Summary: A cautionary tale of seduction, abuse, and betrayal, focusing on the Silmarillion character of Maeglin. Maeglin/Aranwë.
Story Warnings and Notes: DARKFIC. Slash, BDSM, incest discussion, character death, and abusive relationships, rating NC-17. This story is based on the Silmarillion chapters "Of Maeglin" and "Of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin." All characters are sourced from the Silmarillion or Tolkien's notes about Gondolin. Pengolod and Aranwë are the author's expansion on Tolkien's character information.
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.
Thanks
to beta readers Suzana and Aayesha.
When
the last fugitive of Gondolin came to the refugee camp at Nan-Tathren, he found
a cold welcome. It did not surprise him to find the spears of several elf-guards
turned against him in the dusk, nor that they did not let him pass beyond the
first willow-glade of the camp. But he did not expect that Idril Celebrindal
herself should come to interrogate him, bringing the loremaster Pengolod to mark
their words.
"What
is your story, Aranwë? Leman of Maeglin!" Idril, the chief lady of the
fallen city, was garbed for defense in silvery mail and buckled armor. Her icy
eyes flashed and the braid of her golden hair hung down one shoulder like a
sword. "You are daring to follow us. Our scouts had you marked from the
Gates of Sirion. It is well that you came alone, and none followed you. What
know you of the battle of Gondolin?" she demanded.
Aranwë
spoke slowly. "Lady, Maeglin betrayed us. I escaped but by chance. And I
know not if Voronwë, my son, lives."
"For
one who has not walked with us before this night, you know much," said
Idril, "and you will tell me all. As battle raged upon the walls, Maeglin
seized my son. I pursued them, and he told me what he had long planned. The
betrayal of Gondolin to Morgoth, and worse besides; to take me to wife by force,
despite his kinship to me. I know not how this treachery came about, and I know
not why save for his marred lust. Maeglin perished on the walls, cast down from
a great height. Rumor had it that none were as deep in his counsel as you. Tell
me what you knew of the mind of Maeglin. Did you plot with him?" The guards
lifted their spears.
"No,
lady! It was not my will that our city should fall!" cried Aranwë.
Idril
was scathing. "No; you gave your will to Maeglin long ago."
Aranwë
did not deny this.
"Come,
sword-smith," said Pengolod gently. "Tell the tale but once, for I do
not forget, and then the matter is done. What secrets did Maeglin hide?"
Aranwë
looked at the ground, bound beneath knotted willow-roots, and sighed. Then he
began to speak. And though his words were brief, the full tale ran through his
mind like fire.
When
Turgon, Lord of Gondolin heard of his sister-son Maeglin's love of metals, he
set the chief of his smiths to be Maeglin's mentor and guide. By this he hoped
to distract Maeglin from sorrow after the double death of his mother and his
sire. Maeglin looked on Aranwë at his forge, and liked him well. He was tall,
though stooped from his smith-work in a way Maeglin had seen before, clad in a
long apron of scorched leather over his plain garb. His fair skin and black hair
were such a match to Maeglin's that they might have been kin. Maeglin stood by
as he tidied the dimly lit forge at the end of his work, oiling the metal anvils
and work-benches before covering them in sueded hides. In response to Maeglin's
quiet, he let his warm, deep voice run on in chatter.
"Rumor
speaks about your silence last night, as you watched Ecthelion's trial of
ansereg. What do you think of our warriors' ritual? They essay the pain so that
they might last through battle and torment, having endured much before,"
said Aranwë, kindly. Maeglin did not reply.
"Are
you like many of the Sindar, who reckon it strange and cruel?" Aranwë asked.
"I
am no Sindar any more!" said Maeglin. "It could be sterner. I have
taken more myself. And dealt it, too."
Aranwë
chuckled and looked fondly at the young elf. Maeglin's hair fell like a raven's
curved feathers around his grave, beautiful face. Beneath the indigo clothes and
strange black-metal armor he always wore, his body combined litheness and
strength. Even his rare smiles seemed deep. The young always took themselves so
seriously, thought Aranwë, who had lived long. "Well, lad, before you say
so in the great halls, perhaps I should kneel and see what you have to offer in
the way of a trial."
Maeglin
read his intent. The older smith was half beguiled by his beauty, and half
wished to save him from making a fool of himself in front of his new folk.
Perhaps Aranwë had a point. This was not the first offer he had received, but
he thought it the one of greatest merit. The more imposing his first conquest
was, the better the tale of him that would run through the gossip-loving halls
of the hidden city.
