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Fear the heat of passion, father king
(Don't let him in
Don't let her in)
Desire, lust, obsession
Death they'll bring
(We can't get out
Once they are in)
She's like the sunrise
Outshines the Moon at night
Precious like starlight
She will bring in a murderous price
[ Blind Guardian - And Then There Was Silence ]
Idril couldn’t stand him. She couldn’t stand his looks, the sound of his voice, the way his mere presence filled the void around him. Even the noise of his steps against the white marble floors was slowly torturing her.
She could run away. She could do like her own aunt Aredhel had done once, running away into the green fields of Gondolin, under the golden rays of the sun, trying to find some relief in the joyful singing of the birds, in the sweet scent of the wild flowers.
Here, she ran with her naked feet among the tall grass, laughing at the caress of the wind among her golden hair, on her bare skin. Here, she could forget for some moments about everything else, and pretend that nothing could trouble her, that nothing could touch her.
She could forget about her cousin’s gaze, and she could pretend that it never haunted her in her dreams.
Lómion, her beloved aunt had called him once, the Child of the Twilight, in the forest of the Dark Elf where he was born, but for Idril he was Maeglin, Sharp Glance, and forever he would remain so, for it seemed to her that, any time she was among the walls of her father’s palace, among the people that loved her and called her princess, his gaze followed her carefully, like an hawk preying on a sparrow.
And she couldn’t just avoid him. What people would say if they know that their beloved golden princess had tried to avoid her cousin, the only son of the lost Aredhel Ar-Feinel, still mourned by her people, when King Turgon cared so much about him ? Hadn’t her father the King once claimed how much he loved and cared for both Idril and Maeglin, how they were necessary like the night and the day for him ? How could Idril break his heart like that, avoiding her cousin, whom Aredhel had loved so much to sacrifice her own life for him ?
How could she dishonour the memory of her aunt so ? Idril still remembered the way aunt Aredhel had held her, and consoled her, and told her stories and sang songs, meanwhile the merciless storm of the Grinding Ice was infuriating around them, and the tears froze on her father’s cheeks.
It was aunt Aredhel that in Vinyamar, where there was no ice, just the sweet waves of the sea against the high rocks, had gifted Idril her first horse and had taught her how to ride. Idril still remembered how they had laughed together, the southern wind that ruffled golden and raven hair.
But now her laughter was no more, and there was no more riding in the fields, or wind between the hair, or stories or songs, nothing more but the silent pain of Idril’s father, that hopelessly searched for the sweetness of a lost sister and a lost wife in a bottle of red wine.
If Idril had tears left, after those she had cried for a mother and an aunt that was like a second mother for her, she would cry for the tragedy of her father too, for that lonely king that built too many walls around himself, walls that had ended up for separating him from his brothers and his father, and still they had failed to protect his own sister. A lonely king that could only keep as closely as he could a daughter that reminded him of his wife and a nephew that reminded him of his sister, and that had no idea of what they both really thought, of what they both really wanted.
And Idril hated every minute of it, she hated everything that could separate her from her father, the person that she loved the most in the world. But still, she managed to build that wall of silence between them, brick by brick. For how could she confess what she truly wanted to, what she really dreamed when she was alone at night, in the darkness of her chambers?
How could she tell him of that desire that made her days so false and her nights so full of shame?
Idril had tried to chase away that feeling, to bury it under regret and sorrow - for they were the features of her beloved aunt that she could still see on her cousin’s face, and she simply couldn’t forget it - but the more she tried to chase it away, the more that desire returned to her, stronger and stronger.
Idril had wondered more than once if it was all part of the Doom of Mandos, if such was the curse that had fallen on the House of Finwë, for their prideful decision of following Fëanor. She was just a child, at the time, she had no memory of the Kinslaying of Alqualondë, or of the grim figure of the Vala Mandos, standing tall on the cliffs of Araman. Aunt Aredhel had told her, long after those events, that her mother Elenwë had carried her asleep among the bloodstained roads of Alqualondë, holding her gently for not troubling her sleep, and that had reassured her with a gentle song that, somehow, had covered the lament of the wind, and the grim words of the Prophecy.
