The clear voice of the child haunted his mind, echoing unhappily in the deep caverns like water dripping relentlessly into some pool. It had been hours ago, yet still her cheery voice refused to leave him alone. Shifting to lean on the windowsill with both arms, he watched long strands of his raven hair flutter out of the window in the gentle wind.
"What are you doing, little one?" he had asked, a little annoyed that the child had chosen to sit in the middle of his chosen path. Her blonde hair had seemed very out of place in the Noldorin city; a cruel fluke that he was purposed to come upon this outcast in his beloved Gondolin.
Who are you to talk about outcasts, half-breed Sinda? a voice in his head had mocked.
"Writing a letter," the child had answered simply, not bothering even to look up. The small Elf had seated herself in the centre of the cobbled road that lined the many-pillared entrance of the palace; it was impossible to pass her in the narrow swath of street - the only other was climb undignified over her.
"A letter? To whom?" His tone had been clipped and curt. Surely, he had mused, bending closer to see the letter more clearly, the youth was too young by many years to be composing serious parchments of correspondence.
"Santa." The small Elf had looked up at him with a brilliant smile, her eyes shining a sapphire blue in the morning sun.
For one of the few times in his life, Maeglin Lómion had been struck speechless. The straightforward answer had caught him off-balance, and his cynical demeanour had taken over at once.
"But . . . he . . . he doesn't . . . surely you can't believe that he exists?" Maeglin had never exactly been known for his tact.
"Of course he does." The golden-haired child had turned back to her writing. "He exists, and he brings presents to good children, and spreads happiness in this merry season. He can bring me anything I want,"
She was hardly old enough to speak properly, and yet she had sounded so sure of herself. Through the lisped r's and dragged l's there nonetheless had shone through a light of undeniable confidence, making her seem more mature by far than she appeared.
"Maybe you should try it, Lord Maeglin. He could bring some cheer to you, too."
And with that the child had gathered her things and was gone, leaving Maeglin to stare dumbly after her.
Now, as he watched the snowflakes fall, Eöl's son shook his head again angrily at having been caught so off-guard by a mere child. He scoffed at the very idea - of course Santa Clause did not exist.
And yet . . . the child had sounded so convincing.
With a derisive snort he shoved himself away from the windowsill, turning angrily into the confines of his chambers. A warm fire crackled merrily in its hearth, illuminating the sparsely-furnished space with a reddish glow.
His glance whipped about the room, searching almost desperately for something to distract his mind from its wandering path. Sadly, even the thin layer of dust his sharp eyes picked up upon the frames of windows and doors did not incur its usual irritation.
Instead, the little-used table thrust into one corner drew his eyes immediately. Made from the darkest ebon wood, the strong and sturdy desk seemed a patch of darkness in the mutely-toned firelight. The blank scrolls and writing quills upon it lured him, beckoning with a silent siren's call.
No! This madness was merely the effect of too much time forced into the stuffy indoors out of the cold. He turned abruptly, grabbing his cloak from the hook near the door and throwing it over his shoulders. His hand was poised above the silver handle, ready to turn it and free himself into the cold winter air.
And yet . . . so convincing . . .
He glanced back at the writing desk from the corner of his eye, over his shoulder, weighing the options in his mind. He was Prince of Gondolin, for Idril's sake! He would not demean himself so by doing something so childish. It was absurd to even think of.
And yet . . . the paper and quills seemed to call to him, urging him, swaying him.
With a growl he dropped his hand, turning to face the table fully. Long, black hair swished gently from side to side at his waist as he stalked up to it, sneering condescendingly at the small inkpot and quills.
His outstretched hand hovered above them, poised threateningly like a bird of prey about to dive. The fire crackled as a twig snapped, weakened by the heat, and outside the snow tumbled down, hiding all the world beneath a blissfully ignorant blanket of white.
"He can bring me anything I want," . . .
It *did* sound appealing, he had to admit. But then, what was he thinking? Santa? No . . .
He whirled around, headed for the door.
When he reached it he paused, staring at it for a moment. Then he turned again and hastened toward the writing desk, throwing himself down in the chair before it and wetting a quill with ink as he unrolled a blank parchment from his store.
Dear Santa, he wrote.
When he was finished, he sat back in his chair, regarding the letter sideways. His writing was neat and small, belying his secretive personality, and slanted sharply to the left. The ink, still wet, was left unblotted, and smeared slightly along the edges of each rune.
The words 'Idril' and 'lordship' seemed to scream out at him, larger than life. It was total madness, really. To even think these thoughts inside Turgon's city could surely cost him his life, but to write them down? He shook his head with a sigh.
Anything he wanted . . .
If Santa could grant the forbidden, maybe.
Grabbing the parchment roughly, he shoved the chair back from the table, rising to walk to the window. Ignoring the black splotched ink that covered his fingers from the contact, he breathed in deeply of the fresh winter air that rushed through the small, uncovered square.
Staring out of it at the still-falling snow, then back towards the paper in his hand, he hesitated very briefly, wondering if it was a slight twinge of regret that made his heart jump lightly and his spirit feel heavier than it was supposed to.
She *had* sounded very convincing . . .
Snorting, he cursed himself ten times a fool in three different languages, crushing the parchment into a small ball in his palm and throwing it with force out of the window. The current of the wind picked it up and tossed it about, playing with it until it bore it beyond even Maeglin's sharp sight.
Staring after it, he sighed once more heavily and turned back into his room, exiting out and slamming the door shut behind him with a bang.
Dear Santa indeed . . .
~ * ~
Many days later, in a place far, far away from Gondolin, Morgoth the Dark Lord stood upon a parapet of Angband, regarding the bare, sand-brown and dead stretch of no-man's land before it that even snow would not cover.
Deep troughs filled with fire sent their sulphuric reek spiralling upwards all along his towers' walls, yet the Dark Lord could choose not to inhale them, as he chose not to reveal too much of his true form he in the corporeal body he took physical form in.
A sudden breath upon the wind made him lift his head, in time to spy the crumpled ball of parchment tossed frankly upon it, and summon it to him. It drifted before him on the lift of his magic, unfolding where it hovered upon his silent command.
The script covering it was neat Elvish, in the language of Quenya, which he had not heard for many years and thought forbidden in all the lands except for the last Noldorin city. This could mean only that the letter had risen from that place, a fortuitous opportunity he had not thought could arise.
It also presented him with a most fortunate solution to his present dilemma. His eyes, if they could be called such in his current incarnation of form, glinted an evil red as he scanned the parchment.
Signed, one Maeglin Lómion.
Now he knew what to look for, or whom, certainly, he knew exactly what to offer this Elf to get what he wanted: Gondolin, and so much more.
Dear Santa indeed . . .
His laughter echoed upon the wind, and in Gondolin far
away, Maeglin felt a shiver run down his spine.
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