#first attempts

Indeed, Eärendil knew nothing of the preoccupations of the grown-ups in his life and he cared precious little for the etiquette of the court; he simply marvelled at the smooth stones Maeglin produced as if they grew out of his palms and that he was allowed to touch and play with at his leisure.

“Another quiet evening for us then,” Maeglin sighed and smoothed a slender hand along the golden hair of the boy with a tenderness he’d never let anybody else witness; the love he held for a rival he’d never overthrow – neither in the line of succession nor in the hearts of Turgon’s people – was his best-kept and most cherished secret.

“Dinner is still not served,” Idril griped and pulled away when her husband tried to place a soothing hand on her shoulder; she was not a skittish mare and she didn’t need to be pacified, she yearned for entertainment.

“Maybe we could get some music?” Tuor suggested gently, but the flash of irritation in his wife’s eyes told him that nothing as trite as harps and flutes would dispel her growing dissatisfaction, “Or maybe we could get the boy?”

Interest flared up in her gaze and she tapped a long, pale finger against her rosy lips as her wickedly sharp mind flew through the hall and up the winding stairs to the room in which she had left her only son.

“Both of them, actually,” she then muttered to herself before turning her attention back to her husband, “yes, love, go and fetch our son…and my cousin.”

Tuor’s eyebrows rose inquisitively; Maeglin had been quite adamant about not being inclined to come down to the feast and – at that time – his wife had been more than happy to hear this as it meant that he’d be free to mind Eärendil.

“If I go, I might just drag him here by his sleeve…or worse. Would you mind, my love?” Idril purred, all softness and seduction now, and Tuor resigned himself to following her orders – for, even presented as a plea, there was no question about the nature of her exhortation – with all the devotion of one who loved her endlessly.

He felt her mind follow him as he left the lavish room and smiled; even though exigent and often bordering on intransigent, his wife was a caring soul and she always made sure that he was alright. Moreover, he knew that she was right when claiming that he stood better chances of coaxing her secretive cousin out of his hide-out; she did not have the patience – the misfortune that had befallen her having made her stronger and ever more glorious, but also somewhat harsher – for the shadows in which Maeglin shrouded himself as if whisps of darkness could hide the pain in his eyes. 

Tuor stretched and clenched his hand a few times before knocking softly on the closed door; he didn’t want to startle or even wake the people on the other side of it by hammering tempestuously against the wood in his eagerness to find familiar faces. 

“Tuor.” It was not a question, it was a statement, coloured with disbelief and a note of thrumming nervousness.

“My wife sends me to bid you both come down,” the man explained, sketching a bow into the space created by the opening of the door.

“Did she now?” Maeglin’s brows furrowed in dismay, “And of course, you came right away.”

There was something sharp in his voice now, envy painted over hastily in the garish colours of mockery, but the concealment was too flimsy and brittle to fool Tuor.

“Many a man claims this, but – in my case – it is a hard and fast fact: my wife knows better,” Tuor explained with a casual shrug; he had long since stopped questioning the origin and depth of knowledge that came to Idril from sources inaccessible to his own deplorably mortal mind. 

Maeglin pulled up his shoulders defensively, making a show of his reluctance, but – within his heart – he was thrilled despite his better knowledge; he would grow tired of the sounds and the lights, he would feel lonely in his dark corner, and he’d regret having gone down, but – in this moment – he couldn’t help but feel elated that Idril had sent her husband – generally and universally beloved and admired Tuor – to fetch him. 

Always tolerated without ever being wanted, Maeglin was sorely yearning for people to go out of their way to have him around without him being agreeable or useful in that situation; he wanted this so much that he had to pause at his vanity to take a deep breath lest he make a fool out of himself in his eagerness.

“Your mama wants us,” he informed the boy who simply extended his chubby arms to him, confident that he’d be lifted into a safe embrace.

Dread settled in Maeglin’s stomach as he picked up Eärendil; what if Tuor wrenched the child out of his arms? What was he to do with his arms, swinging empty along a treacherous, uncomfortable body?

Thankfully, the rough manly hands stayed – relaxed and unduly elegant – at the shapely sides of his cousin’s husband and – together – they made their way back to the big room, filled with people and noise. Maeglin made a face.

