Interrogations

By Tyellas

Summary: Silmarillion-based. Maeglin betrays Gondolin to the evil Vala Morgoth, then reconciles himself to his betrayal.

Disclaimer: These characters and Middle-Earth are the copyright of the Tolkien estate and this fan fiction is not meant to infringe on that copyright in any way.

Story Warnings and Notes: DARKFIC. NC-17, slash, graphic sex, extra BDSM warning for an unsafe activity.

Thank you to beta readers Aayesha (esp. Morgoth suggestions!) and Suzana.

None were supposed to leave the Hidden City, by the command of its king. But Maeglin, prince and nephew to the king, knew how to elude its guards and leave its leaguer. He had grown so confident in this deceit that at times he took smiths who were his followers with him, to prospect for rare ores. So it was that in the dimness of dawn, Maeglin and one of his followers were slipping towards the border of the valley that cupped Gondolin. The pair, clad in cloaks grey as stone, trod a path newly freed from winter's fastness. The first week of spring was the season for prospecting. The mountain snows had melted and exposed the rocks, but alpine verdure had not hidden them again.

As they went upwards into the Encircling Mountains, they paused to glance back upon the city in the valley's bowl. In the rising dawn, the city's lights still glowed on walls of white and roofs of gold. Maeglin's vassal, Aranwë, smiled a little at the sight, finding it fair, then looked to Maeglin. He had been the chief of smiths before Maeglin came to Gondolin. Maeglin had wanted that role for himself, and had seduced Aranwë into surrendering it to him. But he had not lost the smith's alliance by this; far from it. Aranwë's eyes lingered with hunger on Maeglin's beauty. The elf-lord had thrown his hood back, revealing a straight profile framed in black hair cut as the smiths of Gondolin wore it, scarcely long enough to brush the shoulders.

Maeglin ignored Aranwë's glances as he peered down at the city. The sight brought Maeglin no joy. Was this, then, all there was for him? Yes, he had lordship and power; yes, he and the smiths had wrought a thousand marvels; yes, he sat at the King's right hand. Many feared him for it, and some fawned on him. He might fulfil his lusts as warriors did, with one of several admirers or vassals. But he might not have the woman he desired. Idril Celebrindal was beyond his reach. She had been barred from him by the laws of the Eldar because of their closeness of kin. The pain of that had been bearable - until she had wed another.

Maeglin half-turned to Aranwë. "I could swear that a light still shines in Idril's chambers, nigh the tallest tower of Turgon's palace," he said, and his voice was a snarl of resentment. "Does that wretched mortal she wed never let her sleep for all his lusts?"

Aranwë quietly replied, "More likely that she tends her babe, my lord."

Maeglin still looked down the valley. "At this hour?"

"Children do not watch sun nor stars for the time; they will have what they will have, without regard," said Aranwë. Since Idril had wedded, Maeglin had turned to him more - and yet, for all that, Aranwë felt his presence less, for ever did he speak of Idril. In the face of that, he felt like a lantern without fuel, burned out and empty, even as he admired his lord in the greying dawn. It was time to say what he had been holding back for some weeks. He allowed himself a last glance at Maeglin before he said, "My lord. Why don't you set all this aside, the pleasures of warriors and your yearning for Idril, and get married yourself?"

To cover his surprise, Maeglin snapped, "I can scarce believe that you of all would say such a thing, Aranwë."

With a bleak look, Aranwë sighed, "I think desire between elf-men has pleased you for as long as it might. I no longer ease your sorrows, my lord, this I see." He pressed his lips together, then spoke more. "What about the maiden Pennwen? She is swift-minded and fair, with the looks you favour." And just come of age, thought Aranwë, young enough to be in awe of you for some years yet, and bide by your every word; for I cannot see you happy, otherwise.

Maeglin's mouth curled. "She is not noble."

"You are noble enough for two," said Aranwë.

"Nor is she half as fair as Idril." Maeglin folded his arms over his chest and turned away. "There will never be any other woman for me."

Aranwë took a deep breath, then added another thought he had hidden. "Even if you might have Idril, she would not be a good match for you. She has a will of steel, despite her beauty."

Maeglin snapped around, furious and cold. There was a terrible moment of silence. If Aranwë had had any defiance in his eyes, it would have gone ill with him, but Maeglin saw him cowed, and struck only with words. His voice was icy with contempt. "Just because you are - shall we say - easily swayed, does not make such a one any more of a match for me." Maeglin stepped close to Aranwë, who winced back. But the black-eyed elf only snatched a satchel of supplies from the tall smith's nerveless hands. "Since you value my confidences so little, leave me be! I shall prospect alone."