He
stepped up to his challenger with a smile. "I accept, Aranwë. More, I
would have it begin now, here at your forge. Bar the great door, then return to
me!" This took enough time for Maeglin to arrange some things he thought
needful. He had removed his steely arm-braces and was rolling up his sleeves
when Aranwë returned.
"Off
with all this," said Maeglin, dragging impatiently at Aranwë's burned
leather and linen forge-garb. The impromptu roughness titillated Aranwë, after
the somber rituals and prepared spaces of full ansereg.
"As
you wish, lord," said Aranwë, perfectly correct, and he saw Maeglin's eyes
shine at that. Maeglin threw the smith's hide apron over an ordered pile of
metal bars waiting at the back of the smithy, and dragged and bent Aranwë to
kneel face-down over it.
"You
might have bid me hither. The rite of ansereg is to place yourself in the
other's hands and power."
"Be
quiet! You talk more than anyone I have ever met. You will have what you wished.
More than you knew you wanted." The tall smith's hard legs and broad,
muscle-finned back were exposed to him. Maeglin took up Aranwë's heavy belt,
and trailed it over the bent body, to judge the distance and pace of his
strikes. Last night, the elf building up blows on Ecthelion had started out
slowly, pacing the pain. Maeglin decided to do the opposite.
Aranwë
shouted as the belt slashed his back. As a snapping hail of leather struck
without preamble, he gritted his teeth and clung to the pile of metal and
leather beneath him,
cursing himself for not taking Maeglin at his word. Instead of belaboring his
hardened shoulders, Maeglin strapped across his ass and thighs, even his calves
and, for a brief agony, the sole of one foot. The younger elf had a
steel-smiter's strength, beating Aranwë's flesh down long and heavy until the
blows rocked his bones. Just when Aranwë thought he would have to cry out,
Maeglin threw aside Aranwë's belt for his own. The scant half-minute for the
change was all the respite Aranwë got. Maeglin's belt might have been made for
evil purpose, a narrow strap of hard leather tipped in metal. The doubled length
felt like razor-cuts. Worse, Maeglin wielded the full length of it like a
scourge. Aranwë sweated at the thought that Maeglin might labor so for as long
as it took to hammer and shape a long blade.
But
Maeglin thought to save his arm's strength. After one last lick with the
belt-tip, he threw it aside and reached for the water-trough used to cool hot
iron. He had found some arrow-canes waiting to be pointed and fletched, and had
placed them there to soak supple. The one he swished in his hand cut the air
like a whip of wood. Aranwë winced at the sound. Maeglin saw the fear and felt
desire rise in his throat and groin. He thrust aside the thought of how he'd
like to see tender Idril flinch before him, and turned to the more familiar
pleasures at hand. It was sweet to torment the long smith with the dancing cane,
sweet as red meat to the teeth.
Aranwë
shivered at Maeglin's new torment. There were two blessings to the lightning
cane-strikes. After the first body-cry of pain, a weird cool spread from each
blow. And Maeglin was spacing the strikes so that the marks might show well.
Following the tumultuous belt-beating, the hurt that he could pace and ride
seemed like mercy. The caning began at mid-thigh, running right up to the very
tip of the backbone. If a blow seemed overly faint, Maeglin repeated it,
doubling the agony. Then, six cane-strikes were branded into each wide shoulder.
Aranwë strangled down his cries, gnawing at the leather on which he sprawled.
After
the last shoulder-strike, Aranwë unbit the leather but did not relax. Maeglin
still lurked behind him, like a sweeping storm. Then the storm closed in.
Maeglin knelt over him and ran a hot hand over the bruised flesh and its marks.
"On the floor," said Maeglin, his voice sibilant from his fast breath.
The two sank down to the slate flagstones, Aranwë dragging the leather with
him.
He
hissed as Maeglin turned him over, but forgot his suffering when he saw his
tormentor again. In the dimness of the forge, Maeglin's dark and pale beauty
seemed lit from within, reason enough for him to demand anything from anyone.
For the first time that Aranwë recalled, there was a true smile on Maeglin's
face, unshadowed by wryness or disdain. And it seemed a rich reward when Maeglin
reached down to smooth his hair back gently, saying, "You took that.
Perhaps there is something to your ritual after all."
"My
lord," Aranwë whispered.
"And
you are quiet, too, now," said Maeglin, turning his hands between the
smith's marked thighs. "Last night, they stopped at this in their ritual.
But I would go on." He stroked the back of his hand over Aranwë's
stiffening cock. "Will you let me have you as I wish?"
"Yes!
