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Chapter Text

It was no stretch to say that most residents of Beleriand who lived outside Doriath had a bone to pick with Elu Thingol, twenty-two years after the Fifth Battle had ended in a partial victory (no thanks to him). It was also no stretch to say that he was untouchable, being behind the Girdle.

It wasn't that everyone had gathered together and decided to attack Doriath, though. That was too far. But finding a way into Doriath, so Thingol would know he could be assailed should anyone want to... well, it might make him a more cooperative player in politics and alliances.

And in order to cross the Girdle, they needed the secrets of Nan Elmoth.

No one felt any guilt about attacking that shadowed wood, not after Princess Aredhel had made things public; even with her memories of her time there in a tattered state, she had told Idril what needed to be done.

"There was a sorcerer who bespelled me," she had said, brow furrowed as she tried to put the torn recollections together. "You must not let him speak to you, or his words might catch you. But there are so many prisoners and servants who need to be freed and led out, and then -- the study, or the forge, I think."

Idril had kissed her aunt's forehead and promised her vengeance. Then she had gathered her fellows -- the family elders of the leaders in the North were concerned with Morgoth and left this business to the younger ones -- and went to go and burn down Nan Elmoth.

"It was almost too easy," said Celebrimbor when they reconvened in the command tent. "Túrin killed the sorcerer, then saw something and ran off in chase, but -- I really thought he'd be more formidable. I was at a distance getting locks open, but it was over quickly."

"That must've been what made the shadow-beasts vanish," said Idril, cleaning her sword of blood and wisps of darkness. "But I didn't like how the forest nearly ate us whole."

Tuor said, "But it also gave us a way out. Maybe that was meant for the real inhabitants, in an emergency --  but I think only we and the former prisoners made it out, not many of their captors. And Túrin, I suppose; he's hard to kill."

And indeed, just as he said it, Túrin came in through the tent flap, dragging a cursing elf along with him.

"Good to see you all in one piece," said Túrin. "I found the sorcerer's son."

The elf was a good deal shorter than everyone else present, though Celebrimbor was fairly sure he'd be taller than Húrin, and dark of hair and eye, but his face was unhealthily pale and turning pink with fury. He was also, Celebrimbor noticed, too handsome not to stare at.

"Let me go!" the elf hissed. "If you wanted Nan Elmoth's word of surrender you didn't have to drag me bodily. And take your hands off me!" His hands were bound and Túrin held the cord, so he yanked up his wrists to bring Túrin close, where he bit the hand that held his bonds. Then he elbowed Túrin in the stomach and made to run, but Celebrimbor stepped in his way and stopped him.

"At least tell us your name before you go," said Celebrimbor.

The elf's face contorted and he said, "Give me yours first, kidnappers and murderers."

When Celebrimbor went for him, he dove to the side, leaving one foot right where it would be tripped on, and Celebrimbor went down, stumbling into Túrin and knocking them both over.

From a hidden pocket, though his hands were still tied, he managed to produce a dagger and cut his bonds, and with it he slashed at Tuor, who was the nearest to him and might've been able to catch him.

Everyone but Túrin had entirely divested themselves of their armor, so he managed a shallow wound along Tuor's collarbone. Though this wasn't enough to stop someone so strong, the elf smiled a horrible smile and attacked him again, and called out to someone not present, "Anglachel, kill them!"

A voice came from Túrin's sword, startling Celebrimbor off him. "I cannot."

"Anglachel, you will listen to me!" he said, having to stomp on Tuor's foot with -- Celebrimbor winced in sympathy -- very heavy boots to keep from being grabbed. "I am your maker's son and you will kill them for taking me captive."

"I was broken and reforged!" said the sword. "The will of my remakers constrains me!"

"Weak and foolish thing, I will snap you--"

Celebrimbor pushed himself to his feet and snatched at the elf's arm, hoping to make him drop the knife, but the blade buried itself in his arm before he could twist the elf's wrist and force him to let go.

Túrin by then was up and helped Celebrimbor manhandle the stranger, forcing his hands behind his back and holding him in place as Idril stalked forward. And yet the elf smiled still.

Idril took his chin in her hand and forced him to look in her eyes. "You'll answer me," she said.

"Will I?"

Then they were locked in mental battle, which looked like nothing to an outside observer, but Celebrimbor could see how they trembled and took oddly-timed breaths.

Idril began to grin, saying, "I wonder what Thingol would think of you calling yourself by a name in Quenya, Maeglin Lómion, don't--" With a sharp cry she cut herself off, as if he'd landed a very good hit. "What did you do?"

"The blade is cursed. If you want the ones I struck with it to live, you may wish to rethink how you treat me," said Maeglin.

Idril gritted her teeth. "I think you know better than to make demands."

"Then we are at a stalemate. You can kill me, but they'll die horribly within a month."

"Let's make a deal," said Túrin. "We don't want to hurt you--"

"Could've fooled me."

"--but we are going to keep you," he finished.

"Your choice how kind you want us to be about it," said Idril. "If you don't cause trouble, you can be treated with the courtesy due a kinsman to the king of Doriath."

"The Noldor do not ill-use our prisoners," said Celebrimbor.

"Tell that to Lúthien," Maeglin snarled. "I'd rather be locked in a damn treehouse than at the mercy of the likes of you!"

"What a pity that you don't get a choice," said Idril, voice icy. "We'll bring you to Thargelion with us, and you'll heal the curses, and then you can be a good little war prize and do as we tell you. It really is the least you can do, after what your father did."

"You'll have to be more specific than that," he said, but before he could finish the thought Tuor quickly pressed one of the sleep-spell cloths over his eyes.

Celebrimbor caught him when he buckled, and glanced down at the sleeping elf in his arms. Then he looked again at his friends. "What in Arda are we supposed to do now?"

Chapter Text

Maeglin woke up silently cursing himself for letting them spell him to sleep, but didn't move until he was sure no one was near him.

He opened his eyes and sat up, satisfied with the silence and lack of mental presence, and found himself in what he would begrudgingly call a rather nice room. He was still wearing the same clothes, but nearly all his weapons were gone. At least that meant they hadn't been too invasive while he was asleep, but there was an embroidered band on his wrist enchanted to block any direct use of magic.

First things first, though. He hid his last three insurances -- a dagger, a decorative pin with a hidden blade, and his little pouches of herbs -- around the room, so that if one were discovered the others wouldn't be.

Outside his window was a long drop to a lower level's roof, and then a great lake that must be Helevorn; they'd said they would bring him to Thargelion, and Telchar had told him of Lake Helevorn. There would be little chance of escape that way.

On silent feet he crept about the room, and found that it was one in a suite, with its own bathing room and sitting room. It irked him, for some reason, that they had been telling the truth about treating him according to his previous station. Not that he had any station anymore, being instead some kind of prize, and he didn't want to know what that meant to these people.

But a fortress had too many people for him to run from, and that meant he had to wait and plan if he wanted to get out.

It wasn't as if he really had a problem with them destroying Nan Elmoth; he would've gladly done the same. But they'd taken him captive to be their trophy -- or worse -- and he did take issue with that.

Just as he was finishing his examination of the locks (the main door locked only from the outside, but the others had small latches on the inside) he heard the door lock click, and he rushed back to bed to look as if he were only now waking up.

"Where have you brought me?" he said. "I was asleep closed-eyed and didn't see."

"You're in Ost-nu-Orod," said the person entering in. They weren't someone he'd met before, but they were just as tall and glowing as two of his captors. "I'm Antar, and I'll be helping you."

"I suppose it'd be too much to ask if what I wanted was help escaping."

"I'm afraid you'll have to stay," said Antar. "Princess Idril would very much like her cousin and dear friend to survive."

"I'd really rather they didn't," Maeglin grumbled, but he felt a little pang of guilt. He didn't want to be the kind of person who stabbed and cursed and poisoned others, but what choice had he had? And if they died now, he'd soon follow. "But I'll help them if I have to. They shouldn't have laid hands on me."

Antar coughed awkwardly and changed the subject. "Would you prefer to bathe and change clothes first, my lord? There's rather a lot of dirt and blood."

Now that they mentioned it, he did feel grimy. He couldn't be sure he'd feel clean in anything given by his enemies, but at least he would be clean. He nodded.

At least this place had ways of filling the bath that didn't involve carrying water. He would've felt more at home with a stream, or the lake, but hot water and privacy sounded perfect now. He followed Antar to the bathing room and allowed himself to be undressed as the tub filled by the use of a magic charm, trying to pretend it was Collas with him, the only attendant he'd ever really trusted.

Antar helped him into the bath, asking, "Will you need help, or--?"

"I have it handled. Go and latch the inner doors, if you don't mind, and wait for me," he said, trying to adopt that tone of voice that his mother had that made everyone obey her even when they'd been told to do the opposite, the tone that assumed it would be listened to and arranged the world around it.

Antar didn't argue, merely went to latch the bedroom door and wait in a chair, giving him two flimsy lines of defense against anyone who might come in.

Maeglin took his sweet time in getting clean, planning to make his captors wait as long as possible for his help, just out of spite, and to make sure they knew he wasn't their lapdog. He didn't have any intention of behaving better than would keep him alive.

It was hard not to wonder if his mother had ever felt this way in Nan Elmoth. It was hard not to wonder if she'd rescue him, if she knew where he was. But she was dead, wasn't she?

He shook his head and returned to untangling his hair. Aredhel wasn't dead; he would know if she were: Eöl had attacked them both with magic when she escaped, and he couldn't remember her as well as he used to. He knew, though, that she was a noblewoman of the Noldor, whose family had no use for bastards like him -- no, that was one of Eöl's lies about her, he had to believe it was.

But the lady with whom he'd fought in the mind had been termed princess, and she was undeniably of the Noldor. Even if he could make contact with his mother, he couldn't ask her to commit treason for him.

No, better that she didn't find out. Better she didn't know about any of this, and thought him safely escaped from the battle. It would be wrong to put her loyalties in conflict, and he couldn't bear to cause her pain.

Now clean, he turned his attention to dressing. The robes were disgustingly blue, the color of a blinding summer sky, with inserts of a pale gray much more his taste, and the upper part looked to fit far tighter than he was used to, while the sleeves and skirts were so large they were unwieldy.

He gritted his teeth. Antar would have to dress him.

At least it was only two layers, he told himself. In Doriath he would be wearing six gossamer-thin robes atop one another, cut to show off the layers underneath like leaves or petals, but those were at a uniform looseness top to bottom and he wouldn't get caught on everything in sight.

Before he could call Antar, though, he had to do something about his hair. It wouldn't be odd to leave it down, really, but Aredhel had told him what that meant to Noldor, and he wasn't going to give them an invitation.

But the princess had already pried out his Quenya mother-name, and being too knowledgeable about Noldorin customs would look suspicious. If they found out his relation to a noble family of the Noldor, there was a chance they'd be lenient -- but he was illegitimate, which probably only made things worse.

Dwarven braids, then.

"Are you almost ready?" called Antar from outside, just as he was finishing up.

Maeglin almost decided to undo and redo all the braids just to annoy them, but he didn't want to push his luck with his captors. "I will need you to dress me," he said, finishing the last braid and praying for it to hold. Whoever had stocked this room hadn't seen fit to give him enough ties, probably too Noldorin not to supply them but thinking he wouldn't need them, or not many.

Antar was entirely perfunctory in dressing him, which he appreciated, and the lack of sigils on his clothes declaring him an owned thing was nearly reassuring.

When the robes were fully fastened, he tried not to tug at the neckline or the slits in the sleeves, no matter how uncomfortable he was at being uncovered, and tried not to wish for the layers and layers of Menegroth fashion that would hide his figure from hungry eyes.

Oh, he could pretend he didn't know how he was looked at, and behavior at first meetings didn't always hold true, but they'd all looked, and the one wielding Anglachel... he'd heard all too much about Thingol's murderous foster. He was at the mercy of four enemies who'd all looked a little too intently, and wearing the too-revealing clothes they'd given him, and trapped in rooms that locked from the outside.

He swallowed down the sudden nausea as Antar led him out into the hallways. Maybe they did just want him for a pretty trophy and didn't intend to touch. He had to hope so.

(To be fair, he had looked at them back. In any other circumstance, they'd be heart-stoppingly handsome, all four of them.)

As they walked, he tried to memorize the layout of the halls they passed through, as well as strengthen his mind's defenses. He didn't want the princess prying again, that was for certain, and for now he wouldn't attack her either. No sense in showing his hand so soon, when he would need to put her out of commission to escape.