Just a child, and still, she paid for the faults of her House. She remembered all the times she had heard in the high halls of her father rumours about her uncle Fingon and his cousin Maedhros, or even, long before she died, about her aunt Aredhel and her cousin Celegorm. The court was full of whispers, when the White Lady had ridden away from Gondolin, directed to the land of Himlad, where Fëanorians dwelled.
When Idril had talked to her father of those rumours, King Turgon had simply looked away, and said in a quiet tone to not pay attention to them.
“We live in troubled times, my beloved” the King of Gondolin had merely said, his voice low. “Our enemies like to sow lies, for creating discord between us and our allies. Let them speak, and keep your head high, for you have nothing to feel ashamed to share the blood of the House of Fingolfin.”
Idril had listened to her father, and had ignored the rumours. But she couldn’t ignore what she wanted, what she dreamed in the middle of the night.
She couldn’t ignore that she had dreamed of letting Maeglin enter in her chambers, in her bed. That she had dreamed of slowly undressing him, of removing the thick layers of black velvet he liked to wear one by one, revealing his pale, lithe body in the moonlight. That she had dreamed of his agile fingers sliding under her silks, touching her little breasts, her soft thighs, until finally he had taken her, his demanding lips on her mouth, his skin burning against her own, raven hair mixed with golden. And Idril had cried out his name - Lómion, his real name - and on her lips, it had been like a sweet prayer.
She shivered at the mere memory, and chased away the thought. What could she do? Those unions were forbidden among the Eldar. She just couldn’t go to her father and ask him to give her hand to her cousin, whose features remind Turgon so much of the sister he had lost. She would only bring disgrace and shame to her family, the family of the High King, still so proud and glorious, despite the terrible stain of the Kinslaying.
Idril took a deep breath, and moved towards her favorite garden, the one on the higher circle of the walls. From there, she could pretend that she was flying over one of the great eagles of Manwë, and that she could watch all the city from the sky.
The golden rays of the sun caressed her skin once she stepped outside, and she took a minute to smell the sweet perfume of the white roses. Her father had once told her that they were her mother’s favorite flowers.
Idril didn’t remember it, as she didn’t remember so many things of her mother, she was so little - too little- when Elenwë had died. She remembered something of her, some details, like her face, her smile, the sweet voice that had lulled her to sleep, but still, Idril felt like she had known her mother only thanks to her father’s tales, tales she always starved for.
Idril halted before the statue of her mother, placed in the middle of the garden, surrounded by the white roses she had loved so much. Elenwë’s stony features were calm, and her smile was kind, and Idril once again wished that her mother was here with her, embracing her and cuddling her like she did when Idril was little. If Elenwë was still alive, maybe things would have been better. Maybe Idril would have found comfort and advice in her, and her father would be happy, and wouldn’t have felt the need to drown the pain of his losses in a bottle of wine.
Once, it was aunt Aredhel who had consoled and comforted her, but Idril had lost her too.
Idril sat at the feet of the statue, and closed her eyes for a moment. She took a deep breath, and once again she inhaled the smell of the roses, carried by the gentle wind. She could almost imagine that the stone of the statue turned into warm flesh, and that her mother was near her, gently caressing her hair…
“I thought I was alone”. A sharp voice interrupted the flush of her thoughts, and Idril suddenly opened her eyes, realizing that she wasn’t alone anymore.
Her cousin, Maeglin, the Child of the Twilight, stood in front of her, a spot of darkness against the white roses and the golden light of the afternoon. He looked like a statue, Idril thought, a statue made of ivory and ebony, his skin so pale against his long raven hair, and his grey eyes were like mirrors, reflecting everything and revealing nothing.
“I thought I was alone too” she merely replied. She wouldn’t avoid his gaze: she could have been scared of her own desire, but she was still a princess of the House of Fingolfin, and she wasn’t a coward.
