Passion

Canon-compliant.  The passion of Maeglin is his downfall.  Sindarin names used.  This is my second time writing from Maeglin's POV (ever), so forgive me if he seems OOC, though I'm not sure any Tolkien character can be written too OOC with the miniscule amount of character development that went into their construction.  It's all based on head-canon backstory which will be written in-depth later.  I already have an idea for prompt 98 that involves some further explanation.  Could be paired with "Urban", I suppose.  Takes place probably in Angband in FA 509, the year before the Fall of Gondolin.  Introspective-ish.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the characters

Pairings: one-sided Maeglin x Idril, another hinted vaguely

Characters: Maeglin, Sauron (mentions Turgon, Aredhel, Idril, Eöl, Morgoth and Eru)

Warning: canon-compliant possible AU, relatively vague torture, mind-games, obsessive behavior, unrequited love, hints at non-con and past child abuse, violence

Song: Disappear

Words: 1,311
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
passion (noun): suffering; emotion; the emotions as distinguished from reason; intense, driving, or overmastering feeling or conviction; ardent affection: love
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/passion?show=0&t=1368144316

Whenever he had the coherency to think, Maeglin wondered if his uncle realized that he had been taken from the edges of their encircling mountains, that he was a prisoner of their greatest foe.  He thought of distant silver eyes staring out of an empty, stern face and wondered if his kinsman even cared what had befallen him, or if perhaps Turgon was relieved that the face and form of his sister's murderer had mysteriously vanished in the darkness, lost forevermore.

But that was only when he had a train of thought to wonder.

Mostly there was just pain and terror stretching on and on, or some mixture of the two churning together until he was lightheaded and quivering in thoughtless limbo, waiting for the next wave of agony to overtake his mortal body and send his mind into a paroxysm of despair.

And there was the sinful voice, creeping over the edges of his mind and sinking deep to stir at his consciousness and pull him up through the heavy ocean of insanity.

"Tell me, where lies the first gate to the Hidden City.  Tell me, and I shall release thee..."

Sometimes he understood.  Sometimes he knew that what he was being asked was dangerous and secret, that to speak with an honest answer upon his tongue was to be named a traitor to his blood and kin.  He knew it was wrong and only screamed and wept, but dared not speak a single word for the temptation hovering just out of reach.

"I know what thou dost most desire in the world, the golden hair and gentle smile that never belonged to thee, but that thou dost covet..."

Ah, but one would have to be a blind fool not to see, he thought.  It was the sweet kindness and the gentle touches upon his shoulders, comforting in his time of darkest thought and greatest need, that had drawn him magnetically towards her, hopelessly and helplessly attracted to purity of body and spirit.  Everything about her made him sigh in ardent affection, lovesick beyond reason, beyond logic, beyond the laws of his high-elven kin.  Her skin so smooth and hair so brilliant in the fading rays of Arien, her large eyes framed in long lashes, filled with compassion and bright hope... She was everything he was not, and everything he wished to capture in the palm of his hand and hold for eternity as his own.

But she was not for him.  Jealousy curdled in his stomach, revolting sharply with the pain and the blood expelled from inner bruising.  Those words were true, for he desired Idril more than any earthly trinket or passing pleasure.  He wanted her to be by his side always, so that he never be alone and always be bathed in her glorious light.  Yet she loved another...

And oh! how he despised Tuor the Blessed, son of Huor, how he longed to spill that mortal's blood for daring to touch his cousin, his love!

No right did he have to be so possessive, but still he longed and lusted...

"I can give thee anything thou dost wish.  I can give thee thy uncle's kingdom.  I can give thee thy enemy's wife.  I can give thee thy cousin and make her forget about the mortal man..."

The image sprang forth like a blooming flower in the dusk, vibrant against the gloom of a rotting world rendered barren from death and horror and betrayal--an image of his head crowned in garnets and his form robed in white with the slender, golden-haired woman haunting his dreams at his side, smiling tenderly as she dipped her hand into the crook of his arm.  From around them emerged the smoky figures, children with the almond eyes of Maeglin and the golden mane of Idril...