Soon they came to what appeared to be a string of airy, bright rooms abuzz with healers. Maeglin squinted in the light, but he wasn't in the hallway for long before being led into a room where the four of them waited.

"Is it customary for lords of Doriath to wake up so late?" said the princess.

"Nan Elmoth keeps night hours. I'm wholly unaccustomed to being awake in the day," he said, and glanced around, entirely for show. "You know, I expected more... hmm, a big throne room, being ordered to kneel, having to murder some poor innocent guards for trying to restrain me. You all did rather give that impression when last we spoke."

"There will be time for that once you've healed them, sorcerer," said -- what was Thingol's ward's name? -- Túrin, in a voice that was practically a growl.

"I say! We haven't even been introduced! I'll assume that's why you've chosen to call me that instead of my name," said Maeglin. "Antar, introduce us."

Antar looked panicked to have been put on the spot, but said, "Princess Idril of Gondolin, Lord Túrin of Dor-Lómin and Ladros, Prince Celebrimbor, Lord Tuor, may I present Lord--"

"--Prince--" If his father was dead, he might as well take up the title.

"--Prince Maeglin, Lord of Nan Elmoth."

"Charmed, I'm sure," said Maeglin, glad to put names to faces. If nothing else, it would make any magic against them more powerful.

"Now get to work, and no tricks," said Idril. "You will regret it."

"Certainly, but you'd regret it first," he retorted. "I need herbs to put on the wounds, and I can't find the ones I normally carry, so you must have taken them. Where are they?"

"We didn't take any. Maybe you dropped them," said Túrin.

"Well, if you want them to die--"

"Enough. What do you need?" said Idril.

Maeglin rattled off a list of supplies that contained the things he needed for this alongside a great number of items he wanted for later or didn't need at all. If he could palm a few gemstones and hide them in his ridiculous sleeves, he'd be well on his way to escaping, since he'd been taught so much stone-magic in Nogrod. Having even one would make it easier to get more, and with time and preparation they could pave his way out.

The actual cure to the curse on his dagger was simple, and in fact the spell wouldn't actually kill anyone unless he really needed it to, only weaken them terribly -- but it was very, very difficult for anyone but him to remove. All he needed was to put witch-hazel over the wound, prick his own finger or hand with the dagger, and draw it lightly over the witch-hazel in reverse of how he'd made the wound. This not only drew out the curse but healed the worst of the injury, so long as he said the words that went along with it.

He didn't intend to do the healing part this time, though, and he had to make a big spectacle of it with crystals and candles to justify it.

At last he said, when the curtains were covered and a sufficiently complicated magic circle was set up, "I need the dagger I wounded them with. Only for a moment, but it won't work without." When no one gave it to him, he said, "You have my word, I'll only use it to reverse what it did."

Túrin glared as he handed him the blade, and Maeglin made up magic-looking things to do until he actually drew out the curse, his sleeves several crystals heavier. The breathing of Celebrimbor and Tuor eased, and their eyelids fluttered -- he did have to congratulate himself on cursing them so effectively, he wouldn't have expected them to fall into fever-sleep that quickly.

He handed the dagger back with feigned reluctance, so they wouldn't guess he had another. "Well? Now what?"

Hurting him in the midst of a gaggle of healers was likely to upset said healers, so anything awful they wanted to do couldn't happen here. But whatever it was, he didn't have much of a choice.

"Now you're coming to eat lunch with us, and we'll see what use you can be," said Idril.

The food wasn't bad. It wasn't much like the food at home, more like in Estolad, but it tasted good, no matter how grudgingly he admitted it.

Maeglin made sure not to eat anything that someone else hadn't had first, and avoided the wine. He remained entirely silent, too, because if they wanted a polite guest they shouldn't have taken him prisoner.

At last Túrin, having grown more and more frustrated, burst out, "Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

Maeglin delicately placed down his eating-knife. "About what? What do you suppose I would have to speak about with the likes of you?"

"You can start by offering formal surrender," said Idril.

"It feels a bit late, but Nan Elmoth hereby surrenders to whoever you people are. Is that all?"

"And now you can formally surrender yourself as well."

Maeglin said, "I'd rather not."

"We couldn't find what we wanted in Nan Elmoth. Instead we found... you," said Idril, leaning forward and pointing at him with her own knife as her cold eyes bored into him. "I suggest you try to be a good second-best."

"I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice just how far away you are from Doriath," said Túrin. "There wouldn't be any point in running, and every town along the way would return you here. And if I were you, I wouldn't want to face Thingol after failing so horribly to keep his and Melian's favorite forest safe."

Maeglin gritted his teeth. They had a point -- he didn't want to get on Melian's bad side, and she might trick him into saying how he'd helped let Túrin kill Eöl, which would be it for him. And whatever it was they'd come to Nan Elmoth for, he might be able to tell them where to find it, and bargain that way.

"I surrender myself to whoever you people are," he ground out. "Does it really mean so much to you, when it doesn't change the situation?"

"Things have to be done properly. When the others are well again, we'll have it publicly witnessed, I think," said Idril, and wasn't that something to look forward to. "Tell me, to what uses can we put you?"

"I'm afraid I'm a spoiled young nobleman with no skills," he drawled, outright dripping sarcasm. "Why do you care, anyhow? Aren't I just a hostage?"

Idril said, "We know full well Thingol won't ransom you, and the only thing your captivity will do is make him think twice about retaliation if you're threatened. You're really not worth much, hostage-wise."

"Then why bother? You don't strike me as the kind of people to keep a useless hostage."

She grinned a cat's grin, a knife's grin, but he could tell she was a little flattered. "You're ours now. Our prize, so everyone knows Nan Elmoth is entirely under our control." She twirled the knife in her hand. "And you're going to give us Doriath."

No one told him what her words were supposed to mean, but after lunch he was dropped back in his rooms with a warning to find a way to be useful, and Maeglin seriously considered smashing something.

Stars above, it was worse than he'd thought!

He allowed himself to smash one glass vase in front of the main door before latching his bedroom and pacing back and forth.

They did want a trophy. That was -- fine. He'd expected it. And while they'd looked, they hadn't yet touched. He wasn't naïve enough to believe it'd stay that way, but for a little while longer he was safe, even if eyes had lingered on where these damned clothes cinched his waist and bared his shoulders.

He tore at the laces until they came off, and let the robes begin to slide down as he paced. He didn't take issue with them killing Eöl. He didn't take issue with their wanting to kill Thingol, either. The trouble was that he was part of the plan.

After Nargothrond, no one would expect the Fëanorians' method to work, but -- well, he wasn't sure they were aware of that fact. Marriage might be on the table. But if it was his power or knowledge they wanted to take, even if he escaped, Doriath would drag him before Melian to have his mind wiped.

And there'd been -- there'd been that terrible tension hanging over his head, too, that made his stomach roll, the knowledge that anything they wanted to do they could do without fear or hesitation. And alongside it fluttered that tension he'd felt every time he'd had to be near Galadriel and Celeborn, the one that just wanted to snap and see someone pushed up against a wall.

He muffled a shriek in the huge sleeves. They shouldn't be thinking about him like that!

At least they hadn't immediately made him some kind of servant, if only because they were clever enough to realize how much damage he could do.

But -- he did have a few things that might get him out. As long as he kept moving forward, not stepping out of line so much he got hurt and not so compliant that anyone got ideas, he would find something.

And yet, every tick of the finely-made Noldorin clock in his sitting room seemed to bring him one second closer to too late.

Chapter Text

The day Celebrimbor was allowed back in the forge, he had been there all of ten minutes before a knock came at the door. He frowned and went to answer it, wondering who was calling on him so soon.

On the other side, to his shock, was Maeglin.

As Celebrimbor stood speechless and confused, Maeglin breezed past him, Antar following in his wake, and saying, "I was told you're a smith, yes? So am I. What are you working on? And do you have anything with which to tie back these ridiculous sleeves?"

Celebrimbor shut the door and hurried after him. "I -- there are cloth or leather ties, but I'm sure we could find you work clothes if you need them? Why are you here?"

"To work with you, why else?" said Maeglin. "That princess of yours wants me kept busy so I can't scheme, and I'm hardly going to let you people decide what I do. I do have some pride."

Rather a lot of it, really, in Celebrimbor's opinion, but he wore it well. "Then make yourself at home, I suppose. What do you intend to work on?"

"I don't have any plans," said Maeglin with a languid shrug. "All my notes were at home in Lassesgal -- my father's house, I mean; you wouldn't know the name. But if you're in need of ornament on whatever you're making, I'm a trained gemcutter, even if I've never had much use for jewelry." That did explain why he went around scandalously unadorned.

"I certainly wouldn't mind a hand with that. Idril asked me to make her new bells to wear on her ankles, and it's the fashion in her city to wear them jeweled," he said.

Maeglin frowned as Antar helped him tie back his sleeves. "Is this not her city?"

"No, the realm of Thargelion is that of my uncle Caranthir," said Celebrimbor. "But he's busy in the north and left it in our care. Idril is from Gondolin, and I'm most recently of Nargothrond."

"I believe I introduced her highness as such, my lord," said Antar.

"You did, I recall. Thank you," said Maeglin.

"Why do you have Antar go everywhere with you?" said Celebrimbor, curiosity getting the better of him.

"It's customary to bring one's attendants with one, especially when one is a guest," Maeglin said frostily, "and you killed all the attendants I had at home."

Celebrimbor wasn't sure what to say: he wasn't exactly sorry, not when he knew what the nobles of Nan Elmoth were like, but he really ought to apologize--

Maeglin rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be sorry. I never liked them anyhow. Are you going to give me an apron or not, my lord?"

Celebrimbor gave him a work apron hanging on the back of the door. "Not that I'm unhappy to have you here, your highness, but..."

"But you don't work well with others?" said Maeglin, eyebrow raised. "I suggest you learn, my lord, if you intend to keep me for any length of time. What gems does her highness like on her bells?"

"She's a particular lover of skystone and sapphire," said Celebrimbor. "But I imagine you've seen that already."

"Hmph. Decent taste, I suppose. What about the rest of you?" It looked as if it physically hurt him to say anything positive about Idril.

"Túrin shares your allergy for ornament, but Tuor wears opal and aquamarine the most of all he's gifted, and he's gifted a great deal. As for myself... why don't you guess?" said Celebrimbor, showing him to the stones and the gemcutting station.

"I've seen you with garnets, but you avoid rubies, even though they'd suit you," said Maeglin. "But let me see. Emeralds? They'd look well enough on you, but you seem the type to look for cat's-eye or aster gems and wear those in particular."

"I must say, I'm impressed with how right that is," said Celebrimbor. "I also have a terrible habit of wearing common quartzes while my family begs me to wear richer things. Here are the beginnings of the bells -- how do you think you'll ornament them?"

Maeglin glanced them over. "We can't risk damaging the sound, so perhaps inlays, and proper studs on the anklets they'll attach to. It does seem rather gaudy for bells. Do you have purple topaz?"

"I didn't know there was purple topaz, save in Aman, and even then it had to be crafted apurpose," said Celebrimbor.

"Really?" said Maeglin. "I won't show you my secrets, but I know how to make it purple."

"I'd be delighted to see that," said Celebrimbor, and meant it. Maeglin was good company, no matter how (rightfully) ill-tempered, and already Celebrimbor wanted to keep him coming back to the forge.

Idril calmly stirred her tea. She'd gotten in the habit of forcing Maeglin to have tea with her almost daily, mostly to coax out knowledge of Doriath, but also to be nosy. "You never did tell me why you have a Quenya name," she remarked.

"That's because it's never been any of your business," he said. "I've never really used it anyhow."

"Why not? It's a decent name."

He looked at her as if she'd missed something obvious. "Nan Elmoth takes -- took -- the ban on Quenya very seriously. I was beyond forbidden."

"You don't strike me, given everything you've done since we met, as the kind to give in quietly," she said. In fact, he was downright loud in his displeasure.

"I was already in defiance by keeping the name, even without saying it. Must we keep talking about this?"

She pounced on his words. "So you'd rather tell me how to get through the Girdle?"

"No. I'd rather not talk to you at all. But, as you people keep reminding me, I'm a prize and not a guest."

"So we're going to have to talk about something you don't like," she said, beginning to search for entry into his mind. "Tell me."