The smith blanched beneath his hood. "My lord, you have not—"

Maeglin cut him off with a hard gesture. "Am I your lord? You do not act like it, today. Return or go your own way! Fend off Turgon's queries of me, if you would serve!" He whirled around and devoured the angled pathway in long strides. One listening pause revealed that his vassal, heeding his words, did not follow him. He went on his way, only slightly less vexed.

Maeglin's temper had not cooled by noon. He had threaded his way through the low peaks of the northern mountains until he stood outside the sheltering valley. Behind the mountains, Gondolin was hidden indeed. He hiked for a further hour, until he looked on the mountains outside the valley that were parallel to the mine of Anghabar, opened inside the valley. As he walked, taking care to leave no track, Maeglin decided that Aranwë was wrong. It was the very fact that Idril held such a strong will within her slender frame, the enticing contrast of it that held his desire. Unfortunately, Aranwë was also right. Even after Tuor died, he could not have Idril. For a moment, he felt lost in an abyss of sorrow, but he hardened himself again.

Better to be angry about it than to weep, he thought. Anger was fire and fuel to his strength. Was it not for the anger that moved him to flee his father's halls, he would not have the many things he did today; and he grasped the hilt of his sword Anguirel with a bitter smile.

Touching leather and steel reminded him of his errand. Forcing himself to set thoughts of Idril aside, he focused on prospecting. He turned himself to scan the cliffs for stone that was redder or darker, showing that metal-ore was buried near. If he was lucky, he would come upon another vein that might be mined from the inner vales. Perhaps he would take two or three days to look amongst the rocks; he was in no mood to tolerate Turgon's elaborate court.

Maeglin was intent upon examining a cliff when he heard the sounds behind him. He cast his cloak around him and slunk behind a cluster of boulders as tall as he was. With ears keen as his eyes, he picked out marching feet. At times Men traversed these mountains; this sounded like more of a company than usual. He gripped the hilt of Anguirel again, waiting to see if he would be able to strike.

Soon Maeglin saw stooped marchers; two, three, ten. He was outnumbered. Ten, twenty, thirty, all marching slow and peering about, as if the light pained them. One took off his helm to scratch his ears. Maeglin had to force himself to stay still instead of leaping out to fight; for it was no mortal man, but an Orc. Now he saw that some of the orcs were clad in armour, even to iron-nailed boots, and some in rags, and some in plunder in-between. Maeglin's lips curled in hatred as he recognized a chest-plate of one of Gondolin's guards strapped to an orc's foul torso, plunder of the Nirnaeth Aenordiad.

Maeglin calmed himself. Never before had evil's creatures come so near Gondolin's boundaries. This probably meant, he thought, that the vaunted sons of Fëanor were not doing so well in their endless battle with Morgoth. He wondered if they had fallen to the forces commanded by that evil god, or if they had fled their lands to go south. Still hidden, he watched the orcs explore the stony vale for a time, then turn around to go back the way they came.

After the last dark shape shambled off, he lifted from crouching behind the stones. Courtly misery and impertinent vassals be damned, he thought. The hope of riding out to war again cheered him like nothing else would have - he could have sworn that Anguirel sensed his bloodlust and rang in anticipation. He smiled when he realized that Tuor, Idril's husband, would also stand forth to defend Gondolin. Maeglin could arrange for Tuor to have armour that was more elegant than functional. The mortal knew nothing of smith-work. Would not such a gift be fitting for Idril's husband? First, he had to persuade Turgon to open the city's leaguer without revealing that he himself had broken it. It was the opposite of the counsel he usually advised, so it might take some persuasion. But he was used to having his way within Gondolin, one way or another. Plotting and planning, he turned around.

Three orcs, silent on rag-wrapped feet, had come behind him as he hid, and stood there grinning.

No tale told of his fight then. He never spoke of his anger as he slew and wounded them, followed by his despair as, the rest of the orc-march returning, he was taken. Nor, even the one time that he later confessed his treachery, did he ever speak of the journey whence they dragged him; several days' forced march through lands increasingly wild and hard. The horrors of the orcs' company, vile though they were, faded in memory before what awaited him within Angband.