“Am I bothering you?” he asked, his voice calm, almost emotionless. It was never easy guessing what Maeglin was thinking, what emotions dwelled in his heart. His face was like a mask, unmovable and unchangeable.
“No, no”, she said quickly. She knew she would regret her words, late at night, when the eyes of her cousin would come and torment her dreams, but if she thought about him wandering alone in that same garden where she went for remembering her mother, her heart was filled by nothing but infinite sadness. “Stay, please. This garden isn’t just mine.”
“I know” his pale, slender fingers touched the white petals of a rose, and for a moment, Idril shivered. “Turgon … I mean, your Lord Father, talked to me about it. About why the radiant city of Gondolin never had a Queen.”
Idril noticed he was staring at his mother’s statue, at her gentle smile, forever frozen into stone. She thought about Elenwë’s voice, and about aunt Aredhel’s silver laughter, and her strong arms circling her.
“Aye” she merely replied. “I was nothing but a child when she died. It was a hard loss for us all, for me, for my father and …” she hesitated a little. “For your mother too. She and my mother were friends.”
“I’ve heard it. I can imagine how you must feel.” His voice was toneless, again, but there was a slight change in his face, his lips tightened, his eyes darkened, and Idril could do nothing but think about those terrible nights that aunt Aredhel spent between life and death. The healers had told her, later, that Maeglin hadn’t left his mother’s side for a mere moment, not even to drink or sleep.
And once again, her heart was filled with sadness. Sadness for her aunt Aredhel, who had met such a cruel end, sadness for Maeglin, who had lost his mother by the hand of his own father, and for herself, left alone by the people she loved, entrapped in a curse she didn’t ask for, to feel such shameful desire for her own cousin.
Tears unnumbered ye shall shed, so the Valar had spoken. But what fault she had, that was just a child that slept in her mother’s arms, when the Kinslaying happened? What fault Maeglin had, that was born centuries after it?
“She was like a mother to me too” she moved a step towards him, a careful step. “It doesn’t pass a day that I don’t mourn for her.”
“She told me about you,” he said. “We were often alone, my … my father didn’t spend much time at home. Our home was covered in a perennial evening, the trees at Nan Elmoth were so dense that it’s rare that they permit the rays of sun to touch the ground. So, my mother told me of the sun and of the moon, and of the Light of the Trees, that she had seen in Valinor, and of how the white marbles of Gondolin shine under the light, of vast green fields and of tall mountains covered in snow. She painted them on the walls of my chamber so that I could see them too, and her memories were so vivid that it was like I could touch them, too.”
Idril tried to imagine it. Aunt Aredhel had talked very little of her years with the Dark Elf, for the brief - so brief - time they had spent together after her return to Gondolin. Maeglin himself rarely touched the argument, too, and if he ever talked about his father, he would have done it when he was alone with Turgon the King, when Idril wasn’t here to listen.
She tried to imagine it, how Maeglin had spent all his childhood in a dark forest, where the sunlight rarely touched the earth, where he could only imagine a different world thanks to a painting on a wall.
Few memories had remained to Idril of the journey across the Grinding Ice, but she could imagine what he had lived. She too had lived under a never ending night, enlightened only by the light of distant, cold stars.
“Do you remember anything?” he asked, shaking her of her thoughts. “Of Valinor, I mean. My mother told me you were born there.”
Idril took a deep breath. “Yes, I was born in Valinor.” she replied. “But I’ve so few memories of it, I was nothing but a child when the Noldor came to Middle Earth. There are some things I can remember better than others. I remember my mother dancing with me in our gardens, green grass under our feet. I remember that the light was different, more gentle, less consuming. But I don’t think I can describe the splendour that the Trees once emanated, or the way their light mingled during the Twilight. My father maybe can, but even so, that light had been lost forever.”
Only a few drops of that light were left, forever entrapped in the Silmarils. But Idril would never pronounce the name of Fëanor in that place, among her mother’s roses.
Maeglin sighed, a strange sound for him, always so cold and controlled. He backed a step, and sat on a stone bench. Idril, after a moment of hesitation, joined him. As long as she didn’t touch him, everything would be fine, she thought.