"...The name was given by the only person who ever cared about me unselfishly. My mother was a Golodh in part, though even knowing that was halfway illegal," he said. "She's gone now, because of my father." His mental defenses were nearly flawless, and she was kept out for now.

"Why did you stay with him, then, knowing him a scoundrel?" She pressed harder in the places where she found his reluctance to speak, hoping to find a crack.

"Do you think he'd have let me leave, princess? It seems to me that your folk are freer with their children than any of Thingol's people are. I was his heir, and so I had to stay." His mind pressed back, but she felt him weaken.

Idril shifted her mental siege from the visible weak spots to the places he'd been trying to keep her from noticing. "Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you?"

"I'm only telling the truth," he said, and with a burst of strength invaded her mind in return, grasping at every wisp of thought and prying for secrets as she did the same to him.

"Really? Don't think I don't know you can lie without lying. It seems to me you're trying to make it look like you're just a sad victim like all the people we rescued." She roughly shoved him out of her mind and retreated to herself, clutching the memory she'd won from him.

"At this point, what use would it be?" he said. "I'll take my leave now, your highness. I'm afraid I have a headache."

Idril gracefully inclined her head and let him and Antar go, then examined the memory. It proved to be -- she recoiled.

It was Maeglin locked in his rooms for days on end, all for having asked to leave Nan Elmoth.

And she really disliked that he might have let her win.

Tuor ran into him in the library, and saw how Maeglin's spine stiffened ever-so-slightly, and how he made himself relax. It hurt.

"Good morning, your highness," he said. It was the wrong thing, he realized, when Maeglin's mouth twisted.

"There really isn't any use calling me that any longer, my lord. It's hard to be a prince when your folk have taken my home and Thingol won't welcome me to Doriath if I get out," he said. At some point he'd started saying if, not when, and that hurt, too.

"I wouldn't want to be disrespectful," said Tuor.

Maeglin's face didn't change, but Tuor had rather expected him to say this whole situation was disrespectful enough. "It doesn't much matter if you are or not. Did you need something? I'm at your service."

"No, I didn't know you were in here," he said. "I just came to look for anything on shipbuilding. I was thinking to make a small craft to bring onto the lake."

"Those books would be over here, if you'll follow me," said Maeglin, and went off into the stacks.

Tuor did follow, unsure what else to do, but said, "You don't need to. I could find them if you're busy."

"I'm not busy. Here we are," said Maeglin, stretching up on his toes to fetch a high-up book, but he couldn't quite reach it. Before Tuor could catch up and get it himself, being a great deal taller, shadows gathered under Maeglin's feet and began to lift him up, where he easily plucked the book from the shelf.

The magic-blocking band on Maeglin's wrist suddenly glowed, the spell embroidery shining briefly white, and the shadows beneath him fled. Book in hand, Maeglin fell, and Tuor darted forward and caught him, heart pounding.

For a moment Tuor just stood there, steadying Maeglin, and trying not to notice that his hair smelled of roses. The very thought made his heartbeat speed with something that was very much not the sudden shock.

Maeglin coughed politely, and Tuor let go as if burned.

"Here you are," said Maeglin, turning and handing him the book. "Will that be all, my lord?"

Tuor tried to force his meaning into words that wouldn't upset Maeglin. "I only wanted to say that -- that you don't need to fear. No one here has any intention of doing you harm, your highness."

"I think that you've all already done quite enough. If you wanted a pleasant prize to keep in your treasury, you should've picked someone else."

"I know what it is to be held prisoner by foes," said Tuor, taking a step forward, hand to his heart, as if being closer would make Maeglin see. "I won't let anyone treat you like that, I promise you. I don't want you to be miserable here -- is that so hard to believe? We don't take any joy in your suffering."

Maeglin now had his back against the bookcase, and seemed to be trying to draw himself up into haughtiness, but wasn't quite doing it. In a strange tone he said, "Do you expect me to be grateful?"

"What?" said Tuor, but it was just then that Antar came into the library.

"Your highness, I found the gems you wanted!" they called. "You can start on your idea -- oh!" They hastily bowed when they came around the corner and saw the two of them. "Good morning, my lord. Your highness, everything is ready in the forge."

"Thank you, Antar. Good morning, my lord," he said, nodding to Tuor in farewell before hurrying away.

"May I speak with you?" said Túrin, coming into the forge at a time he knew Celebrimbor wouldn't be there to interrupt.

Maeglin glared. "I can hardly stop you. Speak."

Túrin placed Gurthang on the workbench before him. "Tell me about my sword."

"Yes, good afternoon to you, too, my lord, of course I'm willing to stop work on my project to help with your exceedingly vague demands," he said acidly. "What do you want to know?"

Túrin almost didn't answer, captivated by the lock of loose hair plastered to Maeglin's forehead by his sweat in the heat of the forge. Maeglin was hard to look at -- Túrin just kept seeing new details. "Why do you know so much about it?" he managed.

"My father made it, and its match as well. If you hadn't broken and reforged it, it would've obeyed me and killed you," he said. "But it still doesn't like you much. It's only that whoever had it before you wanted you safe, it said."

"A match? I didn't know there was another." Thinking of Beleg still hurt, but knowing that his first love still protected him, however indirectly, was a balm.

"Anguirel. Likely still in Lassesgal, if my father didn't fight with it, and that one I can't command." He ran a hand down the flat of the blade, and Túrin tried not to look more than was normal. "Anglachel -- Gurthang, now -- was gifted to Thingol, presumably because it's capable of listening. Anguirel's duty included keeping me in line."

Túrin said, "You don't use King Thingol's title." He never used anyone's, in fact, except those of his captors, and even then it came off as mocking most of the time. Sometimes Túrin wondered what it would take to get him to say it differently -- but those thoughts turned indecent too quickly. He pushed them aside.

"He's family and I don't get along with him very well. Why would I bother?"

"So that's why he won't ransom you." It wasn't a question, and he didn't want it to be, because having Maeglin stay sounded more and more enticing every day that went by, however guilty the thought made him feel.

Maeglin's lips tightened. Túrin couldn't look away.

"Can you tell me why Gurthang hates me?" he tried.

"That's easy. It loved whoever wielded it before, and it blames you. No, it more than blames you, it was jealous. These are possessive blades."

Túrin couldn't quite countenance it, that Gurthang had been in love with Beleg, but then again Beleg had been easy to love. And Beleg might've lived, if it weren't for -- well, that was a piece of why he wanted Thingol brought down. Could he make peace with Gurthang if they found some small measure of justice for Beleg together?

"Thank you. I'll be on my way," he said, taking Gurthang back. Maeglin flicked a dismissive hand, but Túrin couldn't resist glancing back as he left and seeing Maeglin's eyes turn back to his project.

What would it feel like, to have that powerful focus on him?

Chapter Text

"I'd like more clothes that I can do up by myself," said Maeglin, trying to keep from losing his nerve or panicking. "Not that I don't appreciate your help, Antar, but if I need to take off a layer in the forge it'd be best if I could take care of putting it back on without bothering you."

He was already wearing the only clothes he felt confident he could dress himself in, a green and white set of robes, and he couldn't wear it all the time. And he might never be able to look at it again, after today.

"I'll see what I can do, highness," said Antar. "What are your plans for today?"

"First I need to go and have a discussion with Lord Túrin as to his sword. I don't know how long we'll be, so you can go and do something else instead of just waiting; I'm sure he'd appreciate privacy for the matter anyway," he said.

Antar did up the last button. "Shall I escort you there?"

"Please do."

Maeglin hadn't eaten breakfast, for his stomach rebelled at the thought. His nervousness made him want to try his luck running away, though he knew it pointless, anything to escape this.

But Túrin had been thinking about him. In detail. And Maeglin wasn't going to wait around for thoughts to turn into orders.

Offering usually made things less bad, and while he couldn't lie to himself and say he was happy about this, at least he could honestly say he hadn't been commanded like some kind of thrall. He was merely giving Túrin what he wanted because it seemed like a good choice.

They came to the door of Túrin's rooms, where he usually spent his time before the first warriors' training session of the day. Maeglin knocked, hoping he'd gone out instead, but no such luck.

"What is it?" said Túrin, then visibly remembered his manners upon seeing Maeglin. "Good morning, your highness."

Maeglin said, as he hid his hands in his great sleeves so they wouldn't be seen trembling, "Good morning, my lord. I wanted to speak with you before you go out with Gurthang today. Antar, leave us."

Antar bowed and departed, and Maeglin looked pointedly at Túrin until he was let in, then quietly magicked the door to lock behind him, since he'd die of shame if anyone came in.

"What is it you wanted to tell me about Gurthang?" said Túrin. Maeglin had to admit he appreciated the directness, rather than pleasantries.

"It isn't about Gurthang," he said. "I'm here because you can't stop thinking about me, my lord. Or did you think I didn't notice?"

"What do you mean?" said Túrin, looking off-kilter.

"I mean you're far too direct about how much you want me. I mean you think about me in great detail whenever I'm around and so loudly I can hear you even when I'm not. I mean that at night your dreams are of stealing into my room as I sleep and--"

This sparked something in him, for he protested, "I haven't, I wouldn't--"

"I know you haven't," said Maeglin, but he didn't comment on whether or not he thought Túrin would. He walked closer, trying to look handsome and appealing. "If you had, I wouldn't be offering. I'll go to bed with you, my lord, if you can see your way to toning down those thoughts in public."

To his surprise, Túrin hesitated, even though they were now standing close and he so clearly wanted to be seduced. "It isn't right, with a prisoner."

"What do you think war prizes are for?" Maeglin reached up to lay a hand lightly on his chest, and found a heartbeat nearly as quick as his own. "And I'm offering. You don't have to take me up on it." But if he did, it'd be better than if Túrin nobly suffered his lust in silence and snapped a year down the line.

Gathering all his courage, he twisted his hand in Túrin's tunic and pulled him into a kiss. This finally broke Túrin's resolve (not that he could've had much, with how he'd been staring at Maeglin's lips), and Túrin put his hands on Maeglin, kissing back.

A pleasant heat curled within him, and he let Túrin take the lead from there. It wasn't as if he had any real experience, only some basic knowledge of the mechanics and whatever education a bookshelf full of romance novels could provide, and if Túrin's fantasies were any indication, he didn't expect Maeglin to know what he was doing.

He did, however, try to nudge Túrin towards where he thought the bedroom was. The sitting room windows were open.

Túrin continued to kiss him as if trying to devour him, hands less than gentle but not yet straying. Maeglin had never given anyone permission to touch him like this before, so it was good Túrin hadn't pushed his luck too soon and made Maeglin do something foolish like tell him to stop.

But when they made it to the bed, Maeglin turned them around and shoved Túrin down, climbing up to straddle him. Túrin looked as if he could die happy in that moment.

"Let me make a few things clear," hissed Maeglin as he undid Túrin's tunic. "I'm not going to be all docile like in your dreams just because you fucked me. If you want that you'll earn it."

Túrin nodded almost frantically.

"And you're right that I'm your prize, and I'm not safe saying no to you -- so understand that if you tell me to do something I don't want, I might as well just kill you. Got it?"

"Yes," Túrin breathed. "May I--" He reached up and rested his hands on the clasps of Maeglin's robe.

"Of course," said Maeglin, and hoped his nervousness at being seen unclothed wasn't too obvious. He'd just managed to get Túrin's shirt open, and despite himself he was enjoying the view.

Túrin rushed to unclasp the fastenings, nearly bending them in his haste, and pushed the robe down Maeglin's shoulders, letting his hands linger on the muscles granted by forge-work. Maeglin took the hint and pulled his arms from his sleeves, letting the robe and shift pool at his hips and leave him bare.

Though he still had on the thin silken pants and underclothes he wore beneath the robe, and Túrin still had on his breeches, he could feel Túrin's growing arousal beneath him. It was, he admitted to himself, gratifying to know just how well this was working.

But Túrin wouldn't be satisfied if they stayed dressed, and Maeglin had to keep his goal in mind. He swung one leg off Túrin, settling at the edge of the bed, and started ridding himself of the offending garments, and Túrin tried to take off his own while also kissing Maeglin's back and neck, sending shivers up Maeglin's spine.

Clad now only in an open robe bravely held up by a belt alone, Maeglin climbed onto Túrin's lap where Túrin sat against the headboard, and kissed him, long and deep.

He hadn't looked too closely at Túrin's body yet, for fear he'd lose his nerve, but now that he could feel Túrin's hard cock, without the buffer of fabric, it seemed prudent to grind down on him.