The looming darkness of Thangorodrim dominated the sere grey plain before it. That sheer mountain concealed evil's stronghold in Middle Earth, the delved halls of Angband. Since Beren and Lúthien had had their triumph in Angband, Morgoth's wrath made it always night about Angband's gate, the skies laden with fume and cloud. As the orcs and their prisoner drew near, the plain fissured into evil canyons and chasms. The path the orcs dragged Maeglin along tilted downwards. Thus they came to the gate of Angband, set beneath a thousand feet of precipice.

Maeglin looked on Angband's gate, sealed with two solid iron doors, tall enough for a Balrog or winged fire-drake to pass. It was more massive than any of the Seven Gates of Gondolin. Numbly, he wondered how the work had been wrought. Then the orcs drew him within, and drove him down stairs upon stairs, into the depths of hell upon earth.

Maeglin stumbled in his weariness, sensing fragments of Angband amidst its sooty darkness. A rough arch opened into a chamber of fire. Some creature, foul and unseen, howled in agony, cries echoing in the pitiless halls. On the stairs, he was shoved past a figure as grey as a shade, an elvish thrall. He glimpsed the thrall's face; haggard, and hollow-eyed, and spiritless. Then he was forced on, fighting terror at every step. The shadow of unease to the north of Gondolin had been a bare echo of the wrath at the heart of Angband. The imprisoned elf sensed the malice in the depths. Powerful. Waiting. Named with a name of fear. Maeglin steeled himself.

Jabbering with anticipation, the orcs hauled him into a deep hall and flung him on his face before he could see aught. A raw voice roared, "Cower, earth-spawn, cower before the Lord of Arda!" Thoughtlessly defiant, Maeglin looked up, and found courage unexpected.

The horror of Morgoth was undeniable. The cruel Vala's form was that of a giant. He sat on a massive throne of black rock, clad in black mail and shadow, his massive weapons at hand on the wall behind. Morgoth was never alone. A guard of Balrogs stood by the throne, their cracked stone skin terribly luminous. Yet more splendid was the light of the Silmarils, sparkling white and rainbow amidst the red-lit hall. Their cool glimmer made Maeglin think of Idril and his long endurance. The strength he took in that was not diminished even when the voice of Morgoth boomed out.

"Well hunted," Morgoth intoned, extending a hand to his creatures in black benediction. "Throw down his gear. Go you to the pits of the thralls, and choose there your rewards." The orcs, bowing and scraping, fled.

Maeglin marvelled at the Vala's tone. The giant being's face was hideous and skull-like, but his voice was deep and rich, as if he was the Lord of Arda he claimed to be.

"Elf of Turgon's host," Morgoth said. "One of the captains of Turgon at battle before my gates, upon a time, be the tale aright."

Maeglin stood up, but said naught. He watched as a demon scooped up the discarded gear and proffered it for his lord's perusal. Morgoth glanced upon it and turned the items; a pack, some of his half-armour, and his treasured sword Anguirel, all small as a child's toys in Morgoth's hands. Then Morgoth continued. "Black armour, black hair, black eyes - yea, there was one like to you at that battle, who even bore a black shield. Like my own," said Morgoth, and he smiled. "You were no coward, I was told."

Maeglin, uncertain before that horrible grin, said nothing.

"And no fool," Morgoth continued, the amusement in his voice at terrible odds with his skull-sere, hate-filled face. "Well do I know the warriors of the Eldar." One of the attending Balrogs stepped forwards, and silently lifted a huge brazier and its stand, placing it nigh Morgoth's right hand. Its flames flared high. "It shall take some time to break you." A second Balrog stepped up to Morgoth's left, unwinding a lash from his back, proffering it at the ready. The scourge seemed edged with fire. "But broken you shall be." Sweat began to slide beneath Maeglin's clothes and armour. Without thinking, he took a step back, only to hear a creature hiss behind him. He glanced back, and then froze, understanding why there was no need for bonds in Morgoth's deepest hall.

Morgoth's voice fell. "There is another way." He leaned forward, letting his eagerness show. "Give me news of your Hidden City, and keep your life and freedom."

Maeglin looked again on the light of the Silmarils, blue and cool. "Slay me, then!" he cried. The Vala unfolded himself from his black throne to stand, tall as a tower, and his laugh rang from the stone walls. The Balrogs covered their ears and cowered.