Even if she longed to touch him. She wanted to take him in her arms, let him rest his head on her breast. She wanted to sit on his lap, and gently caress those hollow cheeks, to kiss his brow, his eyelids, his mouth. She wanted to tell him that she understood too, that she had walked under darkness too.
Instead, she picked a rose, and swallowed its smell, trying to chase away those thoughts. Not here, she thought. Not in this place.
“I still remembered when I saw the sun for the first time” he murmured. He wasn’t looking at her, his gaze was lost in the void. “I was still a young boy … I couldn’t have been older than twenty winters, I think. My mother brought me to a clearing, where the trees weren’t so tight. My eyes weren’t used to its light, and they burned after I stared at it for too long, but I will never forget how I felt when I saw it high in the sky. It was like I had been blind until that moment, and I could finally see the world for the first time.”
Idril looked at him, studying his face, that face so beautiful and so distant that continued to haunt her. His eyes were still distant, looking at something she couldn’t see, but now they shone of a strange light, similar to the cold stars of the North.
“I spent three years in the darkness” she spoke, in the end. “You can imagine it, I think … You can imagine how I felt when the moon rose for the first time in the sky, so little and so pale, and yet, somehow, it managed to break the eternal darkness around us.”
It was her first memory of the Middle Earth, a moment she wouldn’t forget that easily. Idril remembered how her father had carefully put her on Rochallor, the immortal steed of grandfather Fingolfin, the only horse that had managed to survive the journey across the ice. All around her, the Noldor were tired, their face made pale and hollow by hunger and mourning, their step slow and dragged over ice first, then stone, until finally soil, real soil came under their feet, and they knew that their journey had ended, that they had finally reached Middle Earth, the land of their ancestors, when they had almost stopped hoping for it, after so many sacrifices and so many deaths.
And it was then that the Moon had risen in the sky, and they had cheered at it, and Fingolfin had given the order to play the trumpets, for it was the proof that the Valar hadn’t totally abandoned them, despite the Prophecy of Mandos.
“Yes, I can imagine it,” Maeglin murmured. He turned towards her, his eyes still shining. “Not only for … for how I lived. I remember my mother telling me about it, about how she felt when she saw the Moon shining for the first time over the snows of the North. She … I think it was one of the rare times I ever saw her crying.”
Idril couldn’t do anything but nod silently, a sudden knot that closed her throat. Her aunt Aredhel had been so brave during the crossing of the Grinding Ice, defending her people from the wolves and the white bears that had followed them during the long journey, eager to sink their teeth into Noldorin flesh, hunting down birds and hares and foxes so that the Noldor could roast their meat on their campfires, and keep their hunger at bay. She had looked like the personification of winter itself, dressed in silver and white among the perennial snow, but her bow and her arrows had brought death to the predators that haunted them, and life and hope to her own people.
“She did it when she saw the Moon for the first time, too” If Idril had seen her aunt crying before that moment, she had no memory of that. “She was so valiant, so fierce. I don’t … I don’t even know if my father would have survived, if it wasn’t for her. I don’t even know how many of our people would have survived, if it wasn’t for her. It was grandfather Fingolfin who guided us, but it was aunt Aredhel, together with uncle Fingon and our cousins, that protected us from the predators of the night. I think you can take pride in it.”
“I am” Maeglin took a deep breath, and put his own hands on his thighs. “I am proud of her, and I won’t stop being proud of her, until the end of Arda. She was my world for so long, I … I miss her, cousin. It doesn’t pass a day since I don’t miss her, and ah! I only wish she was here too, maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone.”
Idril couldn’t help herself but flinch. She had sometimes wondered if he felt alone, the bastard son of the Lady of Gondolin, born from an ill-gotten union, but hearing it from his own lips had all another taste.