This pulled a moan from Túrin's lips, so he did it again, harder this time, letting Túrin feel how wet he was and hoping he'd take it the right way.

Túrin put his hands on him then, caressing all over him, and kissed and nipped at his breasts (which absolutely didn't make Maeglin squeak). But he made no move to change their position or do anything else, only made as if to feast on what was plainly offered him without asking for more.

At least he was taking Maeglin's threat seriously. And he'd probably be content to let Maeglin be in control a few more times, for the novelty of it, before reasserting himself.

But it grew increasingly difficult to hold onto these thoughts, to scheme for his safety, when the friction, the slide of Túrin's cock against him, felt so good.

His own pleasure very much wasn't the goal, but he indulged himself anyhow, moving with Túrin until their breaths came heavy and Maeglin was sure he was flushed head to toe with need and embarrassment equally. There was nothing wrong with trying to enjoy this, since he had to do it anyhow, so long as Túrin found satisfaction.

And Túrin did -- his movements stuttered, and he stopped trying to leave bite marks all over Maeglin's chest and instead kissed him deeply, and Maeglin felt his release spill between them.

Maeglin and Túrin stared into one another's eyes as Túrin came down from his high, and Maeglin, for some reason, could only think of how he'd have to wash this robe before the laundry workers could find out. At least it was a good distraction from his own nearly throbbing arousal, which he had no plan to acknowledge.

But apparently Túrin wanted to acknowledge it, because he brought a hand to Maeglin's pearl and (rather clumsily -- he clearly had no experience with this kind of body) coaxed him to his own peak. Maeglin tried to ignore it and not make any awful noises or bite Túrin like he wanted to, because his captor could lay claim all he wanted but Maeglin couldn't leave marks in return. He decided he might've preferred if Túrin had sent him on his way rather than trying to be considerate.

"Satisfied, my lord?" said Maeglin, mostly sure he'd get a yes and be able to leave. Túrin did have things to do in Ost-nu-Orod, and shouldn't be late.

"More than satisfied," said Túrin, still looking at him as if he couldn't believe this was real. But at least he didn't try to thank Maeglin.

"Send for me the next time you want me," said Maeglin instead of Good, because we're not doing it again. It wasn't so bad as he'd expected, really, and as he dressed himself he noticed that aside from the exertion and tired legs, he felt much better than before. The release of tension went both ways.

Then he fled back to his rooms to wash out the robe and change.

It was over a week before Túrin called for him again, and thankfully he didn't make a fuss about it, only invited Maeglin to visit him after dinner to talk. Thankfully he was already wearing easier clothes to work with, and he dismissed Antar early. He'd managed to hide the marks from them the last time, and a brief word each with a healer and an alchemist had gotten him both a quick-heal treatment for little injuries and makeup to hide whatever the potion didn't clear up.

As long as he was back in his room by morning, no one else had to know.

Upon entering Túrin's chambers, Maeglin went directly to Túrin and sat down in his lap, facing him and rising on his knees to gain a little height advantage. "What would you have of me, my lord?" he said. "Let me please you. Or you can please me; I'm not picky."

Flustering Túrin was its own little delight, and it took longer than it should've for Túrin to answer him at last. "Will you come to bed with me?" he said.

"We're certainly not coupling in here with all the big windows," said Maeglin. "But I just sat down. You'll have to carry me."

Wordlessly, Túrin lifted him up and brought him to bed, where he laid him down gently and started undressing him. Maeglin had half a mind to lie back and let himself be ravished, but that wouldn't allow him much control.

On the other hand, Túrin was a quick learner, and had the robe undone before Maeglin knew it, and seemed ready to start the ravishing now.

"At least let me get this where it won't get stained, or you'll be sorry," said Maeglin, and Túrin moved off him to let him take the robe fully off and toss it to the ground. "And I don't like being the only one unclothed. Fix that, my lord."

He knew the reprieve wouldn't be long, but it was long enough to steady his breathing and get a good long look at Túrin's body, which undid all his work at calming himself. Then Túrin was atop him again, kissing him and running his hands all over.

It wouldn't be such a hardship to let a more experienced man take the lead just this once, would it? Maeglin was already sighing into the kisses and melting into the bed, entirely against his better sense, so he might as well continue this way.

Túrin's fingers drifted to Maeglin's sex and began, tentatively, to press into his cunt. Maeglin held back a wince -- he hadn't thought to warm up beforehand, and Túrin was going just a little too quickly to be doing this without oil to ease the way.

But soon the discomfort faded, and Maeglin had to admit that this time around he liked that Túrin was willing to give and not just take, if indeed that was what he was doing. He might really be trying to prepare him to be taken, but either way it showed some concern for Maeglin's enjoyment.

In truth, Túrin didn't seem to be aiming to make him come, but neither did it feel like he was trying to stretch and ready him. Rather, Túrin felt to be teasing, drawing out moans and an embarrassing amount of wetness, and Maeglin's body was happy to oblige him.

It did rankle, though, how focused Túrin was on him instead of his own pleasure. Not to say it was unpleasant, but it'd be easier to remember that Túrin was a dangerous enemy taking advantage of him if he'd act like it. And Maeglin had to keep that in mind or he'd start trying to enjoy himself, even though Thingol would never take him back now that he'd been bedded by a foe.

"May I--" said Túrin, but lost the rest of the words when Maeglin kissed him, pulling him in by his hair.

"Do you think you've earned the right to get what you want?" said Maeglin. He'd keep his control as long as Túrin would let him.

Túrin actually whined at that, a short but needy sound, and it went right to Maeglin's head. "Please?"

Saying no would only bring trouble. "All right, then. What is it you need so badly?"

Túrin made no verbal answer, but moved from atop him, first scrabbling in the bedside table for a bottle of oil (Maeglin could've screamed; he'd had that the whole time?) and then lying down beside him and arranging them both to be back to front, Maeglin held against his chest. This felt to be a less than easy position to enter him from, but Maeglin didn't say anything about it, and let Túrin return his hands to him, one at his breast and the other, oiled and smooth, at his already dripping cunt.

"You've already done plenty of that," said Maeglin, trying to sound sharp.

"Just a moment," Túrin promised, stroking his inner thighs, which tickled more than Maeglin wanted him to know.

But then Túrin removed his hand, instead (by the sound) slicking himself up, and he pushed between Maeglin's thighs, sliding smoothly through.

Maeglin pressed his legs together, hoping it would bring some kind of reaction, and Túrin rewarded him with a broken moan and clutching at him, pulling him in as close as they could be.

Túrin continued to fuck him, starting gently and growing more and more fervent, and Maeglin had to bite his lip to keep from moaning himself -- the drag of Túrin's cock against the outside of his cunt was maddeningly good, though not quite enough to bring him any nearer to satisfaction.

And like hell was he going to touch himself in front of Túrin.

Maeglin tried to catch Túrin's thoughts as his thrusts sped up and grew rougher (which Maeglin rather liked), but found nothing of import in them, only desire. Of course Túrin couldn't be thinking about something useful, like guard rotations or secret ways out, or even just when he and the other lords and lady would be busy. That one was even relevant, since it could help schedule their next encounter.

He pushed back against Túrin, needing a little more than he was being given and unable to reciprocate anything Túrin did, due to their position. And Túrin was, on top of fucking his thighs, kneading and squeezing his breasts in a way that Maeglin wanted to say didn't stoke the fire within him. But it still wasn't quite enough, and his determination not to care whether he found pleasure was wavering already.

At last he said, "My lord, you're being inconsiderate. At least try to act like you know how to please me."

He'd meant for Túrin to change his angle, but Túrin took it to mean Maeglin wanted his fingers again. He was already better at it than he'd been the first time, playing with Maeglin's pearl as his cock teased at the rest, and Maeglin found it annoyingly difficult to complain in this state, the touch of skin to skin electric all over his body.

When he came, he couldn't stifle the moan he made, or keep himself from clenching down in a way that made Túrin follow him shortly after. Not, however, shortly enough to keep him from feeling as if he were being rubbed raw, so it was with great discomfort that he tried to extricate himself from Túrin's arms.

But Túrin clung to him and said, "Stay? Just a short while?"

"You're not getting a second round," Maeglin warned him. "I'm tired and I don't want anyone finding out."

He surrendered to Túrin's embrace, and tried not to notice that it was nice to be held like a lover instead of a prize.

Chapter Text

Maeglin didn't spend all his time in Túrin's bed, of course. For most of the day, he would work in the forge, often with Celebrimbor by his side. But that brought on its own set of worries.

He didn't dare be better than Celebrimbor at anything unless it was insignificant, but if he was too bad he wouldn't be of any use, and the more skill he showed the more Celebrimbor looked on him with desire that made him want to run.

There was no running away in Ost-nu-Orod, though, not until he had a way that'd get him out for good. There was also no cutting his hair to make himself ugly so his captors would just stop looking. A visible breakdown was an unforgivable sign of weakness, and besides, it was shameful to be shorn.

But he couldn't deny (though not for lack of trying) that craft-skill was an attractive trait, and one Celebrimbor possessed in great amounts. It might bother him to be treated like an assistant, but even that couldn't quite dampen the joy of making new things, nor of watching Celebrimbor work.

Their latest project -- or rather, Celebrimbor's latest project that he allowed Maeglin to help with -- was meant for those who'd escaped Angband and lost some or all of their ability to speak mind-to-mind. The necklaces would strengthen ósanwë through sung enchantment, runes, and gemstones, and Maeglin made a mental note to "borrow" one. It could keep Idril out of his head.

Their first attempt produced a beautiful necklace that did absolutely nothing.

The second worked, but unreliably: the aid it provided fluctuated wildly from almost nothing to too much, and after a few days it broke.

The third melted under the weight of its own magic, and Maeglin was a little smug because he'd brought up that possibility and been overruled, and now had free rein to do the redesign.

This fourth attempt put more of the burden on the gemstones Maeglin had cut, rather than on the silver of the necklace, since the jewels he'd chosen only needed a little convincing to amplify ósanwë themselves, not external enchantment. The necklace itself could be bespelled to act largely only to bring together the magic of the gems.

Of course, Maeglin didn't sing the spell, only the grounding pedal tone. He couldn't decide if this was an insult or a precaution due to the danger he posed with unfettered magic, but either way Celebrimbor didn't take off the power-sealing bands.

They were both exhausted as they finished the attempt, sweating in the workshop's heat and both smelling of smoke and metal even after washing their hands. With each phrase thet touched another piece of the necklace, imbuing it with power, and more than once they slipped near to discordance.

But as Maeglin ran a finger over the last rune-inscribed gem, and Celebrimbor candenced, the necklace thrummed with magic, and with both of their hands upon it Maeglin could feel Celebrimbor's every thought melding with his own. Breathless, he looked up at Celebrimbor, and found his own wonder mirrored in his face.

Their lips met with all the inevitability of the tide, as natural and inescapable as breathing.

They had to let go of the necklace to embrace, to clutch at one another, but still there was nothing in their mingled thoughts but triumph and a sleeping desire come awake at last. Maeglin found himself roughly lifted up and set on one of the bigger anvils, from which place he could kiss Celebrimbor better, and held tight as if Celebrimbor wanted their bodies to meld as their minds did.

They'd already undressed to a single layer in deference to the heat, so it was hardly any time at all before Celebrimbor had Maeglin's undertunic open, and he ran a hand down his bare side, making him shiver. Maeglin wrapped his legs around Celebrimbor so as not to fall and kissed him fervently, hoping it would never end.

Regrettably, air was a necessity for the Eldar, and they had to break their kiss, but the way Celebrimbor panted into Maeglin's lips as he unbound Maeglin's belt was nearly as good.

Even sitting on the anvil, Maeglin was far shorter than Celebrimbor, and Celebrimbor's hands were so big that Maeglin felt tiny with them on his waist. Next time (why was he thinking about a next time?) he'd have to pin Celebrimbor down and show him his strength, even if he enjoyed feeling Celebrimbor's.

But then Celebrimbor got a hand in his breeches, and Maeglin lost all ability to think.

He wriggled on the anvil to help Celebrimbor get them off, unlacing Celebrimbor's shirt as best he could in his impatience. He needed to see him bare in the firelight glow of the forge, to tangle his hands in those neat braids, to kiss those skilled fingers.

