Chapter Text
ONE
The day everything changes for Maeglin starts well. At Idril’s request, he goes scavenging for a specialty mushroom that grows only seasonally, found in a series of caves just outside the city. They are not particularly popular, but Idril and Turgon both like them, and so Maeglin agrees to seek them out. He is pleased—Idril knows he likes caves, likes solitude, and likes mushrooms. It is a pleasant activity, and nice to feel useful, as though he is earning his keep in her home.
He sets out early and arrives just after sunrise. The mushrooms are plentiful, but he delves deeper and deeper into the dark in search of his loot. A nearby stream runs into the cave mouth, feeding into an elaborate series of pools before exiting again and meeting back up with the larger river. The exit passage is large enough to walk through, so when he is deep enough he decides to emerge from the other end and then make his way back. His pack is at capacity with mushrooms, but he thinks there is a chance he can pan for interesting minerals where the stream exits the cave. The journey through is lovely, cool, and dark. He is almost disappointed when he reaches the other side.
The sunlight blinds him for a moment as he emerges, but when he blinks and his vision clears, there it is. A sight from his dreams, hundreds of years in the past. A broad, tan chest; rippling abdominals. A head of thick golden hair, drenched with water from the stream. Nearby, an enormous pure white horse grazes peacefully in the shade of a large tree. Laurefindelë. Glorfindel, the golden one, nephew of Turgon’s Vanya wife, Elenwë. Slayer of the balrog, hero of the First, Second, and Third Ages of Middle-earth.
His father’s voice—his curse—echoes in the back of Maeglin’s mind.
“You are no son of mine, boy,” Eöl hisses. They drag him to the precipice. His death is imminent, but he cannot help but spew one last bit of poison before he goes. “You stand proud with them now, but they will learn the truth about you soon enough. Disgusting mole. How long will your freak infatuation with Turgon’s golden scion remain secret? Condemn me, but you are more disgusting, more immoral than I ever was. An affront to the heavens themselves! Begone, boy. Ill-gotten son, who betrays his father and his people and revels in deplorable lust. Just like your mother, your love and hopes shall fail you, and as I die here, so too shall you. As goes the father, so too shall go the forsaken child!”
Truer words had never been spoken.
Maeglin looks out over the sunlit morning and watches as the most beautiful man in Valinor spots him emerging from the darkness.
*
Glorfindel drags the Traitor of Gondolin into the city of New Gondolin, bound with a length of cord torn free from his pack. It’s what he has on hand.
The Traitor does not fight him. He is pale and frail, and though he was ferocious in his time, he now has only the soft body of the recently reborn. He carries no weapon, just a bag of rank-looking fungi. Had he been more of a threat, Glorfindel might have killed him on sight. Instead he complies, deceptively meek.
All he does is nervously request that Glorfindel please bring the bag of mushrooms with them. Glorfindel ignores that request, and the bag remains where it fell, spilling out across the stream. Disappointment shines in his dark eyes, wide and sad as they ever were. Truly a pathetic, sickly-looking creature. Glorfindel hates him. He swears he does.
Marching Maeglin toward the city center, Glorfindel can feel thousands of eyes upon them. His fury blazes, drawing attention from every direction. The Traitor shrinks into himself. Good. The sunlight of public scrutiny is an excellent disinfectant.
By the time they reach the palace, the crowd has grown, and the jeers start. Maeglin refuses to look at anyone, obediently walking as directed by Glorfindel, his hair hanging in a long, dark curtain around his pale face. Servants hold the doors for Glorfindel as he strides brusquely inside, dragging Maeglin limply behind him until he reaches Turgon’s office.
Turgon sits behind his desk and looks up coolly when Glorfindel barges in. His eyes narrow as he spots Maeglin. The cord used to bind the Traitor’s hands has rubbed his wrists raw, and he shifts from foot to foot, pulling uncomfortably at it.
“What is going on here?” Turgon asks. They have not seen one another in person since Turgon’s rebirth, but have written back and forth with relative frequency since Glorfindel’s arrival on the Lonely Isle. By Turgon’s perpetually blank expression, one would not know this is the first time they have met in the flesh.
“I found a pest outside the gates,” Glorfindel snaps.
“Doing what, precisely?” The suspicion is thick in Turgon’s voice. The question is clearly directed toward Maeglin, and Glorfindel shakes him when he does not answer promptly. He has yet to look up, refusing to meet Turgon’s gaze.
Maeglin mumbles something. “Talk properly, boy,” their uncle growls, and this time Maeglin speaks up.
“Gathering mushrooms, my lord.”