She thought about all the councils of her father she had taken part of, where the high lords of Gondolin sit together and talked about the alliances with other Noldorin kings and about the news that came from the Hithlum, the misty land of Fingolfin and Fingon. Maeglin was respected and revered among them, since he was the master of the forges and of the fucines that provided weapons to Gondolin, but he was always strangely silent at those reunions, merely sitting silent and staring at the other lords with his sharp glance. He took advice and formed bonds with the other lords, but even the ones who had tied an alliance with him claimed that the nephew of the King was a strange young man, difficult to talk with.
This hadn’t stopped them from presenting their daughters to Maeglin, in the attempt of marrying into the family of the King. But Maeglin had shown no interest whatsoever in those maidens, and had always politely rejected them, no matter how powerful and rich their fathers were.
Idril had always managed to carefully avoid the topic of her cousin’s marriage. Initially, she had hoped that her desire would finally come to an end, if Maeglin ended up for choosing another person, a person that he could marry, but soon this thought had turned into fear, fear that this would only increase her torment, seeing Maeglin with someone else in his arms, at his side, having what she would never have.
“I too feel alone, sometimes” the words came to her mouth even before she could think about it. But she was tired, so tired of hiding, of lying, of pretending that everything was fine, that she was nothing more but the sweet, golden daughter of her father, the delight of Gondolin, without a shadow to taint her mind.
Her cousin may be an enigma, with his strange silence and his hidden thoughts, but to her, his darkness had always seemed more comforting than the blinding light of Gondolin.
“My mother is no more, and so your mother … I’ve my father, of course, and I love him more than anything, but he … he …” her voice dropped for a moment.
Her father was her hero, of course. He had always been here for her, trying to supply with his love and care for the loss of her mother. It was King Turgon who had guided a group of Noldor in the hidden valley of Tumladen, and it was under his advice that the fair city of Gondolin had risen, a sheltered haven where they could live without worrying of the rapacious hands of the Enemy.
But Idril could remember too well how her aunt got more and more restless, when she still lived in Gondolin. She remembered how aunt Aredhel spent most of her days out of the high walls of the city, and the arguments she had with father Turgon himself, long, bitter discussions full of resentment, about their brother Fingon, who now dwelled in the North with grandfather Fingolfin, about their cousins, the Fëanorians, whom Idril had never known, and about Elenwë herself, sometimes.
Those were the worst times, when Turgon shut down the conversation, and refused to listen to his sister again. Idril had lost the count of how powerless she had felt in listening to the two most important people in her life fighting like that, and she could do nothing about it.
And now, aunt Aredhel too wasn’t anymore, and King Turgon had found no better choice but closing himself in his own fair city, in the hope of keeping the darkness outside at bay. And it was so that, blinded by his own light, by the fairness of the city he had risen with his craft, that he had managed to raise walls between him and the ones he loved, his own brother and father.
And now, he was slowly estranging himself from Idril too, Idril who had always loved him with all her heart. Her heart bled at the mere thought, but the man who closed himself in his chambers alone with a bottle of wine, refusing to listen to anyone, wasn’t the same man who had watched over her in her troublesome nights on the Grinding Ice, and who had sung her quiet lullabies in Vinyamar.
Idril raised her head, chasing away her tears, only for noticing that Maeglin was staring at her. Once again, she wondered what he was thinking. If the mere idea of her father distancing himself from her was going to break her heart, what he had felt, when his father had killed his mother in front of his very eyes?
“Your father is a good man” he said, quietly, his voice that once again didn’t betray his thoughts. “He has proven it more than once.”
“He is” she took a deep breath, letting the fresh air fill her lungs and calming her a little. “I love him more than anything else. Just … just … sometimes he feels so distant, and I can’t stand it.”
“I can understand” he replied, laconically, and his eyes, once again, got lost in the void.
“Do you love him?” she asked. Her cousin had always been respectful of King Turgon, and Turgon himself had always praised the talent and the intelligence of his nephew, but Maeglin’s real thoughts were a mystery, as usual.
“Yes?” he seemed a little surprised by the question, a strange emotion to see on his unmovable face. “Yes, of course. I don’t think that any other man would have accepted the bastard son of his sister into his own house, not after … what happened to my mother. He is a good man, and I don’t think I would be able to serve any other King, among the Noldor, or the Sindar.”