It seemed Celebrimbor wanted the same thing, for when his fingertips first brushed over Maeglin's folds he moaned, as if merely knowing that Maeglin was wet for him was arousing to the extreme. This turned into another kiss, as Maeglin leaned back in Celebrimbor's steady hold to tilt up his hips and be touched more thoroughly.

To his surprise, though, Celebrimbor didn't slip his fingers in and make Maeglin see stars, as he'd been expecting. Instead he pulled away -- Maeglin made a needy sound in the back of his throat -- and fell to his knees.

For a moment they stared at one another again, breathing heavily, and then Celebrimbor's gaze drifted lower and lower still. He kissed up the inside of Maeglin's leg, making him shudder and clutch at his shoulders, and then arrived at his aim.

Celebrimbor's tongue was clever, perhaps unpracticed but with good instinct, and these were the thoughts Maeglin had to think to keep from melting entirely and forgetting all his pride. He couldn't stand the way Celebrimbor lapped at his cunt, the occasional tiny scrape of teeth that made him bite back cries, the overwhelming heat inside him that there was no choice but to surrender to.

Maeglin dug a heel into Celebrimbor's back to urge him further, the building pleasure too much to deny as Celebrimbor grew bolder in his exploration, no longer only teasing but delving in fully with his tongue as if he'd never tasted anything sweeter. It made Maeglin's hands twitch, the need to touch him in return, and at last he decided there wasn't any point being cruel to himself. He put his hands in Celebrimbor's hair, weaving his fingers through the braids, and held on for purchase.

After a particularly hard tug, Celebrimbor tried to pull away, and Maeglin scowled at him. "What are you doing?"

"Weren't you trying to make me stop?" said Celebrimbor, a crinkle between his brows.

"No. Get back to work," said Maeglin. What foolish arrogance it'd be to try to tell someone to stop! It had never worked before, and now he had no right to ask it, and resorting to violence or magic like he usually had in Nan Elmoth would only make things worse for him unless he managed to escape as well.

But Celebrimbor did indeed get back to work, and found a spot to lavish his attentions on that made Maeglin let out a shriek and nearly crush him with how his legs twitched. Maeglin was sure he'd never be able to look at this anvil again without blushing.

"Like that," he said. And then, dignity forgotten, "Please!"

Celebrimbor obliged him, finding the spot again with his tongue, but as Maeglin got nearer to his peak and pressed him closer and closer, he pulled back just enough to caress his pearl once more with a hint of teeth, and this was what sent Maeglin over the edge.

Before he was even sure he'd be able to stand up, legs feeling no more solid than water, Maeglin said, "Let me return the favor."

"You don't have to," said Celebrimbor, because for some reason he wanted to pretend Maeglin wasn't his prisoner.

"I want to," Maeglin replied, and hoped it was a lie.

Besides, he knew how to do this. If Celebrimbor was playing coy, he couldn't complain about not getting what he wanted so long as Maeglin did something, and he'd learned very well how to please Túrin; Celebrimbor couldn't be all that different. This didn't have to take too long, and with the last aftershocks dying down Maeglin's mind was turning back to scheming.

Once he removed Celebrimbor's breeches and pushed him up against the anvil, though, he realized he'd erred. Celebrimbor was like him, lanyanassë (or at least he thought that was the word in Quenya), but had reshaped himself. A small, shapely cock bobbed before him, but behind it undeniably lay handsome folds glistening with arousal.

A part of him wanted to take full advantage of Celebrimbor being twice as easy to tease, but someone could walk in on them any minute. There wasn't time to waste.

Maeglin knew what he himself liked, so he tried his best to copy it in reverse with his hands. The way Celebrimbor's cunt fluttered around his fingers, and how Celebrimbor threw back his head and groaned, threatened to bring back the overwhelming heat that had just consumed him. But he mustn't get distracted -- instead he wrapped his lips around Celebrimbor's cock and tasted him.

"You feel so good," said Celebrimbor, gently stroking Maeglin's hair with (and Maeglin couldn't help a swell of pride) hands that trembled. "Your mouth is perfect, so hot, so sweet--"

Some warm feeling bloomed in Maeglin at these words, just as a blush bloomed in his face. But Celebrimbor kept on praising him, to a point where he lost track entirely of what he was doing, only going on instinct and whatever made Celebrimbor say more filthy, appreciative things.

"You're so beautiful like this, on your knees for me," Celebrimbor babbled on, "and you look so tempting with your mouth full, I could gladly stand here all day while you -- ah! -- while you kept sucking me. How can I resist your handsome mouth or your perfect fingers? You are so, so good to me--"

Maeglin hummed around him, too pleased with the praise not to instinctively respond, and Celebrimbor broke off into a choked gasp, tightening about his fingers.

When Celebrimbor recovered his voice, he said, "Pretty jewel, you spoil me! You're so skilled at this, so good for me, so warm..."

His words went right to Maeglin's head, and he couldn't help but moan, making Celebrimbor scrabble at the anvil to ground himself. But that was all in vain, and his hands fell limp as he shook apart, overtaken by pleasure as Maeglin kept on playing with him.

Afterwards, Maeglin could hardly talk, words stopped up by embarrassment at how he'd been affected by the praise even as Celebrimbor helped him clean off the worst of the soot and sweat and other things and put his clothes back on.

But once he was dressed and about to leave to get clean, he said (very much against his better judgment), "Maybe I'll make something nice for you to use on me next time."

The way Celebrimbor's mind lit up with all the countless things he could mean was a very good sign there'd be a next time. But why was Maeglin pleased with that?

The next time wasn't as soon as he'd dreaded, though. Celebrimbor often touched him, gentle and sweet, but only in innocent ways, and half the time only to help him. But at their next triumph, Idril's newest pair of silver feet, their victory-feeling got the better of them, and once again they found themselves crashing into one another, lips against lips and body against body.

Maeglin tugged off Celebrimbor's apron and work clothes, not caring if he popped the buttons (since he wouldn't have to explain it to the launderers), and mouthed at his chest. Celebrimbor took off Maeglin's garments more carefully, if only because Maeglin glared at him when he nearly did damage.

But he didn't have much time to appreciate Celebrimbor's well-reshaped form and toned muscles, for before he knew it, Celebrimbor had him flipped around and bent over the nearest anvil. It was, Maeglin noted with embarrassment, the same one he'd sat on the last time.

Celebrimbor put his talented fingers to work, this time, and Maeglin couldn't see him but could easily imagine the look of lust on his face. Celebrimbor's desire was palpable, pouring into Maeglin with every touch, and he wasted no time in making Maeglin wet for him. Not that it was difficult, to Maeglin's embarrassment.

Then he pulled away, leaving Maeglin briefly bereft of his touch, and Maeglin hated that it disappointed him. But he wasn't disappointed for long.

It didn't take him long to figure out that it was now Celebrimbor's cock pushing into him, but the realization nearly made him panic, and he clutched the anvil to calm himself. Everything was fine -- Celebrimbor's reshaping wasn't intense enough to make his cock all that large, and he'd gotten intimately familiar with that area recently enough to be confident that said reshaping didn't extend to being able to get him with child. He could handle this without trouble.

It was just that he hadn't done this before.

He'd never had any serious lovers, and everyone who'd tried anything like this with him had gotten killed for touching him, and Túrin didn't care how Maeglin satisfied him so long as he did it. And it wasn't that he hadn't had the tools to try it on himself, but the idea had always been so daunting he'd never tried.

He supposed he should be glad it was Celebrimbor, and resignation washed through him. But by the time he returned from his thoughts to his sensations, he found his body in the throes of a new kind of pleasure, and forgot that he thought he'd mind this.

Celebrimbor's thrusts were hasty, but Maeglin couldn't mind; the heat of craft-success made him impatient, too. He even found himself trying to push back against Celebrimbor, to drive him in deeper, to feel joined with another in a way he'd never felt before.

This was what the fire in him craved.

Celebrimbor's hands on his hips were surely leaving bruises as he fucked him, but Maeglin couldn't care, too caught up in the sensation of being filled. His nerves sang as Celebrimbor grew rougher, quicker, more impassioned, and the sound of their coupling echoed in the forge, but it wasn't quite enough to bring him to climax -- until Celebrimbor's angle changed, and Maeglin came from one well-aimed thrust to his sweet spot.

No longer able to hold himself up, he flopped over the anvil and let Celebrimbor find his own release, which didn't take too long. The aftershocks were pleasant, and left him feeling warm all the way through, but by the end he was feeling too oversensitive for it to be perfect anymore.

Nonetheless, he allowed Celebrimbor manhandle him into a position where he wouldn't have to support his own weight, and gladly accepted being cleaned up.

Chapter Text

Maeglin was flat on his back under Idril for the third time in a fortnight before he realized he'd somehow become her bedwarmer, too.

But it'd seemed so natural, at first: they fought, mind to mind, almost daily, and by now it was nearly an enjoyable routine. The fighting had turned, in its time, to fighting with occasional gestures of respect, a mental caress to a well-made wall protecting the thoughts or a spear of will welcomed rather than shattered.

Then that sparring had turned into what would, if shared between bodies, be considered coupling. Idril's will would overtake him, or his her, and they found delight in the rough embrace of one another's minds.

And somehow that had turned into Maeglin on his back as Idril fucked him with her fingers, determined to make him submit. It wasn't exactly a hardship to endure, with how skilled she was, but it was humiliating, since she wouldn't let him come until he'd given her his complete surrender aloud.

Today she pressed her mind to his as she tormented his body, and he could feel from their mental joining her pleasure in his twofold submission.

He'd thought that being ordered and conquered would feel horrible, but somehow when she imposed her will upon him he liked it even as he was forced to humble himself and call her "my queen." It was a horrible thing, knowing how ready he was to be commanded.

"How does that feel, my prize?" she said. When he didn't respond quickly enough for her liking, she reached out and tweaked a nipple, making him cry out, oversensitive from Túrin's bites the night before. "Answer me."

"It's too much," he said. In truth, it wasn't nearly enough, but he wanted to put off the begging as long as possible. She liked it to an unseemly degree, and besides, he didn't want to be sore tomorrow when Celebrimbor would probably fuck him in the forge again; Celebrimbor might notice and start asking questions.

"You know how to address me."

"My queen," he added hurriedly. "My queen, it's too much!" He held himself back from actually asking her to stop or slow.

"You say that, but you're thinking more, more, more," she said, exerting more force on his mind as he keened. "I'm not a cruel liege lady, you know, I'll gladly give my handsome prize what he so desperately needs. But you'll have to ask."

He tried to glare, but it was hard to muster up anger when she was flooding his mind with tormenting pleasure. "Why should I ask anything of a foe-queen? She can use her prisoner's body as she likes, but I don't need to be an active participant."

"You do if I order you to," she pointed out, "and I wouldn't much like if you acted like you weren't here. Like you didn't want me, like your mind doesn't go all sweet and quiet when I tell you what to do."

The worst part was that she was right, that he found utter calm in obeying her and pleasure in her touch. He kept his mouth shut and instead tried to shove her out of his thoughts, knowing that with how much she held sway over his mind's domain it would likely only amuse her.

"I like it when you fight me," she said, an un-queenly smirk on her face. "It makes it all the better when you remember how to submit to your queen. Deny all you want, but your mind bows to me; you know it's inevitable."

And then she withdrew her fingers, cleaning them delicately on a tea napkin from the meal they'd forgotten. She left him sprawled on her floor and went to the couch, sitting and pouring herself a new cup of tea, which she sipped without sparing him a glance, for all the world as if she didn't have a half-naked prisoner on the rug, flushed with desire.

Maeglin allowed himself an undignified whine, and her eyes flicked to him for only half a moment before returning to her food and drink.

He forced down the annoyed growl that rose in him at being ignored, deciding instead that if she wasn't going to finish what she'd started then he could leave, But the instant he tried to get to his feet, she spoke up.

"Did I tell you that you could stand up?" she asked, pressing on the part of his mind that held his balance, forcing him to stay down or risk falling.

"...You didn't, my queen," he said.

"So you'll just have to stay there," she said. "Unless, of course, you want to crawl to me and take back all your denials and ask me to touch you. You could do that, if it isn't beneath your dignity."

Maeglin weighed his options. He could lie on the floor, just waiting to have one of Idril's handmaidens come in and see him and start spreading rumors, when it was hard enough to keep Idril and Celebrimbor and Túrin from knowing he was warming all their beds already. So obviously that was out.