"Death is easy, so easy," the Vala hissed, looking down. "Death from the form that chains you is escape. I do not think you will call the life that is left to you worth the labour of breathing, when my torment of you is done."

More terrible than Morgoth's arising was what he did next. He knelt before Maeglin and raised a hand, larger than a shield, to brush against him. Maeglin was still, expecting to be crushed, or lifted and dashed to the stone floor. But all Morgoth did was to tap against his armoured calves. "Your legs shall be shattered."

Mere threats, thought Maeglin, when he is so powerful. Maeglin tilted his head up, with a scornful exhalation. "Such I have suffered," he sneered, and it was true, for mines and rock-faces were perilous.

The hand brushed up to the chest-plate Maeglin still wore. "Your hands will be wrung beyond hope of healing."

Maeglin laughed a little. "I dare being maimed or burned every day I take to my forges."

"So you are a craftsman." Morgoth moved his hand up over Maeglin's face, hovering without touching, blocking out the sight of anything else. Maeglin saw that the Vala's fingers were wrapped in a web of angry red skin, scarred as if by burning. "Only one torment is needed for you, then; to blind you."

Ah! Cried Maeglin, his gut cold with terror at last. Morgoth's chuckle was more dread than his exultant laugh, for it held a note of victory. Maeglin knew his shield and his bluff were lost.

"You would be fair no longer, with suppurating scar-pits for eyes. I might send you back to the Elves, that they take pity upon you…or watch as you starve in the wilds…or toy with you further." One of the dark god's finger-tips caressed Maeglin's face, his skin.

"Yea, your eyes will be seared out with hot iron. My vassals will do it. For you are nothing to me. And you could be all. I can read much of you, elf-man." Maeglin felt the wide hand placed on his chest, the Vala's fingers caging him. "And you burn." The heavy, hot touch dominated, enflamed, lured. All Maeglin's anger and his desire flared up in him. To be so exposed was as if all the torments that he had dealt out, or spoken of to terrify others, came back to him.

Morgoth's lipless grin was wide before Maeglin's eyes. Then the Vala swung back into anger, pulling his hand back to form a boulder-sized fist and roaring, "MAKE YOUR CHOICE!"

Maeglin staggered back, shieldless in terror. "SPEAK!" Morgoth shouted. Even the light of the Silmarils waned before Morgoth's anger.

"I -" Maeglin said. He swallowed. It seemed, for a moment, that salvation might match his own malice. Had he seen his own face, he would have known that his grin mirrored Morgoth's. "News you ask, news you shall have. I have some news of one who survived the Nirnaeth. We hear that you hate the Edain, the Second Comers. Know you the mortal Húrin, son of Huor? Who fought with the forces of Gondolin before your gates "

"Yea, I know of him." The lightless sockets of Morgoth's eyes stayed dark.

"You know he still lives, then? The Eagles saw him amongst the hills, crying like a madman to the cliffs. Surely you will want to hunt your foeman down," said Maeglin, self-serving to the last; for he had hated Húrin. "You may yet find him in the North, near where I was - found."

Slowly, Morgoth stood again. Wondering if this had been enough, Maeglin found himself facing Morgoth's mail-draped knees, and felt the terrible regard on him from above. "Stale news will buy nothing. I know this already. I am not easily blinded!" cried Morgoth. "Unlike you." And Maeglin was cowed at that threat renewed. "Fairer news would I have of you; news of where the Hidden City lies. That, and that alone, will see you spared and more. Tell me, and you shall be allowed to live unmarred, the only way any elf is; as my servant."

A vision of the elf-thrall he had glimpsed flashed into Maeglin's mind, and he shouted, "I saw how you reward your servants! With living death, as walking shells of beings in your halls!"

Morgoth laughed again, the cruel laugh so ready to him. "What makes you think the thralls here are all my servants? They are lesser ones. Many Elves now walk the lands about as my vassals." Maeglin was appalled and hopeful at the same time. Lost to Morgoth's dominance, he did not think that the Vala might be lying. Morgoth's voice was rich again as he said, "Think you all my rights over Arda are regained by the hands of Orcs? I reward my servants based on obedience and kind."

Seeing Maeglin waver, Morgoth was well pleased. The twin Silmarils in his crown flickered as he spoke. "Be you my vassal, bring the Hidden City under my power, and you shall have the lordship of Gondolin. All you have to do is tell me. Tell me where it is. If you do not tell me, another will. It is inevitable. Why should you not be the one to gain?"