Ah, yes!"
Maeglin
was plunged into his keen silence again. He drew over a jar of the thick, clear
grease used to oil swords and knives for the sheath. His intent was obvious as
he laved generously between Aranwë's cane-bruised thighs, and his victim spread
and settled to ease his way.
This
was fortune indeed, thought Aranwë, that Maeglin would have him face to face.
He felt two fingers probe and pulse inside him, then a third stretched him.
Maeglin's second hand reached up to caress his chest, linking them without
speech as he coaxed Aranwë to pleasure. When Aranwë felt a fourth finger
strive to press inside him, he leaned up to see. Maeglin was not changing his
position, staying intent on penetrating Aranwë with one hand. He moved his free
hand and began to smear sword-grease over his penetrating fingers and wrist,
stroking up towards the elbow. Aranwë swallowed and braced himself to endure.
But Maeglin reached up with his free, oil-smirched hand and touched Aranwe's
breastbone again, leaving a stain over his heart while their eyes met.
Then
Maeglin did something new. He began to sing. The music was a chanting song of
unlocking, persuading, surrender. It blended with the thrumming of Aranwë's
pulse and overrode his racing thoughts. The probing hand began to move again, to
the song's rhythm. Twined in the beckoning music of Maeglin's voice, Aranwë
could not track when the thumb was worked inside him to join the fingers.
At
the peak of the song, Maeglin moved his arm forward, and shoved the cupped flat
of his hand home into the orifice. A shot of pain ripped Aranwë for a moment,
and he twisted and gasped. Maeglin held still, continuing to sing softly, then
slowly slid his greased wrist in further. Aranwë was surprised when this
stilled the pain, but he was not thinking that the wrist was narrower than the
fist. Once the tearing faded, and the disbelief, Aranwë was shaken with
unexpected delight. He could barely think, only turn and cry and lust.
First
the pain had been followed by wonder, and now Aranwë rode the overpowering
sensation, moaning and bending like a wind-wracked pine. He had never felt such
a terrible pleasure, not even in the lost arms of love. Maeglin felt the change
in him and turned his arm, drawing out just a touch, until the hard curled hand
hit a spot that pulsed back. Aranwë's entire body rang with bright fire. The
very air seemed alive against his untouched hardness. When he came, and came,
and came, he shouted until the stone roof rang, beyond pain or will.
To
Maeglin, the cries heralded his triumph, and he knelt still, slowing his arm's
movements to a stop, until Aranwë's dazed eyes met his. They looked into each
other's faces. Aranwë was lost in the sharp glance before him. Maeglin coaxed
his wrist and hand free, and watched his victim slump back, as if he had drawn
the elf-man's heart and will out clasped in his fist.
Aranwë
looked up at the young stranger dark above him, blocking the light. Maeglin
leaned close. The snake-touch of Maeglin's flickering tongue ran from his belly
to his collar-bone, lapping up his come. Aranwë's heart hammered. Although
Maeglin was silent, the touch of his mouth spoke of complicity, shared desire,
secrets. Then Maeglin, standing up, went to rinse his hands in the water-trough
without a word.
Aranwë
watched his grace as he walked and bent. "Maeglin, I - I long to ease you.
However you may wish."
Maeglin
smiled very slowly. "You are much improved beneath my hands; first you are
quiet, and then you have manners."
The
tall young elf came back, and instead of bending, stroked Aranwë with the steel
toe of his boot. "It makes me hunger, to see you so willing! You shall not
have long work of me." Now Maeglin knelt on top of him, straddling armored
limbs around his chest. Aranwë shrank back from the chill of the metal
leg-guards, even as Maeglin stroked the indigo fabric at his own crotch. "I
shall take you again, for my own pleasure, this time," he said, and laughed
to feel how that jolted Aranwë.
"Oh,
on second thought, I will not," Maeglin said. If it was a joke, it was the
first one Aranwë had ever heard from him. "You are ruined for that this
night! No, I shall have your mouth instead." With two smooth moves,
Maeglin's legs trapped Aranwë's face. The downed elf-man would have to stretch
and strain his throat to please the one above him, but as he watched Maeglin
free himself, he counted that the least torment of his life.
Maeglin
was as fortunate in his elegant measure as in his fair visage. As he stroked his
phallus against Aranwë's face, not letting him taste the steel and velvet of it
yet, Aranwë sighed. "You are beautiful, even to what modesty hides.
Straight as a spear, fragrant as musk."
"You
want me so badly," murmured Maeglin, eyes narrowed. "Then beg for
it."
