Insanity Said Coldly

I'm lost in the depths of his eyes
I can't flee
inner pain caused insanity
It's deep within
The fear and the hunger
Enslaved and denied
by my love and my enemies
I'm the ill-gotten son

~ * ~

The brilliant whiteness of Gondolin shone with a purity borne of the unadulterated love and wisdom of the Eldar who had built it. The sun’s last light caught upon the white towers and flared as quicksilver, flowing from the tall spires and down into the city itself in a river of white fire. Never before since the age of fair Tirion in the Blessed Realm had such a marvel shone its magnificence into the dark of the world, and never more again would any of its like be brought into existence.

Yet, to the dark Elf standing upon the walls of Gondolin, his sharp eyes looking not to the fairness of the city but instead to the rough bleakness of the surrounding mountains, its beauty was lost – weighed of less importance compared to the immediate lure of the hidden dark pathways underneath the mountains.

Maeglin he was known as to the small group of Elves who stood behind him now, suffering the delay as their leader turned his eyes upon their forward path and then back to travel slowly over each of their countenances; there was not a one that did not quaver under that glance, for it seemed that the black depths of Maeglin’s eyes saw deeper than mere flesh and clothing. Maeglin he was known as, yet that was not his name – and it seemed to him a fitting cruel twist of fate that even in the city of the Noldor his true name never was made known.

Faithful to him only was his secret following, yet if they followed him from respect or fear he did not know, nor did he particularly care to. That their hearts had not swayed to the sweet words of the mortal Tuor who had wed Maeglin’s beloved was of only importance to the Elf. Alone of all the Gondolindrim he and his following were of like mind, and heeded not the joining of Elf and Man and the lordship of Tuor in their fair city.

The walls of Gondolin were smooth and shone radiantly white, yet to Maeglin’s eyes they were stained red and foul with blood. Upon these walls, not far from the very place the small company now stood, his father had been cast down by Turgon the King to fall to his death on the sharp rocks below. And Maeglin had stood by, silently revelling in the last look of fear in Eöl’s eyes as his father had realised his fate.

So you forsake your father and his kin, ill-gotten son!

Forsaken indeed. A fitting word, to describe so accurately the state of his life both in Nan Elmoth the realm of his father, who had borne no love for him and had slain his mother, and in fair Gondolin, where his love for his cousin Idril had grown into a twisted ugly thing. And yet Maeglin had said nothing, watching rather the descent of Eöl to his end, and smiling. After, Idril had called upon him, questioning his behaviour, but he looked only upon her, stroking the secret desire in his heart, and she still mistrusted him. He could read it in her mind.

Celebrindal . . . my silverfoot . . .

A small twist of Maeglin’s lips betrayed a smile, though one borne of irony rather than happiness. The Elves grouped tightly together behind the tall Elf shifted uncomfortably, seeing that Maeglin had again drifted into his customary silence, which more than one of them feared dearly, and shied away from the gleam of his eyes.

Maeglin’s raven-hued hair was tied back into a long braid that swung at his hips, and his raiment was of black leather, and with him he bore always the long black sword Anguirel, forged of galvorn, which he stole from his father. Fearless he was in battle and fell, and many enemies had fallen beneath his hand and the wrath of Anguirel. But no screams of war now littered the city’s fair wall, and peace reigned once more in their fair dwelling, and Maeglin was free to retake his old habit of exploring the bounds outside of Gondolin, without the King’s consent and certainly against his wish. Maeglin had small care for the rules of others. His father had forsaken him before his death; he did not fear the words of his mother’s brother.

Returning to the world with a small shake of his head, Maeglin took up the heavy load of mining tools so carefully laid within a carrying bag of white linen and slung it over his shoulder before resuming the onwards path. The last rays of a red sunset painted the white walls of Gondolin with blood as the small group entered the cavern path Maeglin had discovered by way of a secret passage that lead behind the tall impassable walls of the city.

The darkness ahead seemed thick as mud, yet the eyes of Maeglin pierced it with ease as he lead his group of followers without falter through the narrow twists and turns of the entrance tunnel. Many a time need brooked that the Elves travelled near bent double, and oft a rough snag of outcropping rock would cause a thin burning scratch on the arm or head of the unwary.

Their destination was a deep dark cavern, stocked still with supplies of candles to light their labour through the night, though Maeglin needed no such aid. The darkness of Nan Elmoth, his home, had sharpened his glance, and thus he was named Sharp-Glance, the far-seeing one. Yet no further time was allotted to the pondering of his names, and the night lengthened and passed on as they quarried beneath the stone. The group worked ever in silence, not a single word passing between the few Elves as they mined and the deep quiet broken only by the sharp ringing of their tools upon the hard rock.

Some time after the moon had moved past its equinox, at a time when Maeglin stood back to admire the deep cleft in the hard surface he had caused and had wiped the evidence of sweat of his labour from his forehead with the back of his arm, a loud exclamation rent the calm of the night. In a sharp movement too fast for even Elven eyes to follow, Maeglin was beside the Elf who had cried out, laying a hand upon his shoulder to push him aside and glaring into the newly-rent tear through which the faint light of stars could just be perceived.

For a moment a rare, true smile lit his face, but it was gone within an instant as the Elf laid his own hands upon the raw earth, brushing and clawing at it eagerly to enlarge the opening. The ground crumbled, dust sprang into the air and came to rest slowly upon all objects in the small cavern, yet curiously seemed to avoid the body of Maeglin, hanging about him in a cloud and yet not touching him.

When finally enough of the dirt had been removed, the starlight filtered slowly through the opening, lighting the Elf’s black hair silver, gleaming in the night. The wind pushed its way in to gently lift the hair from the back of the Elf’s neck, caressing tenderly the soft skin of his face before moving on to disperse in the silence of the cavern. The night stared back at Maeglin, his ally and friend. No lights from the city despoiled it, and no common sounds of Elves tainted its purity.

“Finally,” he whispered, his voice no louder than the dropping of a leaf, unheard by all who stood now behind him, crowding for a view of the outside walls of Gondolin. Slowly, paying no heed to the other Elves but for a disdainful glance over his shoulder, Maeglin crawled through the small hole, his eyes eagerly set upon the dim shining of the stars beyond.

For long they had quarried in the darkness of the mountains, under the pretence of searching for the precious metals Maeglin had taken a liking to forging. But now – now finally they had broken free of the stifling beauty of Gondolin and could liberally tread in the open dark, laughing in secret at the rule of the King and breaking for the first his bidding.

