House of the Golden Flower

When Earendil was but a child; Maeglin, living so far from the palace and out of our reach for news, was lost for a time.

He was fond of gathering metals in the hills, mining and quarrying, often going far from the reach of the safety of our walls. No one knew what happened to him in that time that he was lost, only that he was gone for a time, and returned; he said, to no ill.

Idril, far-seeing when it came to her cousin’s heart, knew not to believe him. But she did not know where he had been, nor what had happened there. None was ever to know the true details, but the losing of Meaglin had been a precursor, and his return sealed our doom.

The end would not come until Earendil was seven years old.

When he was but five, he and I were fond of walks in the city. Under the caring eye of Gondolin, the little prince learned about horses, baskets, cloth, weaving, sewing, and expanded his vocabulary to new lengths. I kept hold of his hand, and he walked contentedly by my side throughout the city, asking questions, touching things. He was always a tactile, talkative child.

We were in the city’s market quarter, per habit, and Earendil was eyeing some daggers and testing out a wooden sparring sword under the watchful eye of the smith when I stepped away to get him water from the nearest fountain.

When I returned, the smith was animatedly arguing with his wife and a customer outside the shop, and I saw Earendil’s bright tunic disappear into the alley behind. I flew around the corner to find Maeglin kneeling there, the child on his knee. Earendil was excitedly garbling on about the wood sword, and Maeglin had divided his attention between him and I.

Once again, I saw the old malice in him.

“Earendil.” I said. “Come away.”

Earendil looked at me, brow furrowed in concern. He did not argue, and would have slipped down and come to me, but Maeglin held him fast by his little wrist, not yet hard enough to hurt. My anger flared.

“Release him, Maeglin.”

Meaglin quirked a brow, and spoke with that old oiled-silk tone to his voice. “Why should I? This son should be mine. His mother should be mine. This city should be mine. Even you, Glorfindel.”

“You are mad.” I spat at him, and trying not to frighten the boy, laid my hand on his shoulder, to take him by force.

Maeglin laughed and released him. He stood, eyes fixed on me. “Mad? Indeed. Perhaps I am. But you know what I say is truth.”

I felt sweat trickle down the small of my back. Could I hope to escape him with Earendil? I knew how swiftly and surely he could slay. He knew my fear, and whispered to me, “Only give yourself freely to me, Glorfindel, and I will let him go unharmed.”

“Why is that all you want? Do you not want the very city itself?” I was incredulous.

He smiled, as if he knew something I did not and was biding his time. “Not just now. I would merely have a taste of the King’s catamite. In return, I will give you the life of your little prince.”

“Fine. As you wish. Only, let him turn away, you understand?” I could not believe what a whore I had grown, but I would gladly barter anything for the life of Idril’s son.

He nodded assent, and pointed to the wall. I turned to Earendil, sank to my knee. “Bright eyes.” I called him by the name only I used, and his little face sobered. “Turn away, and do not turn back until I tell you, no matter what you hear.” He nodded solemly, and I turned him to face the outside of the alley, toward the street and shops on either side.

Then I went to face my gloating tormentor.

Without ceremony, he grabbed my shoulder roughly and forced my face against the wall. Two swift tugs and he had both our leggings to our knees. He lifted my tunic, and I closed my eyes and put my face against the stone. Pain, like I had never known. Turgon had always been gentle, and I had never had someone so uncaring, unconcerned or so eager as he was. I did not cry out, but I bit my lip until it bled. He pulled my hair as if to pull it out by the roots.

Of a sudden, he jerked away, complete. I breathed again, and heard him dressing himself. When he had done, he turned on his heel and left the alley without another word.

I looked back to see Earendil, still faced away, watching ants in the dust with his head down.

I dressed my own self, saw to it I was in order, and plastered on a smile despite my pain.

“Come now, Earendil. Let’s go home.” He smiled up at me, and slipped his hand in mine. I smiled back, and I felt and tasted blood. It had been worth it.

No one ever knew, because I never told. My shame and dishonor were great enough, it would be too much to bear if any other ever knew. Although, at times, I could swear Idril and Ecthelion looked at me with knowing eyes; and never spoke to me of it, but I doubted not that I was mentioned in some of their secret counsels. But certainly, Turgon never knew, unless Maeglin told him; which I highly doubted, even unto the end. Perhaps it would have been known if there had been more time left to us. It was never repeated, and I took the secret with me to my grave.


And as things went, it wasn’t many more years before I was in it.

PS: More soon, I swear. I just have to get hold of a book, if the library can find the damn thing...
And then I'll finish it, and rewrite and polish, add to and take away, edit and review.