“Gathering mushrooms.” Turgon glances toward Glorfindel to confirm. Glorfindel shrugs. He did have a bag of mushrooms.
“I should hope he was gathering mushrooms,” comes another furious voice from the hall. A third person steps into the room. Idril Celebrindal—vibrating with rage. “Considering that was what I asked him to do.”
This gives Glorfindel pause, and he begins trying to do the math in his head. Things do not add up.
“What?” he asks. “What are you talking about?”
“If he was gathering mushrooms,” Idril hisses, “then he was doing precisely as I asked. I did not realize procuring ingredients for my favorite soup was a crime, Laurefindelë. Now, I insist that you unhand my cousin.”
Glorfindel glances around at each of the Nolofinwëans in the room. Turgon scowls. Idril looks murderous. Maeglin looks constipated. Or maybe pained. It is hard to tell.
“Calm down, Idril,” Turgon starts, ready to placate her. But this is the wrong thing to say.
“I said unhand him, Glorfindel. You are hurting him!”
She is not entirely wrong. Glorfindel’s hand is wrapped tightly around Maeglin’s slender arm, white at the knuckles. The Dark Elf leans away from him, grimacing. He lets Maeglin’s arm go, and the other staggers. Were it anyone else, Glorfindel would feel bad. In times of distraction, he does not notice the strength of his grip.
“If there is nothing more to this than my cousin gathering mushrooms, I do not see why he has been put through this—this humiliation,” Idril says. It strikes Glorfindel just how angry she is, and how unsurprised both she and Turgon are to see the Dark Elf here in New Gondolin.
“Why is he here at all?” Glorfindel asks.
“He lives here,” Idril snaps. “Which you might have known if you had fucking asked him! Why are you here, Glorfindel? You do not live here.”
“Language, Itarillë!” Turgon says, but is ignored. Idril gestures for Glorfindel to remove the length of cord binding the former prince’s hands, but Glorfindel hesitates.
Glorfindel looks closely at Maeglin, who does not meet his gaze. His face had gone pale from the pain before, but now begins to flush red with embarrassment.
“Why did you not say anything?” he asks, accusation heavy in his voice. “And what do you mean, he lives here?” he asks Turgon. He shakes the cord again roughly, to prompt an answer from Maeglin.
“I did,” he mutters. “I told you. I was gathering mushrooms for Idril.”
“Do not say her name,” Glorfindel snarls, his eyes going dark. He pulls harshly, watching Maeglin trip over himself at the abrupt motion. Idril shrieks, throwing herself at Glorfindel’s hands, but she is like a kitten batting at a brick wall for all the good she does.
“Yes, that is very alike to what you said at the time,” Maeglin mumbles angrily.
He is halfway to his knees now, and his eyes are filled with furious tears. Still, he refuses to lift his gaze from the floor. It strikes Glorfindel suddenly just how young Maeglin had been when he betrayed Gondolin. Younger than Glorfindel was when he first left Valinor. Glorfindel has forgotten that over the ages. Maeglin had always been so serious and shrewd it was easy to disregard his youth.
“He does in fact live here, at Idril’s behest,” Turgon concedes. Glorfindel glowers at him.
“And you just allow it?”
“It is not either of your decisions to make,” Idril says, and finally fed up, she kicks Glorfindel in the shin and jerks the length of cord out of his hands. Immediately she moves to Maeglin, doing her best to untie him quickly. “If you have a problem with it, take it up with Namo.”
“He left the mushrooms,” Maeglin tells her. His voice is shaky. Idril hushes him gently, a hand to his cheek, and tells him to forget about the mushrooms. Glorfindel feels sick at the sight.
“Even if he was eligible for release, why is he here?” he asks.
This is the last straw. Maeglin finally meets Glorfindel’s gaze. He is somewhat surprised to see how much anger and hurt blaze in those large, dark, teary eyes.
“Where else was I supposed to go?” he asks. “No one would take me.”
Ah yes. The probation period. It has been so long since Glorfindel’s own rebirth he had forgotten. He has been in Middle-earth for immeasurable time, and he himself has not been called on to oversee the re-embodiment of any elves returning from Mandos since his return to the West. Namo does not let anyone out without someone stepping forward to take them in. For fifty years, they are obligated to reside with another stable and established elf, who has lived in Aman long enough to help the reborn adjust. For Maeglin to be returned to a body, someone must volunteer to live with him during the time of transition. It is all part of the reintegration process.
“You should have just stayed in the Halls, then,” Glorfindel says. “And spared Idril your unwanted—” A palm connects with the side of his face. Glorfindel blinks at Idril, whose hand stays up, in case another slap is required.