"The lordship of Gondolin…" Maeglin mused.

"Yea. Thou must be of high kin to stand among Turgon's captains, and I would have such as thee for my lieutenants," said Morgoth, smoothly.

"I am the city's prince," said Maeglin.

With calculated softness, in an illusion of mighty mercy after anger, Morgoth asked, "Wouldst thou be king?"

A vision came to Maeglin's mind of Gondolin, the Song of Stone, the Hidden City, as he had last seen it, pale in the dawn, the sight tainted by his bitter yearning. Was that all there was, he had thought. And his grief at that was answered by this offer. If he ruled Gondolin, who would gainsay him - anything? "King and more," breathed Maeglin. "I will tell you where it lies if you will not gainsay me claiming the woman of that city I desire. Her name," he gasped, feeling Morgoth's regard weighing his will down, "her name is Idril."

Maeglin was frozen as Morgoth knelt before him once more. If the evil Vala knew or cared that Maeglin was Idril's cousin, that Maeglin would have the sin of incest, Morgoth gave no sign. Morgoth touched him again, then, tapping one finger on Maeglin's chest-plate, thoughtfully. Maeglin stayed still before the being more powerful and angry than he would ever be. "So it shall be," said Morgoth, in the voice of doom. "Tell us how the city may be found and taken. Then describe your Idril to me, so that we may spare her."

Their gazes met. And they laughed together.

Maeglin's return nigh the mountains around Gondolin was swift. A strange rider on a fell beast of the air bore him from Angband back through the airs in half a night, coming as close to Gondolin as they dared for fear of the Eagles. It turned out that he was left almost where he had been taken. After the foul wings flapped away, he stood for a moment.

So that he might return to Gondolin as he had left it, with no sign of his treachery, his gear had been returned to him. Nigh disbelieving, he slid Anguirel partway out of its sheath, reassured by its weight on his hip. He tore open his pack - everything was there, the orcs must have been commanded to leave it alone - but decided he did not feel like eating any rations that had been amongst the fumes of Angband. Scooping up a mouthful of snow from a half-melted drift to freshen his mouth, he took the path that led to the valley of Gondolin.

Soon, he had reached the brim of the Tumlauden. He had been gone four days, in total, dawn to dawn. He paused at the brink; for after the horror of Angband, Gondolin was as beautiful as if he had beheld it for the first time. It had been one thing to come through the city's gates hoping he would be its prince. It was a darker thrill to gaze at it, knowing its ways, its treasures and beauty, and to know he would be its king. He closed his eyes to savour the idea, trying to banish the horror it would take to make it so.

The doubt that shadowed him grew stronger when he came to the city. It seemed Aranwë had been true, for the guards hailed Maeglin as if he had been treading amongst the lawful side of the Encircling Mountains. He entered Gondolin amidst the bustle of high morning. For once, the city's crowds, often so irritating, soothed him. The bright throng could not be further from Angband. He gazed at the faces around him, bright and fair, and could not forget that the coming of Morgoth's forces would still bring death to many in the city. Sunk in darkness before Morgoth's throne, he had even asked the Vala to seek out certain ones to slay. If the Dark Lord kept his leaguer, Glorfindel and Ecthelion would have prices on their heads - Tuor and Idril's half-breed son Eärendil bringing richest bounties of all. He thought of their pride and cloudless joys (for so they seemed to him after his dark yearnings), and felt his regret start to evaporate.

But he had drawn nigh to the city's heart, and the royal citadel that stood there, red banners lifting gently in the spring morning breeze. He looked on the sigil of his uncle, Turgon, the King of the city; and was troubled. Maeglin was as honestly fond of Turgon as he could be of anyone. He had liked Turgon well from the hour Turgon had finally decreed that his own father, murderous Eöl, should be slain. Pleased by the strength of this choice, made in defiance of what Maeglin considered weaker counsels, he had sworn fealty to his uncle. Turgon had repaid that fealty with as much power as he might give to Maeglin - while still remaining King himself. That gave Maeglin pause. What other way was there for a prince of the Eldar to gain true power than by clearing away those of eld?