Before
he had taken off his smith's leathers for Maeglin, he would have laughed to
scorn anyone who bid him plead. "My lord, please, let me taste you, let me
take you in. I want nothing more, I beg."
Maeglin
shifted the angle of his body, and Aranwë arched his neck painfully to bridge
the small gap. He tongued the tip of Maeglin's cock, sliding the foreskin
gently. Maeglin bent further, inciting Aranwë to take the full length in his
mouth. Once that was done, he shifted forward even more, locking himself in the
other elf-man's throat deeply. He began to move in sharp thrusts, choking Aranwë
breathless.
"You
are wicked, to call me on to further lusts. Ah, your heat and your hunger, your
mouth-" His speech cut off as he buckled and came in dead silence, hands
clenched to claws against his own armored thighs.
Maeglin
stood again as lightly as he had settled, and without caress or thanks. Aranwë
remained exhausted on the floor, breathing deep, still tasting traces of
Maeglin's bitterness.
"What
do you think of my way?" asked Maeglin.
"That...
was as the lightning above the peak of Caragdur. But it was not ansereg. How did
you learn that?"
"From
Eöl," said Maeglin, simply.
Aranwë
staggered up, horrified. "From your father! This is not a matter for kin of
any closeness!"
"You
are swift to say that, here in Gondolin," snapped Maeglin, face tight with
pain.
"It
is the way of all Elves, of all speaking folk. But you are not to blame. Your
father did you a great ill, to hide you from your people and use you so."
Desperate that Maeglin not turn from him, he went on. "I swear by my forge,
hallowed to Aulë, that I do not judge you and I will not flee you, whatever you
say to me. Do not let yourself be bound by Eöl's untruths and strange ways, but
start anew."
Maeglin
turned back to Aranwë, eyes ravenous and brilliant. "I may speak to you
freely? Will you keep my secrets?"
"Yes,
and swear oath to that as well," said Aranwë gently. No wonder Maeglin had
been so cold and quiet in the bright halls, shadowed by such deeds.
"Let
me hear you swear it!" He stood imperious and still as the marked elf-man,
placing one hand on the anvil, repeated the enriched oath.
Maeglin
smiled at the one he had mastered with pleasure and pain, and bound with a deep
geas. Seeing Aranwë brighten at the smile from him, he decided to seal the
smith's bondage with words. "Yes, I will free myself from the ways of Eöl.
Will you teach me better?"
Aranwë's
hearers each shuddered at the story he had begun. Then Idril spoke.
"Clearly, you failed in your teaching. Add this to your memory, Pengolod.
Maeglin but began by binding Aranwë to him. I knew of the cabal that Maeglin
gathered; the proud, the willful, some over-fond of battle and quarrels. The
rites of ansereg grew strange and dark under them. And Maeglin's power spread
when Turgon sealed the gates against all comers. Then that dark one's whims
and scandals filled too much of our minds, as a thin replacement for fresh news
of our kin. Maeglin drew you all like a lodestone draws iron-dust, sticking at
naught to bind elves to him."
Unexpectedly,
Pengolod spoke. "No, lady, he shirked at one thing."
Idril
started. "What was that?"
"Never
was he known to take a trial of ansereg himself, for all that he loved to mete
it out."
"That
is fitting. I knew not; I listened only to what was said. And I should have
hearkened to the silences, too. What say you to that, Aranwë?"
Aranwë
continued. "You see the seed of Maeglin's treachery in these deeds. I knew
of it scant time before, mere hours, my lady, and yet was not free to act until
too late."
"I
will be the judge of that," said Idril.
Aranwë
stood in the door of Maeglin's dark-draped chamber. No lamps were lit. Instead
of pacing about in half-armor, as was his wont, Maeglin was reclining on his
bed, his nudity white against the indigo sheets. "Come to me," he said
softly.
Aranwë
drew close. When had his desire of Maeglin become tainted with dread? It might
have been the day he realized he bore deeper scars from Maeglin than from his
smith-work. Or perhaps some caprice had burned Aranwë's heart too much. Maeglin
had always swung between kind and cruel, heedless and fond. It was very like
Maeglin to summon him this evening, when all the rest of the city was preparing
for festival.
The
strong young elf was using all his charm tonight, offering soft glances and
gentle embraces. In this mood, there was no need to fear his hands; only the
strange thoughts he would speak. At times merely the thoughts of Maeglin made
him shudder. But Aranwë came back, again and again, for the sake of pleasures
he could not forego, for his oath, and for the rare tenderness of Maeglin. Once
Maeglin had spoken his shadowed mind, he might show that tenderness tonight, and
that hope led Aranwë on to the dark bed.