Emerging slowly from the opening, the darkness seemed to engulf Maeglin, fitting around his form as perfectly as a cloak or second skin. The shadow followed him, trailing tendrils of black light in his wake as he stepped onto the rough path hewn by the hands of nature into the harsh stone of the mountain. Above him, the white walls of Gondolin glimmered in the moonlight, reflecting the stars with a ghostly light. Maeglin’s black hair and raiment stood out starkly against their white brilliance as he glanced up at the towering walls.

The small group of his secret following emerged in single file behind him, creeping silently in the night as he had taught them, and looking in wonder and awe at the new surroundings outside Gondolin. Many had been born inside the walls of the city, and but a few of them had ever left its confines.

A natural, narrow path carved out of the living mountain ran past the tunnel entrance, but a small drop from the opening to land upon the rough rock. Some ways away and downward toward the right, the path ran onto a small outcropping of rock, hedged on the cliff side by a few stray wayward bushes of dried shrubbery. Beyond that the path continued on and ever downwards in a gentle slope until it disappeared from sight and finally reached its abrupt end at the foot of the cliff, many yards away.

They stood near to attention as the tall Elf turned to them as the last emerged, facing his following with the superior air of a prince.

They looked uncertain, glancing to each other with something akin to fear. Maeglin waited, saying naught, for none could resist keeping silence under his stare. Finally, one of the more daring ones was urged forward, taking a single, hesitant step forward to face his leader. Maeglin knew not the name of this Elf, or could not remember hearing it nor of any of the others, for names mattered not to him if the Elves were bound to his service.

“M . . . My lord,” the Elf stammered, fear apparent in his voice, “We should not be here. The King–“

“The King has no authority over me!” Maeglin snapped. The Elf drew back, gasping. Maeglin sneered secretly in his mind at the weakling before continuing. “We may go wherever we wish,”

The Elf looked back to his companions, but they were struck silent, and offered him no help. Turning back to Maeglin, who yet regarded him unflinchingly, he swallowed audibly, and said, “But, my lord, the way out of the city is forbidden.”

The tolerance written across Maeglin’s features turned to disapproval as he frowned at the Elf. “Malmenel,” – yes, that was his name, Maeglin thought as he noted the Elf’s eyes lighten at being known by name to his lord. Malmenel cast himself down, bowing before Maeglin.

“Yes, my lord?”

Maeglin sighed, and glanced impatiently at the alluring darkness that hid countless treasures yet undiscovered by Elven hands – precious metals and ores of the earth with which to forge weapons the likes of which would cow even the very forces of Angband. The stars sprawled magnificently across the sky, more brilliant for the lack of the city’s light that dimmed them when inside its walls. He turned his glance back to the prostrate Elf, sighing.

“Do the others share this misgiving of yours?”

He looked over the rest of the Elves, using his secret talent to delve into their hearts and unearth their most deeply hidden secrets. Their minds quailed beneath his stare, and one by one their heads dropped, weighed by shame into submission. A snarl of distaste curled Maeglin’s lips.

“Weaklings!” he hissed, “Begone, then! Retreat back into your unadventurous safety!” He flung a pointed finger back at the gaping black hole in the rock wall that was the cavern entrance.

Uncertain glances passed between the Elves, and they hesitated. Maeglin’s arm dropped slowly to his side, and he regarded them questioningly. Finally, Malmenel turned and, with a last misgiving glance over his shoulder at Maeglin, passed back through the group of Elves and into the dark chasm of the tunnel. One by one, the others turned also and left, until Maeglin was left standing alone, the cool night breeze playing softly over his features and the black of night soothing his heart.

“Weaklings,” he murmured again to himself, watching the last Elf disappear into the opening before turning to face the night. The cold darkness of the cliffs surrounding Gondolin was a sharp contrast to its beauty, making it seem a white shining jewel in the midst of the craggy outcroppings and harsh cliffs of nature.

Alone in the night, it seemed the darkness sang to him and the stars spoke softly to his heart. A rare, true smile passed over his lips as the last sounds of quiet scuffling passed from the entrance to the tunnel, belying the leave of the last Elf back into their fair city. Maeglin closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of night and revelling in the smoothness of the dark as it glided over his skin.

Minutes passed yet seemed to him as hours as he stood thus, head thrown back and bared to the starry sky, until finally the nagging sense of approaching dawn, though it was yet hours away, pulled him again into action.

Nothing moved or noised in the silence of the night as the dark Elf bent down slowly to grasp the heavy laden bag with his mining tools, akin to those all his following bore, and lifted it gently to his shoulder. A last glance over his shoulder at the white of Gondolin’s walls perching above the black of the tunnel’s entrance and he was gone, ghosting into the night with tread light as feather.

The down-sloping path toiled gently onward until a few yards on it levelled smoothly into the slightly bulging outcropped panel of rock. Here Maeglin paused, turning his gaze towards the clearly-visible planes below surrounded by cliffs on three sides, and the narrow entrance to the Dark Gate which could just be espied beyond the farthest rearing of stone.

No wind stirred the air in this place for it was lower than where the group had emerged from the rock and did not share its current, but a sudden rustle of the weathered bushes sounded loudly in the dark behind the tall Elf. It was then the peace of the night was broken with a chilling scream, right by the place where Maeglin stood.

Anguirel sang as it was drawn from its sheath, and the Elf whirled about, dropping the sack of tools roughly to the ground. Upright as Elves the fell beasts walked, and bore weapons, yet they were bent and crouched, and ungraceful beings. Orcs. Not many of the fell creatures, for there was not enough room on the rock, but nonetheless they surrounded him and set upon him in the space of a breath.

Fierce and fell they fought, not skilless though their style was base, and many a cut or blunted fist caused injury to Maeglin’s body. Twelve he counted slain by his hand before he was borne to the ground, yet more remained, and his wounds became grievous enough to cause a momentary drop in his defence. One moment of respite was all the Orcs needed, and they drove down upon him redoubling their attack, and though Maeglin’s last stand was defiant and brave it did not suffice to spare him from disgrace. Shame and humiliation overbore all injury as Anguirel was wrested from him, thrown carelessly to the ground to be taken as loot or abandoned uncaringly.

Four Orcs it took to hold him down, and they tied his hands roughly behind his back, succeeding though he yet fought them valiantly. At last he was bound and bent to their will, and though near to all of their group had been slain by his hand the remaining few left the dead where they lay, to rot without burial or burning.