He could swallow his pride and crawl to her, yes, but -- it wasn't as if he had much pride left, only scraps, but he wanted to preserve those as best he could. There wasn't any use in debasing himself for nothing, even if his body ached for Idril and her touch on his mind was only driving his need higher, but if he didn't do it now, wouldn't she just make him do it the next time?

There really was no winning. He might as well do what she wanted.

"My queen," he said at last, trying unsteadily to get on his knees, "please touch me."

"Crawl," she said, not looking at him.

He steeled himself and crawled to her, hands and knees. At her feet he stopped and boldly laid his head on her lap. "Please touch me. I shouldn't have lied to you."

"And what did you lie about?" she said, glee and triumph beginning to brighten in her mind.

"I implied I didn't want your touch, which isn't true," he said. "I do want you, and more than you were doing before, I was lying that it was too much."

Idril stroked his cheek. "Come and sit on my lap so I can touch you better."

He obeyed, settling himself at an angle to her and spreading his legs just enough for her to reach her aim. And once she'd cleaned her hands of food, her fingers found their way back to his dripping folds and gave him what he'd asked for. He relaxed into her touch, knowing she wasn't playing around anymore, and sighed in contentment.

"See?" she said. "I know what you need, my prize. You need to submit, and then be rewarded for it. Haven't I been kind?"

"Yes, my queen," he gasped. She was no longer teasing him but granting him pleasure in earnest, letting it build.

"Then you know what I want to hear."

"I'm yours," he said, words coming quicker and quicker as he neared his peak. "I'm your prize and I belong to you and I submit to you, my queen--"

"Good."

With another caress to his pearl, he came, biting back whatever humiliating noise was about to leave his throat and make this even more embarrassing. Idril fucked him through it, and he realized she wouldn't stop until he begged.

Maeglin gathered up his scraps of dignity and did so.

Maeglin tried to be annoyed that Idril was constantly thinking about another man when she had him on his knees pleasing her with his tongue, but the mood just never seemed to stick.

It was as clear as day that she was in love with Tuor, even when the two of them weren't gazing adoringly at each other, but they hadn't yet gone to bed together. In addition, as she would say while holding Maeglin's head between her legs to use him as a sympathetic ear without the risk of him talking, they'd agreed not to be exclusive yet, and they'd only been courting for a year. However badly she wanted him, she'd say, and however much she knew it was returned, he wasn't planning to lie with her for the near future.

This didn't stop her thinking about it. Or talking about it. Or fantasizing aloud about bringing together all her lovers and directing them so she could watch.

"You would look so lovely with Meleth," she sighed, when he was too preoccupied to answer. Probably a good thing, so he couldn't judge her aloud for sleeping with her handmaiden. "Or with my Tuor -- you're so unlike them both that I just have to see you together. And Voronwë could be there, too, and all three would touch you as I commanded, and you'd do as I said, wouldn't you, my prize?"

Her imaginings needed no force to enter his mind, and he could see in a dreamlike vision how she wanted him defiled. He'd never thought much before about being with more than one person at once, except on those rare occasions that two suitors tried to work together to win him. Even then, it'd been mostly how to prevent it.

But Idril's lovers in her fantasy didn't squabble over him, or over her either, only obeyed her directions in ruining him, and he found himself growing wet at the scene she imagined, with Tuor fucking him and Voronwë fucking Tuor in turn while Meleth rode Maeglin's face and played with his breasts. He didn't have any intention of submitting to this in the real world, but the shame of being so used by four people was, even in thought, enough to make his face heat and his legs tremble.

"It really is too bad Tuor isn't interested," she said. "He's terribly shy about all this; Voronwë's the only one who's lain with him and even they only did so once. But when he's ready..."

She was planning to have him submit to her beloved, too, and -- fine. At this point he might as well be bedding all of his captors instead of just three, he thought as he continued licking at her cunt.

He was already enjoying himself today more than he'd thought he would, but then again, she'd made him beg to even do so much as service her, so being miserable about it would just be making things worse for himself.

It was altogether too easy to enjoy serving and obeying Idril. But how could he help going pliant from the force of her mind, or stop his blood from heating when he managed to crack her icy control? How could his mind not go fuzzy and blank when he got down on his knees for her?

Just as he increased his efforts, hoping he'd soon be rewarded with the beauty of her release, she wrenched him away by his hair. "Stop," she ordered him. "That's not what I want. You're going to go slowly and steadily while I read through these papers, and you won't try to do more. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, my queen," he said, still a little dizzy from how she'd filled all his senses and he'd briefly forgotten to breathe. Which was normal, surely -- she smelled of camellias and crucible-flame and desire, and her pleasure tasted even more exquisite; he couldn't be alone in being turned on by that. Surely Meleth, who chose all of her lady's soaps, felt the same effect.

And how he could be expected to breathe when it was so much more important to ravage her with his tongue as she'd commanded? He didn't want to be disobedient.

Oh, stars above, he didn't want to be disobedient.

What was he thinking? She was still his captor, his enemy, she'd still ordered him and forced his submission, no matter how much he liked it, and he shouldn't like it!

"I don't feel well, my queen," he said, scrambling away as best he was able. And it wasn't even a lie; his stomach grew queasy as he spoke. "I think I need to lie down." Silently he prayed that she wouldn't press the issue and tell him to stay, because if she gave a real order he wouldn't have a choice.

But Idril only frowned and said, "Go, then. I won't keep you."

At least he was clothed and could leave immediately. Then he could shut himself in his room until this madness passed, and hope against hope that Idril would get what she really wanted and lose interest in fucking her prize.

Chapter Text

It started out like any other day in Ost-nu-Orod: Maeglin hurriedly covered up the bite marks that the healing ointment hadn't quite erased from the day before, ate breakfast, and asked Antar what he was meant to be doing, as if he didn't know his schedule after so long in captivity.

"In the morning you have plans to work in the forge, your highness, with Lord Celebrimbor," said Antar as they helped him into his clothes. "Then you were asked to speak with Princess Idril after lunch. If you don't mind my saying so, your highness, she's awfully impatient to know how to cross into Doriath."

"Then she'll just have to get better at gleaning things from me," said Maeglin. "I don't intend to tell her. What about dinner?" She'd found out more than enough, in his opinion.

"You're expected to join the lady and lords tonight."

"Thank you, Antar," he said, and went to work in the forge.

Celebrimbor was absent, oddly, for the entire morning, and not just the early hours when Maeglin was usually alone. But then again, he was a lord in more than only name, and had duties. Someone had to rule (or at least wrangle) Nan Elmoth, and he'd surrendered it; he knew his captors ran the place together, insofar as it could be run by anyone not of the bloodline to control the forest's magic.

He ate lunch blissfully alone in the workshop until Antar had to come in and beg him to be less than half an hour late to meet Idril. He acquiesced, just to keep her on her toes. If Idril thought he'd always be late, she'd start planning her schedule accordingly, and he could easily annoy her by showing up on time.

Things took on their usual schedule: she politely interrogated him about Doriath for twenty minutes while he insulted her and refused to give her anything useful, then she started probing at his mind, then they became locked in mental battle for upwards of half an hour. Since today she gained the upper hand, she soon had him writhing and gasping underneath her on the couch as he berated himself silently for enjoying her touch.

Then, just as he'd always been terrified would happen, the door opened.

Idril jumped away from Maeglin, trying to put her clothes back into place as he did the same. "Tuor!" she said as a flush overtook her face. "I -- I didn't know you'd be coming by!"

Maeglin found it entirely unfair that this was what made her lose her composure, but his pride was soothed by how hard Tuor was trying not to stare.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," said Tuor, looking just as mortified as Idril did and as Maeglin certainly felt but hoped he didn't show. "It was nothing important; I'll be on my way--"

"Or you could join us!" said Idril, as if it were a sudden whim and not something she'd been thinking about for over a month.

Tuor glanced back and forth between them, clearly torn. "If -- are you sure you wouldn't mind? I wouldn't want to cut in, or come between you, as it were."

"We wouldn't mind," said Maeglin, before Idril could answer for him and take all semblance of choice away. There wasn't a way that didn't end in Idril's bed all together, but he didn't want her thinking he'd let her decide for him. "Come here."

Tuor visibly swallowed and hesitantly came forward, as if he weren't sure whether this was real. His eyes were fixed on Idril, but then again she was much safer to look at, being almost entirely clothed. When his gaze alighted on Maeglin, there was no less desire in it, but he couldn't meet Maeglin's eyes for long.

"Let's take this to the bedroom before anyone else comes barging in," said Maeglin, but didn't try to move until Idril shifted to release him, not wanting to displease her.

Tuor nodded emphatically, having lost his silver tongue, and let Idril pull him along to the bed, where she and Maeglin undressed him. It went quickly with the two of them, and Maeglin wasn't blind; he knew how handsome Tuor was, and had wondered if all of him was just as shapely as the chest he'd seen bare in the training yards outside his window. He wasn't as reluctant as he'd feared he'd be -- and it turned out Tuor really was just as lovely under his clothes.

It really was a curse, Maeglin mused, to apparently be so attractive that all his captors needed to have their way with him, but at least there was the consolation that those keeping him as their prize were very much to his taste. Not that he'd known he had that taste at the start.

"Maeglin, sit against the headboard," Idril commanded. "Tuor, my love, if you'll sit before his lap and face me? I want to give you the pleasure you deserve."

"Anything for you," said Tuor besottedly. He was too tall for Maeglin to see anything once they were situated, but there wasn't really anything wrong with that, not when he could see the muscles of Tuor's back move and smell his lavender hair soap.

In a way, really, this was ideal. The lovers would be focused on one another, so he only had to be present, and maybe run his hands down Tuor's sides and hold his waist and kiss his shoulders. Neither of them would try to touch him or order him very much. And being in such close contact wasn't half bad.

Idril had by this point undressed herself and begun encouraging her beloved to touch her, saying, "My love, how I've dreamed of this! You may put your hands on me, if you like; I know I want you to."

"Nothing would please me more," said Tuor, and did as she asked.

As Tuor bent to kiss Idril's breasts and put his hands on her hips, Maeglin gently took his cock in hand to stroke him to full hardness. Best to make sure he'd be able to satisfy Idril how she wanted, and she'd said more than once how she intended to ride him until he saw stars.

But then Tuor moaned into Idril's chest, and Maeglin's higher faculties all ceased to function.

He hadn't expected this to affect him so, but somehow the sight and sound of the two of them caressing one another, and the feeling of Tuor's heavy cock in his hand, made him unbearably aroused. He hoped they wouldn't notice. There wasn't any chance of satisfying the desires welling up within him -- the wish to be between them, to have all their attention, to be tormented with pleasure from all sides -- so there wasn't any point in wanting. They weren't paying him much attention, anyhow.

But eventually, long after Idril had gently smacked his hand away so she could have Tuor inside her, once the two of them had no eyes or ears for anything but each other, Maeglin gave in to his wishes and bit Tuor hard on the shoulder, hoping against his better judgment that he'd leave a mark.

Idril would probably be upset, he thought, but if anybody saw the bite they'd think she left it, and he only -- he wanted to leave a trace of his presence, instead of traces only being left on him.

The moment his teeth sank in, Tuor shuddered and groaned, pulling away from Idril's kiss to gasp, and Maeglin realized with a heady feeling that it was the bite that had sent him over the edge and made him come.

He didn't stay long. Idril and Tuor had a great deal to say to one another that wasn't for his ears, but a part of him was -- he wouldn't say glad, but at least smug to have helped fuck the princess's beloved the first time she'd had him. Idril would always have shared Tuor with her prize, even if she thought of it as sharing Maeglin with her intended.

Maeglin got yearning looks from Tuor for three weeks before deciding enough was enough. If he was like Túrin in this respect (and they were cousins), then Maeglin could probably use a little gentle encouragement to get Tuor to do what he wanted. Besides, he'd been looking for a way to convince someone to let him briefly out of the fortress to go down to the lake, and once there he could always just drown Tuor.

"I want to go swimming," he said to Tuor. "In Lake Helevorn. Tonight."

Tuor blinked. "I... don't see why not, but you would have to be watched. And why at night? Even here, that seems perilous."

"I know I have to be watched; why do you think I'm telling you?" said Maeglin. "It has to be at night because it's the full moon. It's supposed to be good for one's health to bathe in moon-water, or so one of my lords-in-waiting swore up and down." And moon-water could be a powerful thing to use in magic, maybe even enough to get the magic-sealing bands off, but he wouldn't be telling Tuor that.