Maeglin
gloated as he watched Aranwë step near carefully. Of course he was wary; he was
no fool, thought Maeglin. When Aranwë had sworn silence by his forge, that had
been the first step of his rise in Gondolin. How would he have borne the torment
of longing for Idril without being able to speak freely to at least one? And
now, with everything almost within his grasp at long last, this one would set
him free from the only torment that remained.
Aranwë
undressed and lay cautiously upon the bed. Maeglin cast the dark linens about
them, cocooning them. He caged the frightened, entranced elf-man in his embrace,
sliding smooth as an adder, biting like a viper, but with eyes tender and dark
as those of a deer. Aranwë looked up as Maeglin lay on top of him, pinioning
his arms. "Dearer than father. My smith and my anvil. I must ask you
something. Tell me, is there any torment that cannot be borne?"
"From
your hands, lord?" He braced himself to hear some unclean dream of
Maeglin's, even as he treasured the feel of Maeglin's smooth body against him.
"Such
flattery. Tell me, what would you say if...if I said I wished to sear your eyes
out with hot iron?"
Aranwë
went rigid. Blinded! To be maimed like that was one of the black threats of
Morgoth and Sauron. "I could
never bear that. For I live for my craft. And I do not see how it might please
you."
Maeglin
stroked his face with a wry expression. "Nor would one so marred ever be fair
to look upon again, bearing scar-pits for eyes."
Then
Maeglin nuzzled close. "Ah, it eases me to hear you say that, after all you
have suffered from me. That you should say so to the one who mastered you; I am
consoled for saying it to the one who mastered me." In the dimness, his
eyes shone. "To Morgoth."
Aranwë
felt denial flash in his spirit at the very name. Maeglin felt him tense and
doubt, and began to speak hastily, pressing him down with sweating hands.
"I
tell no lie, and you swore never to judge me. I do not forget! Listen to me!
Remember when I went to Himling in secret, prospecting last year? I was taken
then. To him. There is no denying Angband; it is greater than any elf's dream.
They have a strong way. Why should I not, as well? Why should I fall to torment,
when I was offered all my desire? Morgoth seeks regents, more wise and high than
orcs and worms, to complete his dominance. I shall have the lordship of
Gondolin! The city will be little spoiled in its taking; I shall make sure of
that. And also I shall have the hand of Idril. Not to mention the rest of
her," said Maeglin. His voice had veered from a nervous rasp to a purr as
he spoke, and the thought of Idril roused him hard.
Incredibly,
when he pleaded that it was his shift to stoke the forges, Maeglin let him go.
Feeling chill and empty, he actually went to his smithy, where Maeglin had first
claimed him. He stood close to the embers of the forge, gazing at them as if
they might clean his mind. After so much time that the stars had wheeled towards
dawn in the sky outside, Aranwë sighed. He went to place his hand on the anvil
and ask the sacred forge forgiveness for the oath he was about to break. But
before he felt the still metal, he heard: horns blowing, screams, the alarms of
war breaking the long peace of Gondolin.
"So
Maeglin, twisted by his father, fell as a thrall of Morgoth, under threat of
torment and doing his bidding. The tale is blacker than I thought." Idril
was pained. "Might we have stayed Maeglin from his darkness, had we known?
And he laid hands on my little son!" Her anger relit, she turned to Aranwë.
"I
might say that you betrayed us all that last night, by your silence. And I might
say that you saved me all those years, by letting Maeglin vent his will on you.
Here is my judgment. You may live, but not bide here, knowing Maeglin's stained
thoughts of me. Wherever I dwell, you are outlawed. You shall be taken forth at
dawn and escorted far. Galdor, go to the camp-steward. Make ready supply for
Aranwë. Then bring Voronwë hither, for he lives. But do not expect more
kindness from your son than you have had from me." With a ring of metal,
Idril and the guard Galdor swept away to hasten his departure. Aranwë bowed to
the cold mercy of Idril, though she did not look back.
Pengolod
and the other guard remained. The loremaster looked sadly at him who had been
forge-master, before the son of the Dark Elf came. "Many envied you, that
you were embraced by Maeglin, high-born and fair," he said quietly.
For
the first time, Aranwë's eyes flashed with a hint of spirit. "What tale
will you tell to those who envied me? Will you teach them better,
Pengolod?"
Please
do not reproduce or repost this story without permission from the author.
Return to Gates of Steel: Maeglin Stories
Return to Ansereg Home