Maeglin reminded himself, in the halls of that palace, that he would have been a fool not to take what the Dark Lord had offered. Faced with Morgoth's might, there had been nothing else he could do. True evil had been but a name to him, the ill deeds in his past but shadows of it. There was no withstanding its full might. Its victory was inevitable. Better sooner than later; better that Morgoth's new way leave Gondolin still standing, and Elves alive in it. More fool those who let themselves be put to torment and chained in thraldom, instead of gaining what chance had given them. Surely, Maeglin thought, anyone offered the chance to gain their heart's desire would have succumbed, even at the cost of cruelty.

Reaching his chambers within the heart of Gondolin, Maeglin was greeted by his esquire. "Well met, my lord. Did you have fortune amidst the hills?"

"No," said Maeglin, and the esquire dropped his eyes, ready to be cautious of Maeglin's temper. "Bring me water for washing - a full bath's worth," said Maeglin. His skin itched with filth. "Have a meal brought for me." He felt hungry; and he realized the ache in his gut was more than one kind of hunger. "Then find you Aranwë, and bring him to me here." Carefully concealing his own relief at being back, he sat on one of his blood-coloured couches to await these services.

By the time Aranwë arrived, Maeglin had sent away his esquire with the empty dishes of his repast. He heard the hesitant knock at his chamber's door, and answered it himself. This, he saw, threw Aranwë nicely off balance. "My lord," the smith said, "you…wished to speak with me? Am I come too soon?" For Maeglin, though clad in a chamber-robe of midnight velvet, was clearly wearing naught beneath it. His black hair was still waved and damp after his ablutions.

"Not at all," said Maeglin. "Enter, and we shall talk." After Aranwë came in, Maeglin sealed the door. Aranwë did not sit down, nor turn his back to Maeglin; and Maeglin marked this. They stood and looked at each other for a moment.

"I am sorry you did not come with me," said Maeglin, evenly.

Aranwë gave Maeglin a careful look; this was not the mood he had expected. "What was your luck?" asked Aranwë.

Maeglin shook his head, shadowed for a moment. "Not good." Although Maeglin was tall, his vassal was taller, and he had to look upwards to meet Aranwë's eyes. Maeglin saw deep. He realized that Aranwë did not, failing to perceive Maeglin's new darkness, and he felt stronger for carrying off his deceit. "You were daring with your words to me, before we parted."

"My lord, it seems I grieved you further," Aranwë whispered.

Maeglin narrowed his sharp eyes. "'Tis certain I do not confide in you so that you may bring me more misery. Still, I have been thinking. Perchance you said something you did not mean to say, when you spoke." Maeglin was directly in front of Aranwë now. He brushed his black curls away from his face as he looked up. "You said you did not please me. But I can guess your mind; it is you who are not full pleased with me. You have never had what you truly wanted from me, have you?"

Astonished, Aranwë said, "I know not what you mean! You have given me -" Aranwë paused, considering the acts of lust, both low and high, Maeglin dealt out to him. "Much, my lord," he concluded.

"You desire me," said Maeglin.

"Yes," Aranwë admitted.

Maeglin was close enough to whisper. "You wish to take me, do you not?"

"Maeglin - my lord - I -" Aranwë turned away, flushed deeply. The way his breathing quickened as he clenched his hands was all the answer Maeglin needed, and inside himself, he laughed.

"You wish it. Do not lie to me," Maeglin said, voice still even and light. He watched his man, reeling with shame and fear at having Maeglin speak out a desire thought hidden. Maeglin was not surprised that Aranwë braced himself as if he expected to be struck.

"What would you do…if you might have me?" Maeglin slid the robe's sash away. The robe, unfastened, dropped from his shoulders, folding onto the floor to reveal his nudity. He ran the sash through his hands, expectantly.

"But - you said you never wanted -"

Maeglin, with nothing but a tilted, sly smile, stepped before the taller elf-man. With the hand that clasped the sash, he reached and stroked the silk along Aranwë's cheek. "I had much thought among the mountains." He did not say which mountains. "If I shall be wedded someday, would you not have me while you can?"

Aranwë's expression was both pained and pleased at that. Very slowly, he sank to his knees before Maeglin, and reached up tentatively, resting a hand against the bones of Maeglin's hip. "My lord. My fair lord," he whispered, lifting his second hand.

From kneeling, Aranwë stroked Maeglin's thighs and croup. Maeglin, who normally despised such caresses, did not stop him. After Morgoth's caress that had cracked open his spirit, it was nothing. But memory cut through his numbness. The more closely the other elf-man touched him, the more it reminded him of Morgoth's touch, which had revealed desire and evil. A morass of hatred and fear, the desire to be spared, all came back to him. This, he understood, was the price of his treachery fired by lust. There would be no touch of desire, be it embrace or homage, that was not tainted by the fire of Angband.

