested such
light and grace would finish with the same dark fate as himself. No matter how
much it would hurt him, he would walk the path.

And so Maeglin fixed his dark eyes upon the azure beauty of Tuor’s, opened his
arms as though in welcome, and made his choice.

“Then so be it, I choose death by your blade.”

***

But Tuor could not swing his sword to strike. His sword wavered. It was not
through fear of trickery that he hesitated. But he could not kill one in whom he
no longer saw thorough evil. Not when so much pain and anguish was carved there
too. He felt his earlier wrath dissolve and pity take its place.

“Aye. For you are noble and uncorrupted.” Maeglin regarded Tuor with a wistful
smile. “For what light you have shown me, I thank you.”

Tuor did not understand Maeglin’s words. But he saw the shift in Maeglin’s
features and a resurfacing of good.

“Of what do you speak?”

Maeglin merely shook his head.

“You will not comprehend for you have not known true darkness.”

Confusion filled Tuor’s mind and he lowered his sword. 

“What is the meaning of your words? Of what darkness do you speak?”

With a slight backward glance, Maeglin held out his palms as if in offering.

“I speak of my own. I am sorry, you have endured a taste of it too. But for me
it is everlasting. I have lived, and I will die, by it.”

Tuor found himself despairing at the Elf’s sorrow and against his instincts, he
found himself still caring for this Elf whom he had so desired not so long ago.

“Is there no saviour for you?”

Maeglin shook his head sadly. 

“There is only one who can take away my darkness.”  Sympathy seemed to flicker
in his eyes. “And he would not live to rejoice in my light.”

Maeglin made a small, imperceptible movement towards where he had thrown his
knives down on the ground.

“I have committed a treachery which will be accounted as the most infamous in
all the histories of the Elder days, but I will not allow the darkness to take
you in my ruin.”

Tuor, unseeing, uncomprehending, cried instinctively to the Elf before him.

“But your will is strong! Walk away from your darkness!”

A sad smile lifted the corners of Maeglin’s lips, not quite reaching his sad
dark eyes.

“What else is there?” he whispered, almost to himself. This time, there was
neither recklessness nor hollowness, only regret and acceptance.

“What else is there for me, but the memory of you, Tuor?” Maeglin savoured the
name as it passed his lips for the first, and last, time.

“Just as you showed me the beauty of light by taking part of my dark, I now take
back my dark so that you may know once more the light.”

Tuor did not fully understand the weight of his words at first and did not see
clearly the quick movement of the Elf. All he was aware of was the flash of
steel as Maeglin, swift as a poison tipped arrow, reclaimed his knives. Tuor
reacted by instinct, bringing his sword up in a wide arc towards Maeglin’s neck.

Too late did he realise that his renewed faith in Maeglin had not been betrayed.
Too late did he see that Maeglin did not attack but held his knives aloft, arms
open in a gesture of salutation. Too late did he try to halt the path of his
blade slashing the white throat of the Elf.

As the red sun finally cast her full blaze over the hills, fountains of scarlet
blood spurted out to rival the crimson blaze of the burning city.

And Maeglin, staggering backwards, letting drop his blood stained knives, fell
into the scattered purity of the sun’s rays seeping through the cracks of the
cliff side. As he plunged off the edge into the deep chasm of his dreams, he
took with him his darkness, feeling at last a peace come to him, and he smiled.
Not a dark, sad or regretful smile. But a true smile, beautiful and blessed.

***

As a poison leaving his body, Tuor felt the plague of darkness, be sucked out of
his body, his demons exorcised in a violent, wrenching redemption that left him
winded and knocking him to the ground. As he stumbled forwards, the warm spray
of Maeglin’s blood splattering his hands and face, and he suddenly understood.

A strangled cry of Maeglin’s name formed upon his lips, his solitary, final
tribute to his lover’s sacrifice for him. Gasping and weeping, he watched as
Maeglin’s falling body was swallowed by shards of splintered light streaming
over the cliffs.

And it seemed to Tuor that Maeglin fell, not into darkness, but into light.