Hidden City, Hidden Love

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters; they are Tolkien's. I don't actually own the original plot either -that belongs to Azzy/Dolly_riot, author of the brilliant Silmarillion AU, Winterborn, who kindly gave me permission to write this side-plot of her story. Many thanks, Azzy, and I really hope that this story fits with what you intended to happen.

A/N: This story is AU. It is also slash. Maglor/Maeglin, since you ask. Set (mostly) in Gondolin, and Maglor is not going to be known to the majority of the population, for various reasons. Read Winterborn, by Azzy, if you want to understand better.

Rating: NC-17.

Warnings: Slash, obviously. Also violence. Graphic sex, though that isn't too prevailent. Er...torture later on. Reference to rape.

Now...Story...

Chapter One: I Care Not For the Valar and Their Fates.

Maglor woke up cold, gasping, and somehow achingly lonely. That last feeling didn't make sense for a moment, until his brain kicked into activity and he remembered.

Maeglin was gone. Gone from his side, gone from his home...gone. He had left for Gondolin, and Maglor would never see the young Elf again. It was fated. He was alone.

It was at times like this that Maglor could willingly have returned to Valinor and denounced the Lords of the West from the peak of Tantaquiel, caring naught for the consequences. He wanted to scream, but the icy loneliness in his chest had contracted around his lungs, and the tears fled silently down his cheeks.

Finally, the horrible sensation subsided, at least enough for him to move. There was no point in trying to sleep. He wouldn't be able to, not after that dream. Shakily, the dark-haired minstrel climbed to his feet, not even bothering to dress before making his way down to the dining hall. Nobody would be about; dawn was an hour off at least.

It had been like this for weeks -the waking, cold and solitary, after the nightmares. Terrible nightmares. Every evening when he lay down to sleep, they would creep in -images of blood and fire and ice, the cries of innocent people dying horribly, and Maeglin -the Dark Elf running, stumbling, falling, calling out his name in uttermost despair...scorch marks and copper stains on white stone, metal ringing on metal, shouts of fighters, and his lover lying there, helpless. Dying.

Maglor forced the memories from his mind. Worrying would get him nowhere.

As though you can stop worrying...you love him, and you don't even know what's happening to him...

He straightened up, walking on down the corridor.He’d had practice in pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind, even though they crept to the front whenever he was distracted. Telling himself that it didn’t matter was useless, but he didn’t have to let his problems interfere with his work.

In the end, all he did was to wander about the fortress, shivering and sorrowful, while people slowly began to wake up. To avoid being spoken to, he dodged into Celebrimbor’s room, and watched the sleeping child.

He envied the tiny Elfling. To be young again…to be happy, content in the knowledge that there were people who cared…

For a moment, he wished that all this had never happened, but he knew that it wouldn’t last. Maeglin had been one of the most wonderful things to happen to him, and Maglor would never wish that away. No, the memories of those sweet weeks with the Dark Elf at his side were worth the living nightmare of his absence.

The door creaked open, startling Maglor from his musings. He looked up sharply, relaxing when his older brother entered the room. Maedhros studied him intently.

“You can’t do this, Maglor. You’re killing yourself.”

The minstrel felt an unexpected flush of shame. Is it so obvious? Am I so bad at hiding what it is that hurts me? Can I not conceal the fact that I am living in torment?

“What? What are you talking about?”

The redhead pushed the door shut with his wooden hand. “You know what I am talking about, brother. You are…dying inside. You don’t eat properly. You retreat to your chambers when there is nothing to be done, and you focus so intently on your work that you do not notice when somebody talks to you. You do not even sing anymore –or, when you do, it is of sadness and loss, and there is none of your old pleasure in it.” He sat down, and Maglor could not move away. “You are wasting away, and well you know it. You cannot hide it forever, Maglor. You’re dying. Tearing yourself apart.”

“I can cope…” But the words rose unwillingly, fighting through unshed tears, and his voice quavered dangerously. “You coped…”

“I?” Maedhros shook his head. “Yes, I managed. Shall I tell you something? I only managed because I had been fighting alone for years on end, and I could continue that. And it still almost destroyed me.” He thrust his scarred face right into his brother’s. “You haven’t had that, Maglor. You won’t survive. I know it.”

Sobs rose up in his throat, and he collapsed weakly against Maedhros, crying bitterly. It hurt more and more, and he wanted to freeze up, but the warmth of the other Elf’s body kept him there.

And then the warmth left him, but not much, and he was so far gone into sleep that he didn’t notice.

****

Far away, the sun gleamed off white stone. People hurried along in the streets of the city, going about their work. The sun shimmered in the bright sky.

All of this was unnoticed by the dark-haired figure standing on the battlements, staring unblinkingly towards Himring. Maeglin couldn’t see the fortress –it was far too far away –but he knew it was there. And so was his beloved.

It hurt him. Every day, he would wake and rise, and the pain would stab through him until he went and stood on the wall, and turned to face the one who had captured his heart. He did so to reassure himself, so that he would look to where Maglor was, and that, strangely, made it better.

It didn’t make up for the close contact that he had once had, but he had to take what he could.