Ruthlessly they dragged the Elf still struggling behind them, pulling at his bonds and cursing the foul creatures as they resumed the narrow path. Almost he managed to pull free at one time, but the path was blocked from before and behind and harsh hands laid upon him, beating and whipping him with lashes into defeat, and his attempts were foiled.

The journey they took seemed a blur to the Elf; he knew not where the things had come from or why they had beset him but guessed that they had been seeking the secret entrance to the city at Morgoth’s command. At intervals the Orcs paused for rest and food, though they granted him neither, instead speaking to him in their harsh, foul tongue that fell as stones upon his sensitive ears, and taking to him for sport and testing the canniness of their whips upon his body. Lash marks burned into his back and chest, and blood forced his eyes shut, leaving Maeglin blinking to clear them of the substance.

Thirst dried his throat as their path continued, dragging on into hours, or days – he was not sure, but could only measure time by the number of rest stops they took. He came dread those times, though they were welcome enough pause to contemplate escape and have respite for the tired numbness of his arms, chafed to bleeding by the rough ropes the creatures dragged him by.

Yet resolve remained in him, if not hope; he was Maeglin, son of Eöl the Dark Elf, and had not been raised a craven weakling. The thought of his father’s disapproval of his weakness alighted a searing fire within his heart, and time and again he sought to run and tear away from his captors, forcing bruised and torn muscles into action that they did not wish for. At times he even strove to fight them, resorted to use of his legs as much he could, yet every time he was borne to the ground underneath their strength.

Six days he counted so, roughly, being neither sure of the movement of the sun nor if his conscious thought could be trusted. Six days passed without food or drink before finally the band of Orcs was joined on the outskirts of a foreign dry place by a new host at the time of the sun’s descent into night. Maeglin guessed that they neared their destination, and a seedling of dread was sown in his heart, for the tales told by the Naugrim of Orcs and their like, and the place they took their dwelling, were no children’s stories. The dark shadow of Angband hung over the land as a heavy veil, neither seen nor heard by eye or ear, yet rather perceived by heart and feared by mind. And Maeglin knew that this was indeed their journey’s end.

A silent, heavy mist settled over the land as the night deepened, but it seemed formed of smoke and filth rather than a natural fog. Their footsteps were muffled within it, and sounds were thrown about in uncertainty of their origin within its depths. It obscured sight even no less than a foot away, and Maeglin was forced by the Orcs chosen as his guardians this night to stumble forth blindly, pushed roughly from behind by strong, calloused hands.

Then the Orcs paused, and their foul language passed through the dark mist, seeming uncertain perhaps of their direction, and Maeglin saw his chance. Breaking suddenly away from his captors, he lunged blindly into the fog, stumbling forth over the rough terrain as one who feared nothing and had the single-minded purpose of removing himself quickly from a situation he wished not to be in.

Yet he was weak and had not run very far before the sound of heavy footsteps surfaced close behind him and rough hands laid upon him, pulling him to the ground underneath their strength. His bonds were tightened, his arms thrown behind him and tied, and a thousand whips lay their burning marks upon his back. He was hauled to his feet, the harsh tongue of the Orcs screaming in his ears, and shoved forward once more until they reached the rest of the Orc host, which had apparently by this time come to a conclusion.

They set off in a direction seemingly randomly chosen to Maeglin, yet the ground now seemed the slightest bit smoother, and less adorned by the sharp rocks that littered this barren landscape. After a while it appeared they were following some sort of path, if one rarely travelled and poorly formed.

Finally the Orcs stopped, and the leaders at the forefront of the group called out loudly, perhaps a signal of sorts, though Maeglin could not be sure. Then they plunged on, until finally a deeper black loomed out of the darkness before them, giant and terrible. The dark tower of Angband materialized and emerged from the mist as a ghost ship upon a sea of night as they approached it, and a silence laid gradually about them as if even the Orcs feared speak too loudly about this place.

The glow of fires lit the base of the tower, an unearthly red shine that seemed as streaks of blood laid upon the black walls like a curse. Hell of Iron, so it was named; Iron Prison. The Tower of the Dark Lord seemed indeed a stifling fiery place, yet wreathed in darkness, as though even the heat of the million blazes springing from dark pits around its foot had not enough strength to drive the blackness away. The sound of metal beating upon metal as in a forge or many forges coloured the air here, a familiar and welcome sound to Maeglin’s ears as they approached the dark place.

A great door reared out of the ground imposingly as they neared the base of the tower, crossing a deep chasm filled with fire and noise by way of a narrow bridge that was slung over it precariously. Maeglin looked down as he passed, wedged between his Orc captors as they went in single file across the bridge. The chasm’s floor was hidden in the depths from sight, though many fires burned along its walls. Torches ensconced in metal rings were hammered into the living stone, and tunnels led from lit openings underneath the dark tower where more infernos blazed hotly for smelting fires.

Above them, its pinnacle lost to the dark mist that yet veiled the land, Angband loomed dangerously, forged of grey and black metals that glinted cruelly in the flickering light. Torches were passed to the lead Orcs as they stepped off the bridge by creatures appearing bent and crooked, though their form was lost to the grey cowled robes that hid their faces from sight. Maeglin wondered briefly if they were thralls of Morgoth, Elves maybe or of the race of Men, captured and tortured into slavery by the dark lord’s hand; for they seemed submissive and even afraid of the Orcs’ jeering laughter at them as they passed. He tried bending down to attempt seeing underneath the deep cowl of one of the crouched beings, but it lowered its head and the chance passed as the end of a whip connected painfully with his back and a harsh voice ordered him forward.

The great doors of the tower swung open on silent hinges before them, revealing a gaping black hole through which none could be seen or heard. Into this hole they entered, the light of the torches casting but feeble illumination upon a very small area around them. This light betrayed nothing, except that the floor was of smooth black stone, and polished until it shone, reflecting dimly the torchlight and sad, hollow reflections of their group.

Onwards they walked, and came at last as through a great hall to another set of doors on the other side, which also swung open before them as if by magic. Now the corridor they passed through was narrow, yet Maeglin guessed very tall, and there were many dark openings to either side of them in which quiet torches could be seen that were not lit to drive away the night.

A long time they walked, until at last a final set of doors towered in front of them, darker and set with many black gems into symbols Maeglin knew not the meaning of, seeming a finishing doom to their journey’s end.