So that evening, just as the sun went down and the full moon rose, Maeglin went down to the lake with Tuor in tow the way he brought Antar everywhere. It faintly amused him to treat his lord and jailer as an attendant, and it was with light feet that he came to the lakeside.

Tuor sat down on the grass, and Maeglin frowned. "You're not going to swim?"

"I wasn't planning on it," said Tuor.

"But I could drown," said Maeglin. "Or swim away from you -- I'm very fast, you know, and you'd have to go the long way around to catch me."

"I thought you wanted to escape," said Tuor.

"I thought you wanted to keep me," said Maeglin. "Well, if you don't mind me going, that's your business and not mine." He stripped off his outer robes and Tuor quickly averted his eyes.

"What I mean is that I don't need to be in the lake to stop you," said Tuor. "Lady Uinen has promised me that her daughter Helevorn will keep you from fleeing me. Swim as you like, but you won't reach the other side of the lake."

This read to Maeglin as cheating. "And you're such good friends with the Wave-Mother?" he said.

"Lord Ulmo has shown me great favor, and his liegefolk are my friends," said Tuor. "Test me, if you will; I spoke with Lady Uinen this very afternoon. I hope you don't think I'd make it so easy for you."

Maeglin was almost -- almost, mind you -- flattered that Tuor had felt the need to do that. But he didn't like being outsmarted, which meant Tuor didn't get to see him unclothed, and anyway Maeglin wouldn't be able to drown him for being too forward. He waded into the lake with his thin white underrobe still on. He realized too late that it'd cling and probably make him look even more appealing in the bright moonlight, but there was nothing to be done about that now. At least he'd be able to furtively fill up vials of moon-water and stash them.

Tuor was looking at him intently, not so close as to catch what he was doing but enough to make him blush and be glad he was facing away. Not that he couldn't feel a blush travel down his back where he felt Tuor's gaze, but the cold, dark water hid most of that.

It was only after he'd filled the vials, when he was dithering over whether to get out of the water yet and how to keep Tuor from seeing the robe cling, that he felt the current. It was sudden enough that he couldn't get out of the way in time, and he found himself yanked towards the deep water, likely pulled by Helevorn herself who wanted to meddle.

But Tuor quickly removed his outer layers (so he wouldn't be dragged down) and jumped in after him, so Maeglin didn't fear; Helevorn would let Tuor save him.

But when Tuor had him gathered in his arms and had swum them back to shallower water, Maeglin realized that the belt of his underrobe had fallen from him in the current, the garment coming off him where it didn't stick, and his hair was coming out of its braids. Tuor was looking at what his robe revealed -- and his clothes hadn't fallen open like Maeglin's; the current had pulled them off.

Unlike the water, Tuor was very, very warm.

Maeglin realized his mouth had dropped open and shut it, drawing himself up as best he could when the water proved just a little too deep for him to stand in. "Did you have any kind of plan, or were you just hoping that divine favor would save you from a rip current?"

"It worked, didn't it?" said Tuor. Maeglin could feel the rumble of his voice where they were pressed chest to chest.

To Maeglin's horror, his own hands had started wandering from where he held Tuor's back, feeling his muscles. The arms around him were warm and firm, and he felt oddly -- enticingly -- vulnerable and small. They'd drifted near to the lakeside now, but not in a shallow place; the elves of Ost-nu-Orod must have raised the earth steeper here to prevent floods in the direction of the fortress, and Maeglin was nearly backed up on it, forced to keep holding Tuor in the just-too-deep water.

Tuor was still holding him tight, as if another current might drag him away, and looking at him with the kind of desire that made Maeglin want to either run away or melt.

Maeglin shut his eyes and tilted up his head to receive the kiss. His heart felt fit to pound out of his chest, but he held himself together as best he could even in the undignified position of having to cling, mostly naked, to a fully-naked man. Some parts of his body seemed to think that that wasn't a bad position at all, and his skin tingled where they touched, which he adamantly told himself was because Tuor was much warmer than the lake.

A light panic set in again when he felt Tuor's cock stiffen against him. It was far too big, he knew from touching when they were with Idril; on par with Túrin's rather than Celebrimbor's, and he'd avoided having to let Túrin penetrate him all this time for fear of pain. But there wouldn't be any avoiding it now.

Maeglin swallowed his fear and leaned back against the near-vertical edge of the lake, bringing his legs up to wrap around Tuor's hips. Situating himself thus, he was at much less risk of losing his grasp and floating away, and it wouldn't be difficult to be entered.

But Tuor first shifted his grip, so that one arm held Maeglin to him, and with the other hand he went to open Maeglin up on his fingers, murmuring, "Does this please you?"

"Yes," said Maeglin, trying to relax his inner muscles but finding it hard not to squeeze around the intrusion, "and you're hardly going to fit if you don't do that first, so you'd better hope it pleases me."

Tuor kissed him again, which shut him up, but he'd already managed to get two fingers into Maeglin's cunt and draw out a whine. Maeglin didn't know how he could be so good at this -- but then he'd probably done the same with Idril every day in the weeks since their first time. Yes, that made sense; it wasn't that Maeglin enjoyed having Tuor touch him, it was just objective skill and practice with a demanding partner.

"Right there," he panted when Tuor brushed over his sweet spot. "That feels--!"

To his frustration, Tuor didn't touch him that way again, but teased around the spot, not giving him what he wanted. It was only when he added a third finger that he caressed that place again, and Maeglin moaned as he kissed at Tuor's neck.

"Is that what you wanted?" said Tuor, and Maeglin didn't need to see his face to know the smug smile that was on it.

But he couldn't quite find the scornful words he wanted, and wasn't sure he wanted to say them. It was like with Idril: he wanted to be good, to be told what to do, to obey rather than make things harder. Tuor had indeed bested him, and not only in battle, he'd very neatly foiled Maeglin's escape plans before Maeglin had even thought of them; was it so bad to let him take his prize? Was it so awful to graciously submit?

Shame seemed a distant thing, a daylight thing, and here under the full moon he couldn't quite remember his pride. Tuor had won him fairly, and he would have the spoils, and Maeglin didn't need to be against it, even if he had a choice when Tuor was towering over him and trapping him in his embrace.

Tuor withdrew his fingers from Maeglin's folds and kissed him again, once more adjusting his grip, this time to hold him lower, nearer his hips than his waist, which brought Maeglin higher in the water. Tuor kissed and nipped at his breasts, hands continuing to roam lower until he could knead at Maeglin's ass, but the position left Maeglin frustrated, unable to return the touch.

The lake no longer felt cold at all, with the heat Maeglin felt in every inch of himself, and he felt like to burst with it by the time Tuor finally, finally, pushed his cock into him.

Maeglin forced himself to relax, but even so the sensation wasn't unlike being split open, even having been thoroughly prepared. The thing he hadn't been prepared for was the sense of fullness, the utter heat of being fucked in chill waters.

He didn't think he could possibly get any more full, but still Tuor pushed further, and further still, until he was fully sheathed in Maeglin's cunt. His thoughts spilled over, just a little, and Maeglin could feel from him how tight he was, how hot, how perfect, fitted like a glove! This all would've been enough to make him come, with only a little more stimulation to his pearl, but Tuor then began to move.

Every thrust drove the air out of Maeglin's lungs and pushed his legs further apart, and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd be able to walk tomorrow. It shouldn't matter; he'd yielded himself and Tuor could leave him sore and limping if that was how he wanted to enjoy him, and -- he might not know how to feel about this, but it felt good, the roughness, just enough to be enticing but not enough to hurt. It'd be easier to hate being fucked if it hurt.

Both of them were now breathing too heavily to kiss, but they pressed open lips together as Maeglin's breath came out in time with every thrust and Tuor held him steady in the water. Maeglin could tell it wouldn't be much longer, with the rising wave of pleasure in both of them, and with that in mind he tightened his legs around Tuor and clenched about his cock.

In a stuttered thrust and a half, Tuor came, his cry of pleasure swallowed by Maeglin's mouth. Maeglin dizzily realized that at some point, maybe even before Tuor, he'd finished, too, the fluttering relaxation spreading through his body, and almost regretted that it was over so soon.

Tuor was gentle in pulling out of him and carefully swimming them back to where they'd entered the water, whispering soft words all the while that Maeglin didn't register. When they reached a place to walk out of the water, he said, "Do you--?"

"Yes, I rather think I do need help walking," said Maeglin, unable to put any real bite into it.

Somehow, Tuor heard this as meaning "please bundle me up in my dry clothes and carry me back to Ost-nu-Orod," but Maeglin couldn't imagine a fate worse than walking just then, so he allowed it.

Chapter Text

Idril frowned and set down her teacup. It had been a year now since they'd captured Maeglin of Nan Elmoth, and they still hadn't managed to get what they needed from him, though she'd gleaned a number of other useful secrets that could be put to use later, and she'd called a meeting over tea about it. "Repeat that, cousin," she said to Celebrimbor.

"He and I have been trysting?" said Celebrimbor. "It wasn't on purpose, but we worked together so much that it just happened; you know how it can be with the high of successful crafting. And I don't need your scoldings about my taste or self-preservation, I know he's dangerous."

"I don't care that you've bedded him," said Idril. "I'm only confused, because so have Tuor and I. On an embarrassingly frequent basis."

"I'm not embarrassed," said Tuor.

"But so have I!" said Túrin. "I had no idea he's been with the rest of you, but we've been sleeping together for months and months, even if he does threaten me at times."

"Stars, what must his schedule look like, to be able to keep us all separate?" said Idril. "And, more to the point, why bother? We're not likely to get jealous."

"He might not know that," Celebrimbor pointed out. "And he did say once that he used to have a whole horde of jealous suitors."

Idril hummed. "Then we should tell him, so he doesn't hide. In fact, we might as well show him we aren't planning to be jealous, mightn't we? It might set his mind at rest, and we would certainly enjoy ourselves."

"If you mean all having him at once, how do you expect to make that work?" said Celebrimbor, but she could already see him running through arrangements in his mind of how to do it. Some were even more creative than she'd thought of, and she noted those with interest.

"We'll think of something," she said, "and I'd be happy to just direct. I've thought of that plenty, though it was with other people." And this might be better yet. "What think you, my love?"

"I always love your ideas," said Tuor. "If he wants it and so do we all, then it sounds wonderful."

Túrin said, "Are you sure? Don't you think it might be strange, with the four of us being friends and kinfolk, all to couple?"

"We don't need to be joining with each other, just him," said Celebrimbor, "the newly-betrotheds excluded. But you're welcome to watch rather than join in, if you don't like the idea."

"Of course I like the idea," said Túrin, "but that doesn't make it less strange to be present when my younger cousin is fucking someone, much less to be participating."

"...You have a point," said Tuor.

"I don't find it so strange as you do," said Idril. "But do as you're comfortable! We mean to enjoy ourselves, don't we? Even if it's with an evil sorcerer."

"Are we sure he's not seducing us for nefarious purposes?" said Tuor. "Because, now that I think about it, he did lure me to the lake with him at midnight, which is more than a bit suspicious."

"I don't think so," said Túrin, but didn't share his reasoning.

Celebrimbor said, "We'll just have to be cautious. At least we'll all be there to protect one another, which we weren't before."

"Your highness, the lords and lady wish to see you," said Antar. "They have asked me to stress that it will be a private meeting with only the four of them and you, and they will convene in her highness's chambers."

Maeglin went cold. They must have found out something he didn't want them knowing, but what it was, he couldn't guess. His identity as an illegitimate noble, something about Nan Elmoth or Doriath, or even that he'd been in bed with all of them and said nothing about it. In a voice he couldn't quite steady, he said, "I'll meet with them. Did they say anything of what they wanted?"

"Only that it's been a year since you were brought here, that they want to talk, and that it may take some time," they answered. He hadn't expected much of use, but it still bothered him.

"Then I'll go and see them." And bring one or two of his insurances, and escape tonight if all went ill.

But there wasn't any anger on any of their faces when he arrived, only excitement and scheming (for the ones who were capable of scheming, which was to say, Idril). Somehow this worried him more.

"What's this about?" he said, not sitting down on the chair they'd left open for him but instead standing. "And why is it all of you? Did you want a rematch? If you take off the magic-sealing bands, I don't think I'd lose again."

"Nothing like that," said Celebrimbor. "It's only that we compared notes, and it seems you've been busy, since you've gone to bed with all of us and somehow kept it secret."