No doubt, Idril wanted to parade the boy around to reap praise for his accomplished manners and exceptional beauty; Eärendil was a smart boy for his age, he was as fearless as his mother and as sweet-tempered as his father – if he wanted to be, that was – and it was virtually impossible to withstand the charm of his bright smile and his eager interest.

As he set foot into the room, Maeglin realised that he was – once again – consumed by envy and jealousy; he wanted to keep the child to himself. Nobody looked at him like Idril looked at Tuor – burning passion and deep love – or like Tuor looked at her – indulgent admiration and sweet tenderness – or even the way the court looked at them as a couple. 

How he longed to bask in the warmth of respect and affection such as it was lavished generously on the ones entering alongside him.

No, even after all these years, he was still his father’s son and his mother’s curse; he was the shadow dogging a golden family, kept on by loyalty and pity which was a testament to Turgon’s family’s excellence more than an admission of his own merits.

The boy loved him though, and he was loved by Maeglin – desperately and secretly – in return.

Again, his darkest premonitions did not come to pass; Idril merely nodded at him and went on flitting through the room like the gilded butterfly that she was, Tuor returning to her side with effortless grace to dispense generous smiles and friendly banter.

“My love,” Tuor whispered into Idril’s ear after a while, “I think it quite reprehensible of us to drag poor Maeglin out of his sanctuary – against his will, as I have mentioned previously – only to have him nanny the boy here.”

“If you want to go entertain my sour cousin,” she replied without looking at him to dissimulate her smirk, “be my guest, husband.”

She watched him stride over purposefully and saw how her cousin retreated even further into the shadows; nothing escaped her attention, not even the way Maeglin shifted uncomfortably as her son was tugging on his tunic in his eagerness to catch the dancing light in the precious stones hung around his slender neck.

A low sigh escaped her before she could bite down on it; Maeglin’s clothing was meticulously layered and – judging by the waves of discomfort lapping against her fine senses – Eärendil had displaced the tight bandage that kept her cousin’s sanity in place. He didn’t set the child down though, she noticed with a hint of astonishment, on the contrary, he held the little golden boy aloft despite his own evident discomposure.

The pealing laughter of her child and the look of pride washing across Maeglin’s face rippled through her like a shower of sparks and incandescent light; the necklace – catching and refracting the splendour of the illuminated room – was new and breath-takingly beautiful and they both seemed to take great pleasure in displaying it.

Tuor joined them and the light faded as if snuffed out by a cruel hand; just as she was about to turn away though, something else reached her: a low thrumming like an appreciative hum and her eyes snapped back to her cousin’s face where an almost sensual smile blossomed in response to something Tuor had said.

Eavesdropping, cousin?

Idril all but stumbled back; she had not meant to pry, but she had been inexorably drawn in by the cracks in Maeglin’s usually so impervious walls that shielded both his thoughts and his emotions from the outside world.

As she was caught in flagranti, she reached out in earnest, feeling her way blindly along the cold barriers of that closed-off soul; there were swirls of pleasure and a yearning so raw and vulnerable that it almost made her flinch.

Maeglin pushed back – indignant – and she tried to send repentant and placating images through the shivering bond of blood and skill that bound them to one another in confusing and oft most unfortunate ways.

Shifting her focus to her husband, she felt his joy at having achieved his goal; Maeglin was smiling broadly now and Tuor liked it. Her husband – she well knew – loved beautiful things, he had seen too much bare misery not to revel into all things joyous and bright, and she was considerably stupefied to learn that her morose cousin could ever be counted among the pretty things that made Tuor’s mind open and shift like a flower turning to the sun.

Interesting.

Dinner was still long in being set up, so she set herself the challenge of flustering her cousin some more; she needed to investigate the tendrils of mysterious heat creeping through the fissures in that wall of ice and – more than anything – she wanted to analyse the genuine delight she had picked up on in her husband’s heart and mind upon seeing Maeglin smile.

So, here we are...My first attempt at a new pairing.

I hope this was not too awful! Let me know what you've thought!

Lots of love from me!

-> Part 2