Maeglin forced his voice to be sweet. "Come. I had you for the first time on the floor, but I would like more comfort for myself." He tilted Aranwë's head up. "Unless you would be revenged on me for it?"

Maeglin was gratified at the ambiguous look that came over his kneeling supplicant's face, as if that idea had a fierce appeal. It was true, then; any would fall, given the chance to free their hidden lust. So much for the vaunted continence of the Elves! But Aranwë's expression gentled. Maeglin wrested with disappointment and profound relief as his elf-man stood.

Maeglin's relief fled as Aranwë drew him into a lover's embrace. The hateful tracery of Angband's fire in Maeglin's own body made it into a burning cage; made a light kiss a soul-probing violation. He tore his face away. "Come, I bid you," Maeglin whispered, and drew the besotted elf-man into his bedchamber. Maeglin locked a second door.

He draped himself over the edge of his low bed. "Was this what you wanted, when you first offered yourself to me, Aranwë?" asked Maeglin, still tracing the sash through his hands.

Aranwë knelt before him again, caressing Maeglin's hard white thighs, reaching up to stroke his member into life. Maeglin twitched back, nigh overwhelmed at the sense of being lost to shadow and flame that brought on. He flung the sash aside. "Answer me!" he commanded.

"Ai, my lord, it was," rasped Aranwë . The floodgates open, he went on. "You were scarce more than a lad then, so lithe and beautiful, I shouldn't have wanted to - I never would have thought of it had I known why you dislike -"

Maeglin stilled the confession with a touch to Aranwë's lips. "I have my answer; I need no more." He slid half-onto the floor to twine around his vassal. "Here's to desire fulfilled." For the first time, knowing the dark fire it would bring, Maeglin initiated a kiss. This time, he surrendered to the welling sense of evil inside him.

Aranwë drank the kiss long. Maeglin's mouth was sweet, demanding, his tongue clean and darting. When Maeglin broke the kiss, he slid his arms around the elf-man again. "You are no less beautiful now, though you be strong as steel," said Aranwë , stroking both of Maeglin's shoulders, hard-muscled and wide after centuries of smith-work. "Yet you are softened, if you can be so giving."

Maeglin's eyes shone. As before Morgoth's throne, dark hope arose in him. It seemed that he would be able to keep Morgoth's secrets after all, until the time came. It must be impatience, the yearning for fulfilment, which made the evil he had given himself to burn. Smoothly, he sat up on the edge of his bed again. "You are more than ready, Aranwë. Get you the oil from yon shelf. Then delay no more; come and have me."

Aranwë did come to him, but he did not seem aware that those words too had been a command. For he did not move to oil and use Maeglin. Instead, he stripped off his own clothes, then returned to sleek over his lord's white skin with feathery caresses and hungry kisses, even gentle bites. Maeglin writhed. His own flesh poisoned the sense of those lovers' touches with dread fire and fell memory. Unbidden, he recalled the moment when Morgoth had touched his skin, and groaned to think on it, even as Aranwë stroked soft-touching oiled fingers along his arse. As before Morgoth's throne, Maeglin froze as he was probed, then moved to co-operate in his own shame. The sooner the act was begun, the sooner it was over with.

Maeglin, inviolate for years uncounted, still managed not to scream as he was entered. He threw back his head and hissed. Whether Aranwë was minded for revenge or no, with his endowment, he was having it. Maeglin unscrewed his eyes, and looked up at the elf-man taking him. The bliss of Aranwë's expression was clouded by concern. "Are you all right?" Aranwë gasped.

And at the kind words Maeglin hated him. Self-serving knave. You never saw how I suffered for Idril, and you see it not now, he thought. Then be blind and deceived. "I will be in a moment," Maeglin purred. "Just let me shift up." Lightly, he cast the sash over Aranwë's shoulders, behind his neck, and pulled himself up a touch, using the sash like a rein. "Bend and kiss me," he urged.

Aranwë obeyed with a good will, and also started to shift his hips, beginning to take Maeglin slowly. Caught between two pleasures, Aranwë did not notice Maeglin's hands busy about the sash. When Maeglin started to lie back against the bed, Aranwë stilled his hard breathing to say, "You clench me less. Does it feel better—" Maeglin jerked on the sash he had turned into a noose, garrotting Aranwë's throat, and his words cut out with a strangled cry.

