Summary: Silmarillion-based. Maeglin, filled with hatred and anger, uses his talents for one small thing - an item we should all recognize. A fanfic that's part LOTR, part Silmarillion, and part United Cutlery.
Story Rating: Rated PG.
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.
Feedback is welcome to Tyellas@hotmail.com
Thanks
to beta readers Aayesha and Suzana, and the critical input of a Tolkien
fiction-writing list.
The
day before, Maeglin had made sure that the messenger who brought the tidings
suffered for the news he bore. He had spent the night still seething with bile.
That morning, not bothering to trammel his evil temper, he had declared the main
smithies and smelters as dirty as a boar's midden, and set smiths and
prentices alike to hard cleaning. Still vexed, he decided to increase the
rosters of workers required at the iron mine of Anghabar, taking steps to ensure
that both of Tuor's great friends, Voronwë and Pengolod, would be sent to
labour in Anghabar soon. The only person to cross his path that morning who had
not merited an insult had been Salgat, the Lord of Harps. Salgat had a way with
both words and song, so Maeglin had bribed the fellow to write the most biting
satire possible about the upcoming nuptials.
None
of this, he had to admit, had dulled the sting of his foul mood.
Maeglin
prowled his workshop, still railing to himself. He hated his father, Eöl, and
had never rued that Eöl was dead - but how he understood Eöl better as time
went on! No wonder Eöl had closed himself off as a hermit in Nan Elmoth if
other elves were such fools.
He
had hated his mother, Aredhel, ever since she stood by Eöl after he tried to
slay Maeglin - but he understood, now, why she had left Gondolin on the strange
path that brought her to his father. Gondolin was governed by fools, willing to
dishonor their - his!- regal line.
For
the first time, Maeglin hated Turgon, the city's king, as well. Was he so
besotted with Ulmo's messenger that he was willing to hand over his adored
daughter to Tuor, ignoring the fact that Tuor was naught but a mortal man?
Apparently so.
Maeglin
had hated Tuor from the first moment he saw the mortal, of course, just as he
had hated Tuor's kin Húrin and Huor. Ah, he had been right when he said that
Hurin and Huor should have been kept in Gondolin as servants for the Elves! Huor
had gone forth and spawned this great broad-shouldered, hairy-faced lout, who
was now well placed to torment him a thousand times more than Huor ever had.
And
the worst of it was that he hated...his love. Idril, he thought, how
could you? He had adored her from the minute he saw her, far more than a
kinsman should appreciate his cousin. Her demeanor, cool and remote, had only
increased his admiration. She had seemed above common passions, and all the more
perfect thereby. For her to turn to the earthiest male in Gondolin shattered
something inside Maeglin. He was reeling between revulsion and titillation,
struggling to recapture the dream he had adored even as he gave free rein to
lurid imaginings, until he could hardly bear it.
Having
tried every other distraction, he decided to make something. Something just for
himself. On a whim, he decided to create something he had once wished he had
owned; another weapon. Not that Anguirel, the black sword he had filched from Eöl,
was not a formidable blade. But he was strong enough to wield the great sword
with his right hand alone. And there had been a time, when he had journeyed to
Gondolin and fought the spiders of Nan Dungortheb along the way, when he had
wanted a knife for his left hand as well. He would make one now.
Maeglin
took up a choice billet of steel, already annealed blue, close in shape to a
dagger blank. For a few minutes, he held it in his hand. He rarely had a care
for the desire of others. But in his art, he hearkened closely to what his
materials said they wanted to be. When he was confident that this steel did
indeed long to be a certain lengthy knife, he prepared the smithy, building up a
forging fire, laying out tools, readying anvils and trenchers.
For
a time, he shaped the steel with fire and hammering. After several cycles of
heating and cooling the metal, he used a grindstone to hollow it into a
double-edged blade, in the leaf shape that was difficult to achieve. His face
grew calmer as heartbreak was set aside for the pleasure of creating. For his
arts alone he loved without reserve, and with no stain on his heart. He was
ruthless for their sake, and had grown canny as a politician to gain the tools
and labour the smiths needed. He was not above using flattery to support his
works, as he had done by turning the Gate of Steel into a tribute to Turgon's
kingship. Yet he himself was the source of the skill and visions which,
combined, brought forth marvels from the earth and from his hands. Maeglin was
unaware of how much tolerance of his pride and cruelty he won by his arts, nor
did he know that some of his followers had joined him after seeing him gentled
and inspired by his works.
After
grinding and polishing the metal, the time was come to engrave the blade.
Maeglin considered several options, scribing them on a slate. Finally he chose
the words, Maegnas is my name; I am the spider's bane, writing them in
the Sindarin he had spoken in his youth. It did not rhyme correctly, but he did
not care; it was as he wanted it, a sharp sting for himself, the sharp glance.