The High King of the Noldor is your grandfather, too, she thought, but she didn’t say it. If she had only a few, foggy memories of her grandfather, what would Maeglin think of him, since he had never known the great Fingolfin personally?
“What happened to your mother wasn’t your fault” she replied, instead. “Blaming you for what happened to her … I couldn’t even think about it. You’re innocent, who can even blame a son for the sins of his father?”
He turned towards her. Once again, his eyes were shining of that strange, cold light, and Idril felt her heartbeat increase, as if she had a bird in her ribcage, furious in the attempt to escape. She suddenly realized how close they were, their breaths almost mingling.
“Yeah, who could blame a son for the sins of his father? Maybe, except, the father himself” he left out a brief, joyless laughter. “And you, Idril Celebrindal? Do you love me?”
And before she could realize that, he had taken her hands in his own. Maeglin’s hands were careful of her, as if she had been carved on glass, but his skin burned against her own, as if Idril had put her hands on the molten metal of his forges.
He was so close, too close. She could smell his peculiar scent of smoke and salt, and could see herself mirrored in his black pupils, a golden figure surrounded by darkness.
And Idril trembled, from the bottom of her heart, for she could see, clear as day, her own desire mirrored in the grey eyelids of her cousin, a burning, consuming hunger that could be only satisfied by her lips on his own, by his hands on her slender hips.
A desire she had sworn to herself that she would never, ever surrender to.
“Of course I love you” she replied in the end, her voice uncertain, her whole body shaking. Lie! Lie!, was screaming a voice inside of her head, a voice that, somehow, managed to cover the beat of her own heart. “I love you as a cousin, as you are, the son of my beloved aunt.”
Something in Maeglin’s expression changed, and it was like his face had suddenly become even paler. He quickly backed off from her, releasing her hands.
“I beg your pardon” he murmured, his voice once again low. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Idril realized she was trembling, her cousin’s hands had left a trail of fire on her skin. She knew, with terrible certainty, that his touch would haunt her in her dreams, for many and many nights to come.
“I .. I …” she gulped, trying to calm herself. “It’s nothing, really”
He quickly raised, his eyes full of inexplicable emotions, like dark mirrors who reflected everything, and revealed nothing. “I’m sorry if I bothered you, cousin. I broke your quiet, and it won’t happen anymore.”
And without saying another word, without letting her speak again, Maeglin turned his back to her, and soon he disappeared among the tall bushes, his black mantle waving around his lithe body like the dark wings of a raven, leaving Idril alone with her torment.
***
He had scared her.
Maeglin’s face was a pale mask, his dark eyes remote and unreadable, but under his black mantle, his hands were tight, his nails deep into his soft flesh.
How he could have even remotely considered that she could love him?
“I love you as a cousin, as you are, the son of my beloved aunt”, she had said to her, her blue eyes clear like a summer sky. Maeglin would have satiated his urge to kiss her, if her words hadn’t cruelly brought him to reality, to how his passion was wrong, an incestous love born out by darkness.
Pity and compassion, this was how she felt for him. Pity and compassion would have been enough for a bastard son born out of an illicit union, whose father had killed the king’s sister, an ill-gotten child that had never flinched in front of his father’s death, but Maeglin felt a sour taste in his mouth every time he thought about it. Her kindness was nothing but his torment.
He had always known that she would never belong to him, that she would never dance for him like she did in the green fields of Gondolin, her golden hair shining in the sunlight, and her delicate feet that almost didn’t touch the grass, that she would never lay in his arms, her sweet, pink mouth whispering his name with passion, meanwhile he kissed her, worshipping her body with his lips.
He had always known it, but it hurt all the same.
Maeglin would never forget the first time he had seen her, standing tall and proud near her father, welcoming them on the great marble stairway of the King’s Palace. And it had been like he had returned once again the child who had seen the sun for the first time, for no gem, no jewel, no treasure, could be compared to Idril’s beauty.