Through these doors he was shoved as they opened, yet the Orcs remained behind, shouting a last few words into the doorway before disappearing down the hall as if they feared this place. Maeglin lay motionless where he landed for a time, face down upon the smooth floor, assessing his surroundings and straining his ears for any sound. Finding none, he rose finally, lifting his body carefully and quietly, and sat back into a crouch, every sense alert for movement. Still nothing stirred in the silence, and he stood, looking about him in the darkness, for there were no torches to light the room. A quiet thud as the doors shut behind him startled him, and robbed the room of the little light also that penetrated it from the outside corridor.

A heavy silence settled over the place, as though the quiet before had been merely an absence of sound and this was lack of it altogether. Even his quiet breathing seemed heavy and loud in this hush, and the beating of his heart was as a thousand drums pounding into the night air.

For long he stood thus, regarding the place where the doors had been, yet fearing to move in the darkness even his sharp eyes could not penetrate for fear of stumbling or turning the wrong way. The best course of action was merely to listen, to be perfectly still and absolutely calm, until, inevitably, some sound or other would penetrate the hush and betray a path towards escape or at least to a means to one. He would not squirm from killing for his freedom if he had to.

And then of a sudden the silence was broken, a heavy voice whispering directly behind him.

“Welcome, Elf . . .”

It spoke in the secret language Maeglin’s mother had taught him, which he later learned was the forbidden language of the Noldor, Quenya. He whirled around to face the voice, peering intently into the darkness to try and espy its source.

“You will be my guest . . .”

This time the voice spoke at his right side, echoing dismally in the dark as he whipped around to face it.

“Forever.”

A light flared, seeming to come from everywhere at once yet having no particular source unless it were that maybe the walls themselves gave it off. It blinded Maeglin, and he threw an arm up to cover his eyes, being used to the intense darkness that had previously veiled the room, but a hard blow connected with his stomach, knocking the breath from him and causing his arms to lower to clutch at his abdomen.

Another blow drove then into his cheek, sending him to the floor landing roughly upon his side. Cruel laughter rippled in the air, a deep, mocking voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once and yet nowhere at all. It sounded in his mind, louder than anything he had ever heard, but so soft that he almost could not hear it.

The Elf levered his arms underneath him seeking to rise, but a harsh grip on his long braid hauled him to his feet before he could. Turning his head just slightly, a dark figure, human-shaped yet not completely correct as though the form were but a temporary one to the entity, could be espied from the corner of his eye.

“Morgoth,” Maeglin hissed, teeth clenched from the near-blinding pain the rough clutch on his braid, pulling his head back, caused.

The figure laughed, aloud this time but devoid of mirth. “Nay! Morgoth not, but as terrible, at least. I do my lord’s bidding, and many and more than many Elves of thy like have broken under my hand.”

“Then you are not Morgoth, but his craven servant, Sauron – you who have crawled as a worm to his feet for but the least scraps he would not even feed his wolves!” Pulling and struggling roughly, the Elf tried in vain to break free of the grasp, lashing out with arms and feet though the blows always fell short.

And Sauron laughed, and now it was filled with scorn and disdain. “No, my little Elf. Thy struggles shall not avail thee.”

The servant of the dark lord lifted his hand, and a spell of lameness came over Maeglin, and he was rendered helpless under the spell’s will. Movement was ripped from him, and his struggles stopped; he stood unmoving before Sauron, weak and powerless.

Slow footsteps echoed in the room, becoming louder as they neared, and finally right by the Elf as the dark lord’s servant moved until he stood right in from of him. Sauron seemed formed as an Elf would be, tall and pale and fair even of face, though his eyes were purely black and had no pupils. His hair was white as the snow upon the mountaintops, and he was arrayed in black as if for war. Upon his head rode proudly a circlet of blackest metal, twisted and deformed into a terrible beauty of grace that seemed a hideous and yet alluring exquisiteness.

A gloved hand lifted, coming to rest gently upon his face and cupping the side of chin. Up the hand stroked, slowly, and then down once more until it caressed the smooth lines of his collarbone. Maeglin shied away from the touch as far he could, straining away from the roving contact though he could not move by much. “What do you seek from me?”

The dark lord’s servant smiled, but it seemed more a sardonic twisting of his lips. “Thou knowest well what it is I seek, little Elf,” Sauron’s hand lifted from the Elf’s breast, and gentle fingers trailed over Maeglin’s lips. “I seek the way to Gondolin. I know this awareness is in thy possession, and I would have it from thee.”

The eyes of the Dark Lord’s servant drew Maeglin’s own to them, holding the Elf’s gaze sternly and trying to see through him. But Maeglin was no stranger to the tricks of the mind, and he stared back bravely, closing his thoughts and veiling them to the other. Minutes passed as they stood so, until at last Sauron frowned, narrowing his eyes.

“Thou art stronger than I at first glance had perceived,” His voice was deceptively soft; dangerous and slow. Then the spell of numbness that had lain over Maeglin was dropped, and feeling flooded back into his body though it was yet weak, and it caused him to sag to his knees.

A rough hand lay hard upon the back of his neck, pulling him harshly to his feet and shoving him forward. Barely he had time to make out that the room was indeed larger than it seemed; its walls were of grey metal and gave off the strange light that filled it, though they were covered with hooks and fastenings from which many silver chains and leather strips were slung.

Into the roof were hammered two iron rings, set slightly more than shoulder-width apart, and from those rings two heavy chains were slung; it was to these that Maeglin was dragged, his legs finding no strength to work on their own and his body submitting unwillingly to Sauron’s hand.

The cold of the iron as the chains were strung around his wrists contrasted strongly to the heat of anger that inflamed him, though they warmed quickly enough to the warmth of his flesh as the chains were pulled up, lifting his arms above him. The bonds were of such a length that his knees could not quite touch the floor as he slumped down, and thus was forced to hang painfully from his arms until strength returned to his legs.

“Why did you not leave me for the Orcs to be done with?” Maeglin asked, trying weakly to pull at his bonds as he spoke.

The servant of the dark lord’s mouth twisted in distaste as he hesitated, thinking for a moment. “They are craven creatures,” he said finally. “Foul and unworthy. I could not trust them with a task so precious to me.” The Elf’s tunic, still hanging in torn tatters about him from the harsh misuse of the Orcs’ whips upon his body, was divested of him quickly, and cast aside to lie forgotten on the floor. Maeglin lifted his head to regard the dark lord’s servant as Sauron’s hands moved to his leggings, loosening their ties slowly and dragging them down about his legs. Finally he hung naked from the chains, yet unashamed, and said nothing to the servant of the dark lord as he stood back to admire his work.