He covered the blade in wax, carving away the wax for the first part of the
design.
Donning
a heavy leather apron and long gauntlets, he removed the lid from a tall glass
jar in one corner, filled with clear greenish fluid. He buckled on a metal mask,
styled after the dwarf-masks he had seen the dwarves of Nogrod use about their
work. Then, using tongs, he plunged the blade inside the jar. Acid hissed and
fumed. After a count of six, he drew the blade out, then carved more of the wax
away before repeating the acid plunge. The two steps left deep lines followed by
finer ones. This done, he
took the blade in a pair of tongs and held it in a high-burning fire to clean.
The acid on the blade flared up with a green flash, and then the wax melted
away, leaving the design clear.
Maeglin
unstrapped the dwarf-mask. He decided to undertake sharpening the blade, even
though he had already pedalled long and hard at the whetstone. As he laboured at
sharpening, he sang the charm all elf-smiths laid on their work; it made the
blades come alive with defiant light if an orc drew near. He sang further words
for this particular knife, bidding it be sharp against evil insect-beasts, as
its runes bade it. Finally, he lifted the blade and blew on it, sending fine
motes of metal glittering through the air. For the first time in two days, he
smiled.
Alone
in his smithy, Maeglin indulged in using the new blade to feint against
invisible enemies. Cutting the air in graceful strokes, the blade's edge
glittered, and his own eyes glittered to see it. Quiet by nature, he did not
laugh, but he smiled deeply. His fierce play, and the strange innocence it
brought to him, ended when the bells of Gondolin rang again. He stopped and
frowned, recollecting all his duties and burdens. With a sigh, he gave the blade
a last caress. Its graceful lines reminded him of Idril. I would give all the
treasures of Gondolin to have Idril in my arms, he thought, she as pure
as this blade's form, and I as piercing as its edge.
Maeglin
placed the blade in a suede wrapping and left his own smithy for the workshop
where the hilt-wrights laboured. The hour had grown late. His brow creased in
anger at the thought of the court's elaborate dinner, where he would be
surrounded with all the people he despised once more. He also realized that
there might be no more hilt-wrights at work; if so, he would have to wait until
tomorrow to have the dagger finished. It was galling to have to hand over part
of his work to someone else, only tolerable if he knew it would be handled
immediately.
There
was, Maeglin knew, no reason to be so impatient. Giant spiders were not likely
to attack Gondolin overnight. It was unlikely that the blade would be used as he
intended it. Still, having it was a small consolation.
He unwrapped a bit of the dagger-blade. "Well, little sting; if ever we
of Gondolin ride out to battle again, I shall bear you. You may gut a few
spiders yet."
At
the hilt-wrights' workshop, one person remained. Maeglin, though glad the
hilt-wright was one of the more skilled ones, ignored his honorable greeting and
said directly, "I want this given a hilt of wood, rich wood, with a steel
inlay." He unveiled the dagger.
The
hilt-wright asked, "With the wood
stained black? Or another hue?"
Maeglin
thought for a moment. The longing for the knife came from his silvan youth.
"Brown, for a change. Keep the wood natural."
"And
what design for the inlay, my lord?"
Maeglin considered the shadows of Nan Dungortheb's eaves. "Something evoking a forest. Leaves, or vines, both flowing and sharp. Try a sketch for me." The hilt-wright drew a line of leaves, and Maeglin approved
"And when do you want it?
Something
with so obvious an answer deserved no manners. "As soon as possible, you
idiot! When else? And do it yourself, don't fob it off to one of the
butter-handed prentices." He swept off without thanks, self-absorbed, a touch
happier that the work would be handled as it deserved. I have put my hand to
one thing that went well, at least, thought Maeglin, never dreaming how time
would prove him right.
Story
Notes:
As their servants - Sourced from HOME, War of the Jewels, Narn I Hîn Hurin footnotes.
Anghabar
- Iron-delving, the iron mine of Gondolin, mentioned
in The Silmarillion.
Nan
Dungortheb - A woodland or wasteland haunted by the spawn of
Ungoliant, a giant spider. Maeglin journeyed past its edges and fought its
evil creatures on his flight to Gondolin. Mentioned in The Silmarillion.
The blade - Will one day be Bilbo's blade Sting. It is mentioned in The Hobbit that the blades Orcrist and Glamdring, found in the same troll's cache as Sting, were made in Gondolin. The words "Maegnas is my name, I am the spider's bane" are sourced from the LOTR movie prop for Sting.
A Note About This Story: Most of Tyellas' online works are adult Tolkien fanfiction. If you want to see more writing by Tyellas, I recommend that you go to the Varied Writing page below, which has Tyellas' genfic stories and miscellaneous het and slash. Please read the warnings!
Please do not reproduce or repost this story without permission from the author. First posted March 26, 2002.
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