Pulling hard on the noose, Maeglin's eyes blazed. "Aye, this is better," he said, feeling Morgoth's power cease tormenting him, its sense shifting to swell his own might and virility. Aranwë coughed and lifted a hand to the cruel silk, the soft fabric now drawn to a ropelike strand, tight and treacherous. Maeglin said, "Leave it be. This is my game if you would have me." He drew on the silken leash, and Aranwë leaned into him, coughing a little as the noose was infinitesimally loosened. "Feel how good it is. Go on, thrust in me."

Maeglin watched, lying back as the strong smith half-fell towards him, desperately trying to lessen the noose's pull. Maeglin jerked it tight again, then said languorously, "It makes your cock harder - I can feel it. And I grow harder as well." He watched Aranwë's face flush dark as he thrust and shivered. Maeglin, still watching, crossed his legs behind the smith's strong, broad back, feeling Aranwë tight and breathless. "If I am your lord, your life is mine. I could kill you," Maeglin whispered, his hand grasping the silk hotter than his stretched arse-channel. "Make you spend your very life inside me, as you come." With a pleading expression, Aranwë shook his head. Yet, watching as Maeglin used his free hand to stroke his own straining erection, Aranwë let the noose stay around his neck.

"I think I like you silent," Maeglin murmured. "And maybe I like this too well to slay you. Spend inside me, and find out!" Arcing his back, he both pulled on the sash and clenched inside himself to tighten around the rod that tormented him. Even as Aranwë choked, nigh strangled, Maeglin felt him lose control, bucking and shivering as he came.

Instantly, Maeglin slid free, his gut spasming with relief. He reached up and hooked two fingers under the sash, loosening it so that Aranwë could cough. "Breathe, but leave it on," said Maeglin. The look his reeling vassal gave him, terrified and even more deeply entranced than before, was like balm.

Serenely, Maeglin leaned back again, angling one leg. He had not spent. His cock still sprung as hard as the steel of his forging, and he was proud that his steel was obedient to his will.

"You can guess what I want," said Maeglin, softly.

Aranwë coughed, then said, "Yes, my lord." He moved his mouth down over Maeglin's cock.

"Not yet. Further down. Clean me, first, with your mouth." Maeglin waited to see if he needed to twitch the silken noose, but Aranwë was obedient, as many a time before.

He melted back as Aranwë knelt deeper to service him, truly calm for the first time since his return. Ah, he had known it; all this city would use him, if he allowed it. Now his heart knew as well as his mind that it was better to give in to the inevitable, to win power onto his side. Having hidden his changed heart from this one who knew him so well, and turned that use into his own triumph, he felt far more confident. Thanks to the Dark Lord, he could bear the burning want of Idril, knowing he would have her soon. He found himself enjoying his consolations once more, and thought of gratitude to Morgoth. Maeglin's smile flowered, then sharpened, as he reached down and tightened the silken noose again.

Story Notes

Unseated him = Yet more references to an earlier fanfiction story of mine, The Thrall of Gondolin.
Thus they came to the gate of Angband = This description of the Angfaulith, Thangorodrim, and Angband is sourced from "Of Beren and Luthien" in The Silmarillion.
"Stale news will buy nothing. I know this already. I am not easily blinded!" = Quote from The Wanderings of Hurin, specifically Footnote 30, The War of the Jewels, HOME #11.
Nor, the one time he confessed = Well, think about it. Maeglin had to tell somebody what he had done, or else the tale wouldn't have come to be recorded in The Silmarillion. He may have boasted to Tuor as they fought upon the walls; I provide an alternative confession in (yet again) The Thrall of Gondolin.
The sash he had turned into a noose = Warning time. Intelligent people can figure out NOT TO DO THIS AT HOME. I will say it clearly; do NOT practice erotic strangulation using silk scarves or fabric sashes. As a safety note, it is not recommended to use silk scarves or narrow fabric ties for bondage. Silk scarves may seem "gentler" than using bondage cuffs or handcuffs or soft, thick clothesline-type rope. However, for bondage, fabric (especially silk) is treacherous; it tends to pull tight and can cut off circulation or cause nerve damage. The knots also pull extremely tight, and you may need shears to cut your partner loose.

First posted January 30th, 2003. Please do not reproduce or repost this story without permission from the author.

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