“Wilst thou not tell me thy secrets?” Sauron asked, his voice soft and sweet, a goodness not to be trusted. Maeglin did not answer, but spat in distaste in the servant’s direction, and shook his head.

The servant of the dark lord’s look turned to one of schooled anger, and voice became hard and cold when he spoke. “Thou art naked before me, bound and at my mercy, yet still thou wouldst refuse me this?” Still he seemed somewhat curious, as though he had never before come across such a marvel.

Maeglin nodded his assent. “This I will not tell you.”

The dark lord’s servant had little patience. Snarling, he again lifted his hand, throwing his arm at Maeglin though it stopped before his face, not connecting but hovering there for a moment, and pain exploded inside the Elf. It was as of a million needle-points driving into his flesh, tiny stinging wounds that burned as they were cast; it swept as a rash from head to toe, covering his entire body in waves, and he could not escape it. He gasped, his head thrown back and his back arched, and yet did not cry out, refusing the servant of the dark lord that pleasure.

Perhaps half a minute of this suffering passed before a sudden flick of Sauron’s hand ended the ache as soon as it had come. Maeglin’s head dropped forward, his breathing hard and ragged, hanging limply from his bonds.

The dark lord’s servant smiled at the Elf, stepping forward to again cup his chin in a gloved hand; and it seemed to Maeglin that the hand was warm as if from friction, but that it was a searing warmth instead of a comforting one. As Sauron forced the Elf’s head up to meet his eyes, he laughed softly once more, condescension lilting in his voice as he spoke.

“Wilst thou yet keep thy silence, little Elf?” he asked. Maeglin did not answer, and held the servant of the dark lord’s gaze unflinchingly. Sauron dropped his hand, and Maeglin’s head fell back to his chest, just breathing for a moment until the quiet rustling of material betrayed once more a quick movement before him.

And then the dark lord’s servant struck him with the back of his hand, and the Elf’s head was wrenched harshly to the side, and he could taste the iron of blood upon his tongue and feel its liquid warmth stream down his face. Darkness closed around his mind for an instant, and for the moment he seemed relieved from all pain: all the bruises and whip-lashes that cut into his body, all the weakness that yet numbed his legs and left his arms tired and worn. Thus he won a single instant of respite as he slipped briefly into unconsciousness before the dark cloud lifted and the million aches settled back into his body like a curse.

“Tell me where it is!” Sauron ordered, his voice falling heavy and powerful and loud upon Maeglin’s ears.

Briefly the Elf cowered as in fear before it, though his resolve won out and he ordered the shying movement to cease from his limbs. Licking his dry lips to wet them and make speech flow more smoothly, Eöl’s son cleared his throat before answering in a parched and broken voice, “Never,” and shaking his head as much he could.

The servant of the dark lord hissed, a sibilant, evil sound that seemed to cut through the cold silence of the chamber loudly. “Fool!”

The bitter ring of metal passing over metal sounded, and the very tip of a long sword passed low before Maeglin’s eyes as it was drawn from its sheath about Sauron’s waist; the metal was black, and shone as it sliced the air thinly, singing as it was brandished. Anguirel, it seemed, had yet remained loyal to its master, refusing to be abandoned by the Orcs and yet now the cause of more suffering than it would have been otherwise.

A dread and a fear sprang icily into Maeglin’s heart as the cool steel was laid upon the back of his neck, bared to the open air by the lengthy black plait that hung limply to the ground at his side. Anguirel cut into his skin, and he froze, fearing movement, not daring even to breathe lest it worsen the wound. The blade slid along his skin, thinly grating and searing a sharp, narrow and burning line across the nape of his neck, until the cold hilt pressed tightly against a pointed ear. The dark lord’s servant stepped forward as he guided the blade, and his lower half was level with the Elf’s face as he did.

“Then perhaps, in time,” he said, lifting Maeglin’s braid with his free hand, “thou wouldst find this most becoming black standard of thine an unnecessary burden,” And with that the black sword turned, swiftly rising and with a pain as of a thousand hairs being ripped from the Elf’s skull, severed the black plait, and Sauron caught the heavy length to grasp it as it fell.

“No!” Maeglin cried, the first exclamation he had uttered. Dismal shorn short lengths of raven hair fell limply around his face, and woe for the loss of his pride dimmed his resolve. Yet, a new rage kindled his heart, and he struggled anew against the iron chains binding him, glaring at the dark lord’s servant, who held the length of black hair triumphantly, as though the Elf could kill him by a mere stare alone.

A smirk of accomplishment twisted Sauron’s lips as he regarded the vainly struggling Elf calmly. “A weakness I have found, it seems, in the vanity of my little Elf,”

The tinkle of metal striking metal thinly clinked in the silence, the clanging of the chains as they struck together an odd merry contrast to the bleak atmosphere. This was joined by the soft thud of the servant’s step as he slowly trod around his captive, regarding him from all sides before finally stopping by his side, and laying the cold of Anguirel which he still grasped in his left hand against the side of the Elf’s neck.

“And next,” he mused, almost as if to himself as Maeglin’s struggles slowed finally to a stop, “we shall have to see about thy lovely pointed ears. For their tips seem in dire need of blunting.” The frank threat in his voice caused an involuntary gasp to escape from Maeglin’s throat, and he shied unconsciously away from the sharp blade, cursing his name and Sauron’s silently as he did so.

“No,” the dark lord’s servant uttered of a sudden, pausing at the Elf’s reaction and drawing slightly back. “No, I don’t think we shall, after all. To maim physically is not my intention, however enjoyable I might find it to be. No, I have thought of a better purpose for thee and thy sword and thy midnight hair,”

Maeglin’s head lifted slowly, a small seedling of relief yet worming its small way into the new dread that fell over his heart. Sauron hefted the black blade in his hand, considering, and regarding the shorn braid in his other, thinking. Then of a sudden the sword clattered to the ground, discarded by the dark lord’s servant and left where it lay as he stepped toward the Elf. The black braid swung flaccidly from his hand as he approached.