He had simply remained there, stricken by her beauty, not daring to say a single word. It had been his mother to cross the steps that separated her from her brother and niece, and to embrace them tightly.
And it was then that for a moment, he felt unease, the first time he had felt such a way since the moment he had crossed the gates of the fair Gondolin. Maeglin had suddenly remembered that his mother had a whole life he knew so little of, and that she had left those people, his uncle and cousin, even before he was even born.
He had felt like that only once before, when he and Aredhel had been guests at Lord Celegorm’s castle in the Himlad, one of the great Noldorin lords. His father had always told him that Lord Celegorm was nothing but a Kinslayer, his hands stained by the blood of the Teleri, but the Noldorin lord had been always courteous towards him. And Maeglin hadn’t failed to notice how Aredhel had taken more than once Lord Celegorm’s hand, how she had embraced him when they had met.
He hadn’t cared that much for those gestures, back then, but they had quickly returned to his mind, when he had heard for the first time the rumours that run in Gondolin about his mother and Lord Celegorm. He had told himself to not pay attention to them, but once again, they were the proof that his mother had a whole life he knew little of, that she hadn’t fully shared with him.
If only she was still alive, if only he could talk with her. If those rumours were really true as he believed, then maybe his mother would have understood what he felt for Idril, and she would have consoled him, she would have helped him in some way. She wouldn’t have left him alone.
Instead, she was dead, murdered in the very halls of her brother, the place where she should have been safe.
Maeglin grit his teeth, chasing away the tears. The servants had cleaned up more and more times the exact spot in the throne room where she had fallen, blood that dropped from her wounded shoulder, but the memory still lingered in it, and he still avoided to look at it. He wasn’t the only one who did it, he had quickly noticed.
That stroke was directed to me, he thought, once again, his heartbeat furious in his temples. Such was his burden, such was the curse that his father had evoked upon him. Maeglin had never raised an hand against his mother, but his hands are stained in blood exactly like his father's, for it was his fault if Aredhel Ar-Feinel, the great Lady of the Noldor, had died so cruelly. He had lost the count of all the nights he had cried against the pillows, in the loneliness of his own room, wishing to be dead in her own place. Maybe things would have been simpler, then. Maybe the peace of Mandos was preferable to a cursed existence.
“I love you, my son” said Aredhel to him on that terrible night, the last night of her life. “I will do everything for you, my precious child.”
And she had done it, she had saved him from death. But this was hardly a consolation for Maeglin, not when he missed her day and night.
There was a wicked irony, he thought, in how he had everything he had always wished and longed for, to be a great lord in Gondolin, respected among the Noldor, and still, now those things for him didn’t matter anymore, not when his mother was nothing more but a ghost in Mandos, and the fair Idril would never love him, not in the same way he loved her.
In his mind, his mother was like the moon, made of silver, gentle light, that lulled and consoled him in the middle of the darkness, and Idril was like the sun, forever burning and shining, whose light would hurt him, but all the same, he couldn’t live without it.
And now that the moon was forever gone, and only the sun was left to him, what he could do, but trying to grasp its light, despite knowing it would only blinding him, and that his attempts to reach it would only lead to his ruinous fall?
But how he longed for her, he would have given everything that was his own - the skill of his hands and the sharpness of his mind, his treasures and his possessions - for a mere kiss of her, for having her among his arms, for caressing her golden hair and tasting its softness.
Maeglin wasn’t his father, he would never raise his hand against her or hurt her. He would cherish her, treat her like a queen, put his heart at her feet as much as his treasures. He would kill anyone who dared to raise their hands against her, and be glad for that.
In his dreams, she was always gentle in his arms, between the sheets, tenderly tracing his cheeks, his nose, his brow, caressing his hair and softly whispering words of love. She would laugh and giggle at the light jokes that lovers exchanged, and her laugh would be like the ring of a silver bell in his ears.
But those were dangerous thoughts, wishes that would never become true. Better return into the darkness, then, where he belonged.