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He is aware of it only as a crooked thing that grows within him. It is not something he can simply set aside and yet he recognizes that it would be better for all involved if only he could.
Idril does not look upon him with fondness. Nor does she put any effort into concealing her dislike.
Well-earned, he thinks.
He is not an innocent. He is the reason for his mother’s death and the son of her murderer. He has no place here in her city. He cannot fill her shoes.
Instead, he is an outsider. An interloper in the place of Aredhel.
No, he does not belong in Gondolin.
He cannot fault Idril for her contempt. Not when he himself feels the same.
And yet he cannot quell it. He has no say in it.
Maeglin understands that what he feels for her is not right. She is his kin, the daughter of his mother’s brother.
What he feels is wrong, it’s unnatural and distorted, and yet he can no more control it than he can the rising and setting of the sun.
Maeglin lets his hands drift as his thoughts wander. Many hours he had spent in his father’s smithy as a child, learning the ways of the forge.
His time in Nan Elmoth had not always been good, but he had been happy at times. And it had still been home.
The forges are familiar. They bring him comfort when there is none to be found elsewhere.
So it is here that he spends his time when he has any to spare. He throws himself into the creation of things that are both beautiful and clever and he basks in the praise of those who admire his skill.
He tries to tell himself that this is enough, that he can find contentment in this manner. He may not be loved, but it is enough to be admired.
It is not.
This city is beautiful and yet Maeglin understands why his mother sought so desperately to escape it.
It’s suffocating .
He has only traded one cage for another, far more alluring one. His father once had threatened to set him in bonds.
He doesn’t see how Gondolin is any different.
He hates this glittering city and its vapid inhabitants. He wishes they had never come. If they had stayed, his mother would still have lived.
He longs for the familiar skies above Nan Elmoth. His mother used to sit with him on the roof of Eöl’s humble dwelling and point out the constellations to him. No matter how many times he heard their stories, he never grew tired of them.
He longs for those happier times now.
A breath escapes him and he stands still as a deer. He has not yet lit the furnace and so the air within is still chilled. With each passing day, the weather grows cooler, a reminder that the winter is not so far off.
Maeglin shivers.
He is so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice the presence at the doorway until they’ve announced themself. “May I come in?” Turgon stands just outside.
Maeglin stiffens.
He has no reason to believe that the king would never hurt him despite his efforts at playing family.
It leaves Maeglin feeling doll-like, in a sense, expected to fill a role he has no interest in. He does not intend to play the part.
This, at least, he still has control over.
“You are the king. You may come and go as you wish.” He does not turn his head, but instead clasps his hands behind his back. It is of no difference to him whether the king comes or goes. Or so he tries to convince himself. There is a part of Maeglin that fears Turgon. There is another, smaller piece of Maeglin that longs for his acceptance. “I am but your humble servant.”
Turgon steps over the threshold and does not come much further, keeping distance between them. Inexplicably, he does not share his daughter’s disdain. Maeglin can only imagine this is because he remains blind to what truly lies within his heart.
“Much of your time has been spent in this place, sister-son,” he observes.
“Is this a problem, my lord?” he asks softly. He doesn’t especially care one way or another, but Turgon is still a king.
His formality brings a pained look to Turgon’s face, but Maeglin cannot feign intimacy where none exists and Turgon does not ask him to stop.
“No. Not a problem,” he says. “I only wish to ensure that you have been made to feel welcome in my city.”
“You have been generous, my lord, but the forge is familiar to me. I am most comfortable here.” If his words are stiff, he thinks he can hardly be blamed for that.
He doesn’t know the man standing with him outside of his mother’s stories.
He doesn’t know if he wants to.
He doubts Turgon wants to know him . Maeglin is the last remnant he has of a sister who should have lived.
She should not have jumped in front of the spear. She should have let Father kill me. Not for the first time, he is struck by the thought that this would have been a better outcome for everyone.
He shoves it away just as quickly.
No, Turgon is not interested in Maeglin. He only seeks to be close to what he has left of his sister.
These attempts are born of pity and guilt and nothing else.
Do not seek for her here. Grief encircles his throat, threatening to choke him, and he must look away lest his uncle sees the moisture that gathers in his eyes. You will not find her.
He had little in common with his mother beyond his looks.
Turgon clears his throat. “You don’t have to be alone.”
Maeglin breath catches in his throat. He runs his tongue over his lips and fights the chill that sweeps over him. “I don’t wish to speak of my mother.”
His grief is one that he prefers to hold close to himself, even as it eats him alive. He has no wish to speak of these things with anyone, let alone with Turgon.
He will not.
Turgon’s law is to blame for his mother’s death. He cannot bring himself to speak of her with him.
“I was not thinking only of your mother. You are my kin and I would have you feel welcome in my city.”
Welcome? Is it truly a welcome if the guests can never leave? he thinks bitterly, but he holds his tongue. Would you have me cast over the edge as well if I wished to leave?
Memories of his father’s death are still as vivid as if it had only just occurred. He closes his eyes and he sees Eöl tipping over the edge of Caragdûr, hears his final words condemning him to the same fate ringing in his ears.
No matter how desperately he tries to forget, he can still hear those words.
And what of Idril? Would Turgon still extend his hand in welcome if he knew what Maeglin thought of his daughter? Or would he find himself at the base of Caragdûr as well.
There is a terrible dread growing inside of him. It’s eating him alive from the inside out and it only grows hungrier.
He cannot see an end to this where it doesn’t consume him.