The Elf’s breath seemed loud in the silence broken only by the footfalls of the servant upon the stone floor of the room, though he did not respire overtly loudly. When Sauron reached his side, the ends of the million strands of hair so carefully braided by his own hand tickled though the cold of near-dried blood upon the nape of the Elf’s neck. A wave of tremors passed through Maeglin’s body at the contact; the brush-fine points moved down lightly over his back, a surprisingly smooth caress where before the servant of the dark lord’s touch had been one of only pain.

Finally, Sauron knelt before Maeglin, cupping his chin once more and lifting the Elf’s head to look into his soulless eyes as he draped the braid about his captive’s neck. Maeglin’s eyes slid shut and he did not open them, refusing the servant’s gaze. But when a cool hand closed about his member they whipped open, staring in surprise at Sauron.

“Oh, yes, my little Elf,” the dark lord’s servant smiled, “In the face of passion few can remain resolute,” The hand started a slow movement upon his shaft, and to his embarrassment Maeglin felt a heat rise in his body, and reactions unwished for in his lower half.

The hand increased its pace, moving fast to a rhythm unheard, and clutched roughly at the sensitive flesh until the Elf was hard and tall within the servant’s grasp, his breathing too loud and haggard, drawn gratingly over his lungs in the effort of denying the pleasure that burned through his body.

“Wouldst thou yet keep thy silence?” Sauron asked again, his hand stilling upon the firm flesh and his eyes coldly glaring into the face of the Elf at his mercy.

“I will never tell you, worm of Morgoth!” Maeglin hissed, beads of sweat forming upon his brow though the room was cold yet. In a flash of movement the servant knelt no longer before him but was standing at his side silently, a blur of dark clothing that settled back slowly into Sauron’s form as the dark lord’s servant stilled.

The length of hair hanging about the Elf’s neck was grasped at both ends, dangling limply below his head, and jerked upwards roughly, near strangling Maeglin and pulling him up with it until almost he was standing, though the use of his legs was yet not required. The sharp sliding ring of a dagger pulled from its nesting sheath sang in the air, and but an instant later the expected burning sharp agony sliced a thin line swiftly over his naked back.

Warm liquid ran a hot trail down the lines of his muscles, and unable to prevent the degradation Maeglin cried out, a lameness formed of pain this time spreading gradually through his body. Again and again and yet again the dagger was brought down; thrice the wounds crossed over the searing cut and thrice yet the Elf cried out. Deep scars he would have from this torture, though it is true that Elves heal fast and do not often bear them. But this harm was not solely physical; for in Maeglin’s mind his weakness and inability to prevent this fate played a cruel and fell hatred unto himself.

The thick, dark braid did not let up, and drew the breath from his throat so that in time he could not cry out, and when this came to pass the dagger did come down once more upon his back, thrice again to mark its passing.

And it was so that even though it meant the loss of the last vestiges of the vast amount of vanity that Maeglin had possessed, a single tear slid from his left eye, and bespoke the small but important thing inside of the Elf that was near to breaking.

And then a pause occurred, and the braid slumped to the floor from its previous bemastering place. Maeglin’s head dropped to the side, resting tiredly upon an upstretching arm still fettered to the strong iron chains that held him upright, and his eyes closed for the respite, relief a small consolation in face of the myriad suffering thinly laid wounds upon his back that caused him such anguish.

Footsteps clicked upon the floor, heavy boot-falls making their way to the front of the Elf as Sauron moved to stand before him. Maeglin did not look up to meet his gaze, nor did he shift from his sagged position to acknowledge the servant. The cold wetness of half-dried blood laid against the paleness of his chest as Sauron placed the dagger there, trailing the blade downwards over the smooth planes of the Elf’s stomach almost languidly, as if the motion brought him pleasure and relaxation.

And then of a sudden the pressure upon the blade increased, incising a thin line of pain over his breast. The Elf’s body stiffened, his back arching away from the razor edge and his muscles folding in upon themselves to try and stifle the ache. And just as quickly as it had come the dagger was gone, a small pause ensuing before it returned, slicing another gash into the Elf’s chest in the opposite direction over the other, and forming a cross upon the pale flesh. Thrice the blade returned thus, each time granting only enough pause of respite for the hurt to subside if not disappear, before revisiting its wrath on his skin.

Now Sauron stood back, admiring the work of his hand with a smirk of approval upon his face. “I had thought thee less strong than to endure this suffering. It seems I shall have to improve upon my work, if I wish to break thee before the setting of the sun upon this day and time of my evening meal draws nigh.”

Again the dagger was brought down thrice, sharply over his chest, slicing deeply into the dark circles of sensitive flesh of his nipples, and over the collarbone delicately covered by skin. Thin trails of blood formed slowly along the burning lines, pooling and growing until they trailed brightly red down over his stomach to join the other twisting rivulets of red liquid already there. The Elf hissed, drawing his breath sharply at the pain and pressing his eyes tightly shut, turning his head away from the dark lord’s servant.

But then there came a pause, a longer wait between strokes of the dagger, and as Maeglin braced himself for the next blow to fall it did not come, and after a time passed he lifted his head to the servant. Sauron stood a ways away, the dagger dripping its red liquid from the blade to form a tiny puddle upon the floor. And then the blade was lifted, coming to rest upon the side of the Elf’s neck, its sharp edge digging painfully into the soft pale flesh there. Maeglin winced unwillingly, and shied away from the dagger.

“Ah, my little Elf – yet thou wouldst remain unyielding . . .”

Maeglin’s eyes opened to stare into those of Sauron, mere inches away from his face. The dark lord’s servant had bent near to him, crouched so that he could regard the Elf’s face directly. His breath clouded coldly and unnaturally upon Maeglin’s face, and the razor’s edge borne by his hand sliced painfully into the side of the Elf’s neck.

“Come now,” the servant whispered, and his voice seemed sweet yet and uncruel, “Our time grows short. We shall try another method, perhaps, and see if it not break thee yet into spilling thy words,”

Upon that Sauron straightened, and walked again around to stand behind Maeglin. The Elf’s eyes followed him as far they could, and when they could no further he let his ears take over, trailing the footfalls and rustles of cloth with a laden trepidation. A sibilant and soft sound was discerned, followed by two quiet thuds upon the floor, and a black object slid as it fell into the Elf’s line of view; a black glove, removed from the hand of the dark lord’s servant.