“How dare you,” she says quietly. “How dare you speak like you have any idea what you are talking about. How confident you are in your ignorance, acting the bully and the fool. Come, Maeglin. Let us return home.”
Idril gently ushers Maeglin out of Turgon’s office, while Glorfindel stands there in shock. He is not used to being treated like the villain. He certainly never supposed Idril would defend Maeglin. Not after everything.
“I have tried to talk sense into her,” Turgon mutters. “But she does not listen.”
*
For Maeglin, it was love at first sight.
Alas, his mother and father both could tell instantly. Aredhel teased him when the two of them were first greeted by the handsome Glorfindel at the gates of Gondolin. The golden-blond giant hugged them, and Maeglin nearly fainted in his arms, so quickly did the blood rush away from his brain. It did not take Eöl long to notice either. He watched Maeglin interact only once with Glorfindel while in captivity as Aredhel slowly died. From that moment forward, every remaining remark he made toward his son disparaged him for his unnatural, forbidden love.
Many heard Eöl’s last words to Maeglin, and all were left uneasy. The Lords of Gondolin, and even Turgon himself, were clearly wary of Aredhel’s dark child. Per the whispers constantly surrounding him, he was widely regarded as some sort of savage, the son of a sorcerer.
But several were, nonetheless, very kind to him: his cousin, the lovely Idril; Glorfindel and Ecthelion, the most beloved of Gondolin’s Lords; and Salgant, the least loved. His first several decades among the Gondolindrim, all four kindly claimed to be his friends. Idril taught him how to be a prince; Ecthelion about politics and leadership, and the value of courage; Glorfindel how to fight in the style of the Noldor; and Salgant—well. Salgant drank with him and gave him the gossip he needed to keep track of the rest of Gondolin’s court.
His first mistake was growing so reliant on others. Turgon wanted him to be a prince, to honor his sister, and Maeglin leaned heavily on those around him to help make up the deficit of his upbringing. After a rocky start, he tried to please his uncle and to keep from shaming his late mother and his late father. But his only remarkable skills were those of sorcery and smithing, and he was terrified to demonstrate them for fear of reminding Turgon of Eöl.
So he allowed himself to waste time on frivolous poetry with Idril and drinking with Salgant. He let himself spar with Glorfindel and tried not to think about how his heart raced from things other than physical exertion when the Lord of the Golden Flower came around. He was a child anyway, he told himself. He would grow out of it. (He did not grow out of it.) He sought shelter in the four of them, hopeful that he might one day grow into the type of elf his uncle would take pride in. Even as the other Lords—Pillar, Hammer, Heavenly Arch—and his uncle the King looked on him with dislike and suspicion, Maeglin allowed himself to rely on the few who gave him a chance, and he lived freely behind Gondolin’s white walls.
His second mistake was allowing himself to grow comfortable in their company and trusting them with his vulnerable underbelly. He mentioned to Idril how he dreamed of a marriage happier than that of his miserable parents. He admitted to Ecthelion that he enjoyed the practical challenges of governance—that he wanted to be a good heir for Turgon, and maybe even the Lord of his own House. He admitted to Glorfindel that he was still haunted by his father’s curse. And he let himself get drunk one too many times with Salgant.
Sweet, stupid Salgant, who probably just wanted to help.
The night he confessed his sins to Salgant he believed they were alone, too naïve to recognize the setup. Much later, he would look back and realize that Salgant had tried to clarify and undo the harm caused by his father’s words by allowing the other Lords to hear a genuine pronouncement of his innocence in a candid moment. Unfortunately, that was not what they heard that night.
They were deep within their cups when Salgant asked him about his father’s curse.
“Is it true?” he asked. “That you bear love for Turgon’s kin?”
Maeglin sighed. He believed himself alone with his friend. He believed himself safe.
“Aye,” he said. “An unnatural, unholy love, just as my father warned.” In that moment, he could see Glorfindel’s broad smile in his mind. He recalled what it was like for their bodies to press together, as they did when Glorfindel taught him wrestling, fraught with the warm supple slide of skin. He could only shudder and curse himself for his depravity.
In his first life, Maeglin would only admit to his love three times. This was the first.
Unfortunately, no one understood that it was Glorfindel to whom his father, and now Maeglin, referred. His father who never would’ve believed Turgon might view his daughter rather than his nephew as his right-hand. Instead, the Lords walking only feet from where he and Salgant were settled connected Maeglin’s love for Turgon’s golden-haired scion to Idril, not to her cousin on her mother’s side, Glorfindel. Idril, who was Maeglin’s own close relative.
An unnatural, unholy love indeed.