He would be king with his queen at his side, and Idril would love him back.  All he wanted was for her to love him back...

"Tell me.  Tell and I shall give what thou desirest most..."

Thick and sweet like honey, the voice dripped over his skin in a warm blanket against pain and against fear.  All he needed to do was tell, give away the location of the first gate, admit that there was no other way out of the city, and that vision could become reality.

But he thought again of his uncle, of that unwavering face and unyielding heart like stone.  To speak was to become a traitor.  To speak was to cast his honor down unto the rocks as had his father's body been cast from the walls of the city.  To speak was to lose everything he had gained since escaping the wretched existence in Nan Elmoth, locked away alone in the dark...

The burning hurt was now fading, lessening with each passing moment.  His tormentor had ceased with devices of pain, of stretching tendons to snapping and bending bones to breaking.  Maeglin hung limp and recognized only the damp scent of deep earth and rock, the smell of being away from fresh air and open sky.

He dared not open his eyes.

Fingers stroked over his aching jaw--broken and swelling badly.  But the touch was soft, almost intimate as a lover's caress, not painful but a mockery of comfort. "Tell me what I wish to know, dear child of mine, and I will make them love thee as thou hast always prayed..."

Eru give him strength...

Digits tangled in his hair, matted with filth and blood, pulling until his chin bent helplessly upwards.  Maeglin's lashes fluttered, and between the veils of thick blackness he saw burning twin fires.

"Look at me... Tell me, and that life is thine..."

So passionately he desired it, with a longing so deep that his soul ached for it, and yet some part of him still resisted, still screamed that this was wrong and he needed to keep his silence, that he could not betray his people as they had been betrayed so oft already by those who should have been allies at their backs.

"Please," he rasped, "Please cease..."

The stroking stilled, fingers frozen where they were buried deep in his mane.  Nails scraped over his scalp as slowly the hand clenched into a fist, knotted at the roots, threatening, looming...

"Cease," he continued. "For you shall receive no information from these lips, wretch!  Return to lick the sullied feet of your thrice-cursed master, slave!"  Finally, he looked, and beheld a face of breathtaking beauty contorted into tangles of fury, and he spat at those eyes filled with ash and flame.  The satisfaction of seeing disgust and revulsion on his enemy's face was worth losing the handful of hair that was viciously ripped from his skull and the nauseating shot of pain vibrating through his face when a clawed hand raked over his visage, breaking his nose and tearing flesh asunder.

"Fool," the voice snarled in his ear. "Before the end, thou shalt regret that thou didst throw away my offer so frivolously!"

The hands moved, sliced open flesh to the bone, bruised deep into muscle, but Maeglin did not tell, did not speak.  All the passion in the world--be it his undying devotion to a woman who would never return his love or the soul-deep suffering wracking his young, untried body--could not make him tell as long as he still had faith.

Eru give him strength... Maeglin prayed for a quick death as his body was ravaged again, his mind blanketed with nothing but agony and shattered shards of molten glass.  He prayed and waited...

And waited...

And waited for mercy that would never come.

And doubted...

And doubted in his strength to resist the ultimate temptation.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And it just goes downhill from here, as I'm certain you're already aware.  So much for having faith, huh?  Then again, if my father had killed my mother (and tried to kill me) and my only living family members despised me, I might be a little unsteady on the slope of faith as well.  After all, it's not as if anyone was going to come and rescue him, right?  How much can any of us really blame him for giving up in the end?

In any case, there thou dost have it.  The song this was written to is Disappear by Two Steps From Hell.  As usual, they have created amazing music and I have enjoyed emersing myself in its heavenly embrace.  Today was an okay lab-day at least.  No one died.  It was only slightly agonizing to wait two hours for ten people to finish their lab practicum assessment so the rest of us could get our data and get food.  Painful, I'm telling you... very painful.

On a brighter (or more depressing depending on your POV) note, I have found another story about how Maeglin is seduced to the dark side.  Only this one is more literal, and if you aren't into graphic slash, don't read it, but I enjoyed it immensely: Breaking by pherede on AO3.  Cheers.