A mere instant of frosted coldness rested briefly upon the rounded flesh of his rear before a spearing pain ripped through him as his body was invaded, roughly and uncaring, impaling his form in agony upon a finger made of ice; for Sauron’s form was a forged thing and did not live, and thus bore the chill of the afterlife in all time. This time as the Elf was pierced, he could not stop himself from crying out, harshly and again and yet again as the finger shoved its thick way into him, seeming to tear him from the inside and rip his body to pieces.

A while passed of this, a minute or a day of agony such as the Elf had never experienced before, though he knew that it was but the prelude to a worse pain, and this knowledge did cause a weakling fear inside of him that he loathed and yet came to love, for it was the only shred of evidence he had left to attest that he yet lived and had not passed to the halls of Mandos.

He could feel himself stretching under Sauron’s touch, and though it did not lessen the pain overmuch nor warm the shard of ice that seemed to pierce him, it did grant a slight relief, and for that he was thankful. He could no longer stop the cries and harsh breaths that seemed to spill from his mouth like a river, every thrust behind the cause of another, and after a while it seemed the Elf was removed from his body, numb and distant, a mere watcher to the torture he himself was experiencing. And so it came to pass that Maeglin’s mind retreated into a silent haven of darkness, a happier place where he could no longer see nor hear nor feel, and only experienced the stranger’s body he inhabited as a binding form that kept his spirit from being released. Many times after, in whiles of unwanted harms both mental and physical, did the Elf enter into that corner of his mind that was created as he bled from Sauron’s misuse of him.

He witnessed, passively, as finally after an eternity of pain Sauron’s finger was removed, and heard unfeelingly the soft sliding of cloth as ties were loosened and leggings dropped to a measure to release a different and far worse form of torture upon him. Again there came the blinding pain, but intensified now a thousand times and focussed to a point within him, and again he heard the screams of his unwilling agony into the world, yet to his knowledge he did not utter them.

The dagger was brought to rest upon his chest, clutched there as rough arms encircled him and drew him close, and nails dug into the open scars upon his breast and drew forth more of the bright red blood that already stained the servant’s cold fingers.

And muscles in his back that were already bruised and stretched were pushed to their limit and over, and tore beneath the pressure as Sauron pounded into him from behind, the wetness of the servant’s body as it slammed loudly into his resounding in the iron room and the dagger’s edge pressed tightly to his front chafing a line of blood into his chest as it moved with the friction.

Maeglin was past tears now, for tears seemed indeed too happy to mark this occasion. Death only now would suffice to qualm his pain, yet death was not granted him, and for hours the torture drew on, until the harsh, raggedly panting breaths and grunts from behind drew to a climax and a river of ice flooded his body. For Sauron was cold always and in everything; so that even in the pinnacle of his passion there could only ever be the ice of lifelessness.

After the gasps subsided and there was silence again in the room and the hard brand and incarnation of his soul’s death was removed from his body, a heavy and black darkness lifted slightly from Maeglin’s mind, and it was as if he travelled back into his form, and suddenly felt all the pains and aches and blood cuts and bruises visited upon him. Yet with his reclaiming came also the slightest string of strength, a string that he seized with both hands and held on to dearly.

The servant of the dark lord stood back behind the Elf, better off from the use of him than was Maeglin, and happy even at his accomplishment, or so it seemed. The last ties of his leggings were fastened as he approached the Elf, once more coming to the front, the dagger wiped quickly upon Maeglin’s naked back to divest it of the bronze colouring of dried blood.

“Now, Elf –“ he whispered, and his voice seemed content, “ – let us see thy strength. Come, show it to me. Wilst thou yet not speak thy heart to me?”

Maeglin did not answer, nor did he even fully hear the servant’s request. He merely rested in his respite, glad of the peace granted finally to him, his head dropped to his chest and eyes flickering weakly as random thoughts passed across his mind.

Sauron laughed devoid of mirth, his eyes cold and hard as stone as he regarded the weak Elf. “Come come, modest Elf,” he said. “Surely thy love for thy kin cannot be so great even to prevent thy speech in the face of such pain?”

And upon that Maeglin roused himself and summoned the last of his strength to shake his head slowly from side to side, surfacing from the blackness of his mind as through thick water. “Nay,” His voice was a rasp of dry pain, the smallest remnant of its old arrogance and dignity still present in it though nearly spent. “Turgon . . . Turgon’s sister-son I may be, but with him I . . . I share no bond of love.”

And he was struck across the face, a light flashing white before his eyes at the shock. The strong copper of warmth trailed red from his lips as his head dropped unwillingly forward to hang upon his chest, forming a small pool of blood on the floor beneath him. Yet he would not cry out, keeping his silence as his father had taught him, pride and arrogance stilling his tongue yet, though his body screamed in agony.

“My patience has ended, little Elf. Let us see how strong thy resolution remains, should thy torture be doubled.”

Two Orcs entered the room through some doorway Maeglin could not see, or perhaps they had been present all the while. Their intentions were clear as the look in the servant’s eyes, and upon seeing them a horrible dread arose in the Elf, and in the instant of doom that was all that was needed he broke of a sudden, his body yet tender and bleeding from Sauron’s rough use of him, and utterly unable to face more of the same. His mind could no longer bear the pain, and snapped under the new threat, its final vestiges of strength disappearing into a madness of happy bliss as his awareness of his surroundings faded and was gone.

All the while he was watched by Sauron who perceived his madness, yet Maeglin was aware of his presence no more as he raved, broken in mind as in body by torture into a lapsed moment of unrestrained fear. “I will kill them all!” he cried, thrashing frantically against his bonds, and then laughed loudly.

Sparkling visions of liquid red danced across his sight, and in his mind he saw Tuor cast dead upon the ground by his feet, and Turgon disposed and sent to the mines in thrall, Idril his wife and he the lord of Gondolin. In the vision, the Elves of that fair place did not fear him as King as they would in reality as tyrant, and Idril was willing and loved him even, and gave to him freely her body as he had desired for so long.

The vision changed to one of darkness and evil, and the soft body of Idril yielded under his strength as he took her by force, needless love be damned, Turgon bound and bloody by his hand and forced to watch. Eärendil too was taken by him, roughly and without care, and he took such pleasure in the deed as never before had entered his mind. Their bodies were pliable under his firmness, and blood made the passing of his shaft the easier into their openings both, though he found it not in him to pity the pain he caused. Again he laughed loudly, though it was tinged with insanity and had no feeling, and he was not aware of doing so.

And then the visions were gone, replaced again by the cold grey and black iron of the dark lord’s chamber. His breathing laboured and ragged, Maeglin focussed again as he came to, as if by shock of sudden cold water, and shifted his gaze to Sauron. At the last he had no resolve left, and the silence of the servant and his creatures opened a void within his mind, and no longer had he the will to prevent his fate from drawing nigh.

A decision appeared, and it was not formed by the mind he had known all his life, but by this new mind of Sauron’s forging, and it was a twisted and evil thing, and he found pleasure in it: for in the thoughts of Maeglin it would bring to pass a truth in his visions, and a profound joy for him in having his dreams realised. No more did it matter that it was uncouth and fell, for if the taking if Idril – willing or no – and even more the pleasurable her son Eärendil; and if Turgon should be slain in the doing of this deed and Tuor all the better; if all this could be reality – then, it seemed, disloyalty to his city seemed but a small price for freedom from this hell.

When he finally found his voice to speak, it was cold and devoid of feeling, as he was sure his eyes must seem to Sauron, though he no longer cared. “For lordship of Gon . . . “ he gasped a shaking breath, “Gondolin I would betray it to y . . . you, but for another price also.”

The beautiful radiant paleness of his cousin’s face floated in front of his eyes like a banner of hope, and in this his voice found strength to carry on, and hardened at the thought. “I would have the hand of . . . Idril Celebrindal . . . in marriage.”

And upon this Sauron thought long, and looked into the black eyes of Maeglin until it seemed he had swooned and passed into unconsciousness though his eyes were yet open, but then also it seemed that he had turned to inner converse with some source in his mind that could not be espied from without. And Maeglin waited long in suspense for the servant of the dark lord’s verdict, and when it came it was slow in doing so, as if a mighty struggle had to be overcome and did yet not have a plausible solution.

“The joy of my lord is great at thy words,” Sauron said, and it had the sound of ritual about it. “For I have taken counsel with him and thus perceived,” Then he moved, imperceptibly yet faster than lightning, and he stood beside Maeglin, dropping the blade he yet clutched to the floor, and bending over the prone Elf to whisper into his ear. “But betray me, little Elf, and the torture I visited upon thee this day will seem a pleasure compared to what thee will get.”

Maeglin flinched at the touch of the lord’s cold hands upon his body, and yet no further pain came from it. Rather, he perceived that his bonds were removed, the heaviness of the chains departed from his body and coldness of the iron gone from its place.

And then he slipped into a darkness, no more aware of the world as an exhausted deep sleep fell over him, and for hours it was so, it seemed, though he was not aware of the passing of time in his bliss of ignorance.

* * *

When he came to, the sun beat down harshly upon his body, a flaming blaze of heat that seemed to sizzle the very air. The Elf’s eyes blinked open tiredly, and he perceived with much joy that he was no longer within the bounds of Morgoth’s tower; indeed, Angband was nowhere in sight, and around him below was a desert of sand and rocks, a dull brown landscape though it seemed like heaven to the worn Elf. He lay upon a small circlet outcropping that stretched from a downwards sloping path on his either side, backed by the walls of a cliff that joined the harsh grey of a mountain range not far above. Looking upwards far he could espy a brilliance of white peeking above the dull face of rock. Gondolin.

He was back upon the path he had struck out on an eternity ago, it seemed. Surely, if he looked intently upwards upon the path a black hole in the side of the wall could be seen, hanging a few feet above the trail as he had known it would.

Upon searching his body he found that he had been fully clothed, and that no remnant of pain whatsoever, not even the slightest trace, remained to remind him more of his torture within the black place. Indeed, even his beloved braid swung heavily at its familiar place, as if it had never been shorne. Strong confusion rose inside him, in which he could not understand his plight. It was to him as though his ordeal had never happened, yet the scars and brands of its pain laid more heavily upon his mind than a dream; more heavily even than the reality he now found himself in.

He rose easily to his feet, yet bewildered and unsure of himself. It could not have been a dream. It could not. Repeating the words in his mind, he struck up the path, going slowly in his confusion and trying to form thought through the sudden perplexity that clouded his mind. In his head, the words of Sauron echoed clearly and cruelly: Betray me, little Elf, and the torture I visited upon thee this day will seem a pleasure compared to what thee will get.

And Maeglin knew that indeed it had not been a dream, and that he had betrayed Gondolin to Morgoth through his worm Sauron, and that the transgression of his deed would not go unpunished. But the promise of the dark lord yet resounded loudly in his heart, and it was filled with black desire for Idril, a malevolence that would yet be the cause of his downfall, though he could not know it then.

He smiled coldly, faced the forward path, and set out back to Gondolin, and a dark seed of evil was grown.

* * *

In the fair hidden city, by the busy square where the white fountain sparkled merrily in the midday sunlight and twittered its song into the noise-filled air, Elves and people bustled on their own ways and stopped often to exchange friendly words. Idril Celebrindal stopped short on her road, a dread laying fully claim to her heart and spearing a beginning of fear through her form.

Lifting a hand to clutch at her breast, she gasped, and the worried concerns of Elves that stopped by her went unheeded, the sudden new horror of an unnamed threat causing her to stare blankly into nothingness as she tried to discern what it was. It passed as the shadow of a giant bird of prey over her heart, dark and foreboding.

And then it was gone, and the warmth and mundane reality of the city and the Elves around her returned. Frowning, she went quickly upon her way, wishing to escape the throngs of people to the sanctuary of her home.

No one noticed the dark from slipping past the crowd near Idril in the background, a figure dressed in black that followed her form as it went with hungry eyes. And the form did not follow after her, nor go as near to her again; for after that Idril could always feel his presence as a shadow of menace upon her heart, and she feared and mistrusted him.

But Maeglin went on, a smile always upon his face though evil was in his mind and in every action he performed, and in his thought his desire for Idril ever grew and turned to something twisted and black.

And so he waited, biding his time in darkness and lust until the day should come that Morgoth fulfil his promise and the torture visited upon the Elf finally could leave him be.

Notes: The title of this fic comes from Blind Guardian’s song ‘And the Story Ends’, from their album ‘Imaginations from the Other Side’. The lyrics used are from their song ‘Thorn’, from the album ‘Nightfall in Middle-earth’.

I actually thought about calling this fic “Hell and Back Again, an Elf’s Tale by Maeglin Lómion”, but after careful consideration and quite a few explorations of the subtext in the Silmarillion, I decided that this was indeed not the greatest of ideas.


Back to Fiction