"It's no one's business," said Maeglin hotly, though his heartbeat sped. They were possessive people, and he didn't like to think what they might do now that they knew they'd been sharing. "Maybe I value my privacy."

"Or maybe you're plotting," said Idril. "I know which one I'd believe. But just to prove to you there's no hard feelings between us, why don't you lie down and we'll show you how happy we are to share? And if this was part of your plan, you're welcome to try and follow through on whatever schemes you've been cooking."

This put him in a position he didn't much like. Either he claimed it was his plan all along, which gave him some dignity but meant he had to let them all have him at once, or he said no, in which case they'd realize how easy he must be to coerce and do that instead of giving him any semblance of choice. And wasn't this where things had always been heading? What else would they want to do with a war prize who refused to be useful for anything else?

"Well, if I'm really so irresistible to you people..." he said. "But if this is one of your plots, to see my mind when I'm vulnerable, I'll make you regret it."

It wasn't even that he particularly minded whether they found out how to enter Doriath, and by now he was wondering why he'd cared so much before. But now, of course, he was keeping silent because he didn't want them to win.

"It's no plot," said Túrin, and he sounded so earnest, even with that dark and brooding demeanor, that Maeglin had trouble disbelieving him.

So Maeglin allowed Túrin to lead him into Idril's bedroom, which they'd probably chosen because she was the tallest and had the biggest bed, and he said, "These clothes aren't going to remove themselves, you know. And since Antar isn't here to help, you'll be having to put them back on me after."

"Hush," said Idril. "I'll be directing. Celebrimbor, Túrin, undress him while my love sees to me."

Maeglin tuned out what went on around him as his clothes were pulled from him. He didn't try very hard to reciprocate the undressing, but did manage to indicate that Celebrimbor and Túrin ought to be taking off their own garments. Without quite meaning to, he reached out and shoved Túrin onto the bed and climbed atop him.

"None of that!" said Idril, still being undressed and fighting with Tuor's breeches. "There isn't room for all of us up there, but I've put down cushioning on the floor. Lie down and let them prepare you."

Maeglin obeyed, a little fog creeping into his mind as he settled on some pillows leaned against the wall, wedging the gap between the wall and the cushioning. The calm always came when he did as he was told, no matter how he wanted to fight it.

Celebrimbor's oil-slicked fingers breached him gently, and Maeglin's gasp at the cold of the oil was muffled by Túrin's lips covering his own. He fought to keep his body relaxed as Túrin kissed him and Celebrimbor made an unwelcome heat take up residence in his stomach, but knowing that he was being watched made it difficult.

"Well, my lords, how do you want to have him?" said Idril. "I'm happy just to watch while Tuor gives me what I need, but I'm sure the three of you have opinions."

Maeglin tensed as they all thought about it and their imaginings flooded his mind.

But Idril changed her approach before anyone could speak. "No, I have a better idea. Maeglin, you tell us what you want us to do to you." Which was much worse.

"I want..." He swallowed and tried again, finding his throat too dry. What would be the least uncomfortable? "If Tuor lies on his back, you could have his tongue as I ride him," he suggested to Idril. This seemed to please her, so he continued. "Celebrimbor can take me from behind, and if Túrin stands up, I could take him in my mouth." Celebrimbor hadn't taken him that way before, no one had, but he wasn't going to risk injury by letting Túrin or Tuor do it. He might've gotten used to letting Tuor use his cunt, but that left him as sore as he was willing to put up with; Celebrimbor was much more reasonably sized than the two Men.

"I think that sounds wonderful," said Celebrimbor, hands skimming over Maeglin's breasts. "But you'll need to get on your front so I can prepare you further."

Maeglin tried to make peace with what he'd just asked for, failed, and decided to ignore it instead. They could all just manhandle him into whatever position they wanted him in, and he'd start paying attention again when it was time to do something.

That time came sooner than expected, but Celebrimbor was sitting him back up with a faint flush on his face. Túrin, too, looked almost feverish with need, and was stroking his cock in a way that reminded Maeglin he'd been right to pick Celebrimbor for this. Idril and Tuor had their hands on one another, but disentangled themselves so that Tuor could lie down as Maeglin had suggested.

At a nod from Idril, Maeglin mounted Tuor uncertainly, and with slow caution sank down on his cock. It took time to take him without undue discomfort, but Maeglin didn't want anyone getting impatient, and that included himself -- no matter how sore he'd be later, he couldn't deny he liked being stretched around Tuor a great deal.

But he could be more full yet: as Idril took up her place on her beloved's mouth and bit her lip to keep from moaning, Celebrimbor took Maeglin's hips in his hands and slid into his ass. Maeglin vaguely regretted not having paid attention before, when he could've been getting accustomed to the feeling, but though it was strange it wasn't at all unpleasant, and being taken from both sides was indescribable.

His mouth fell open a little, mind trying to make sense of too much sensation, and Túrin placed a hand on his head and gently guided his cock to Maeglin's lips. Maeglin obediently closed his mouth and gave a gentle lick, and Túrin let out a strangled gasp as if he hadn't done that before.

Now filled in every way, and with Idril free to tease at any part of his body he could reach, Maeglin's mind went into that soft and foggy state that it always found when Idril ordered him enough. Like this, it was hard to care about the indignity of submitting to his captors or the fear of what they could do to him, only about the pleasure they could give him or he them.

In a soft haze he rocked in place, letting Celebrimbor set the pace of his thrusts and trying to match it to please Tuor. Tuor's face was hidden from view by Idril, of course, but the moans certainly sounded pleased. And Túrin was hot and weighty in his mouth, where Maeglin could suck and lick at him to his heart's content and taste the arousal seeping onto his tongue.

He couldn't say how long he was there, touched from every angle and feeling every sensation twofold, once from his own body and once through the minds of his captors, but he lost himself in their touches and the sheer overwhelming fullness, scarcely even noticing when he came. His mind was fucked as thoroughly as his body, with Idril's relentless assault, and more than once he fell apart in ecstasy between his enemies.

At some point his mouth was filled with Túrin's release, and some time later he was lifted, sticky and sated, off of Celebrimbor and Tuor, who'd both finished in him. He'd felt their pleasure, but it had melded into the rest, and so he hadn't quite registered that they'd climaxed and kept riding instead.

"Poor thing," said Idril with rather unconvincing sympathy as she moved his bonelessly limp frame to the bed. "Were we too rough? No, you liked it too much. We'll go and clean you up, shall we?"

It wasn't until he woke up that afternoon that anyone noticed the marriage bonds.

Chapter Text

Idril would later be embarrassed on two counts: first, she didn't notice the bond between herself and Maeglin, only the one she'd inadvertently formed with Tuor, and second, Maeglin had a knife at Tuor's throat before she even noticed he'd woken up, and this after they'd all talked so much about being careful of the evil sorcerer.

"Was this your plan?" Maeglin hissed, eyes flashing. "To bind me to all four of you and force my obedience that way? Should've been quicker, princess, and finished the job before I could put up new defenses."

"What are you talking about?" she said. "Let him go!" But the wave of Maeglin's anger that washed over her was too strong, too unfiltered, and was reaching her not from her own natural awareness but-- "A bond?"

Maeglin sneered. "Very observant, princess. Was it really not enough to have me humiliate myself for your pleasure, so now you've all married me? I should think you'd know better than to hope Thingol would do you any courtesy for being bonded to me, even if you hadn't forced it."

"None of us intended this," said Idril, her mind racing as she called to Celebrimbor and Túrin with ósanwë. "Let him go."

"No. I think he'll make an excellent hostage to help me get out," said Maeglin. "I'll let him go when I'm safely away from Ost-nu-Orod, how does that sound? And you may want to note that I'm no longer wearing the magic-sealing bands before you try to make another move, and I think I know better than you do the manifold uses of a marriage-bond."

Celebrimbor and Túrin burst in then, side by side, and Túrin had drawn Gurthang, ready to threaten Maeglin for holding his cousin hostage, but he froze upon seeing just how close the knife was pressed to Tuor's throat. "Unhand him," Túrin snarled.

"All in its time," said Maeglin. "But I don't intend to stay wedded to you people. I don't think I believe you didn't mean for this to happen, if only because you all really are fools enough to think it might benefit you."

"We didn't intend on this," said Celebrimbor. "Your highness, believe us! Just let him go, and we can talk this through--"

"It's 'your highness' now, is it?" he said, but then looked at Celebrimbor consideringly. "Hmm. Do you know, I'd like to hear what you're about to offer me, but I'm hardly going to give up my leverage." He snapped the fingers of his left hand, and two pieces of cloth that looked suspiciously like the power-sealing bands lifted from the bed and wrapped themselves around Tuor's wrists, stopping him from moving. Maeglin then let go of the knife, which remained in place at Tuor's throat, and moved his hands to fiddle with a brooch he wore. "There. I'm listening."

Maeglin liked how they were looking at him now, as an enemy with real power who scared them, albeit an enemy they desired. He didn't think he really had it in him to kill any of them -- but they didn't need to know that, so long as he got out. It was only foolishness that he cared as much as he did, foolishness brought on by bedding them too often and learning too much about them.

"You said this wouldn't do our diplomatic position any favors. Why is that?" said Celebrimbor. "And, besides leaving, what is it you actually want?"

Maeglin said, "I want to no longer be a prisoner, and hopefully find my mother. She's--" He shook his head; she wasn't dead, but it was hard to remember that. "She left decades and decades ago, and I think she went back to the kingdoms of the Noldor. She's alive. I want to talk to her, and safe passage to Nogrod, and for none of you and no one of Doriath to ever contact me again."

"Why would you want to avoid Doriath?" said Túrin, who was certainly one to talk.

"Because Thingol won't take me back," said Maeglin, slowly as if to a young child, "seeing as I have a marriage-bond to you people. I'll be written off entirely once he or Melian finds out, if I haven't been already, and I never liked them much in the first place."

"We can get you to Nogrod," said Celebrimbor. "It's not all that far, and we won't tell anyone where you've gone. But you'll have to tell us how to contact your mother."

Maeglin made a frustrated sound in his throat. "That's the problem. You'll have to go looking, because I can scarcely remember her. Barely her face, let alone her name and family, but she told me she's a younger daughter of a noble house."

"And why not?" said Idril. "If you can't recall her, why do you think we can find her? Do you even care for her?"

"You know full well my father was a sorcerer. I would've killed him myself if I'd had the chance," Maeglin spat. "He made me forget her. Sometimes I can't even remember she's alive! You'll find her for me and tell her I'm in Nogrod, and she's the only person I want to see. I also want one of everything Celebrimbor and I made together for further study, and whatever of my belongings from Nan Elmoth you still have."

"That might take more time, but we'll try," said Túrin.

"Is there anything else you want? The Moon itself, perhaps?" said Idril. "Let Tuor go. We aren't going to deceive you or harm you."

"Give me your word, all of you, that you'll give me what I've asked for and do nothing to hurt or hinder me," said Maeglin. "And if you come up with anything else to give me, I'll consider telling you about Doriath in return."

They all gave their word without hesitation, and Maeglin briefly regretted having waited this long to try something, if they were this quick to fold. But then again, they might not have been so easy to deal with before they were knocked off-kilter by the bonds.

Maeglin let the knife fall from Tuor's throat and caught it in his own hand, then tapped the repurposed magic bands to let him move. "There. But I'm leaving the bands on as insurance."

Tuor immediately moved as far away from him as possible, which stung for some reason, and Túrin opened his mouth (to put his foot in it again, like as not) but was interrupted by a frantic knock at the door.

Everyone froze.

"Fix my clothes!" Maeglin commanded in a whisper, as they were falling off him, never having been fully put back on. This somehow brought all the other men to him, even Tuor, and they helped him tie and button his robes back together.

The knock came again as Idril went to the sitting-room door, and Antar's voice, saying, "Princess, my lords, your families are here! They're down in the entry hall, you must greet them!"

Idril ran back to the bedroom to hiss, "Don't you dare cause trouble in front of our families, and find a way to hide that we're wedded!" before rushing out, followed closely by Tuor, then Túrin and Celebrimbor, who each held one of Maeglin's arms in a way that looked like courtesy but felt like being dragged.

Just to annoy them, Maeglin flicked a hand at Tuor and immobilized him.

After the inevitable crash, as the three men were picking one another up off the floor, he said, "I can walk on my own, and you'll let me do so or he stays here."

This worked admirably, and now without the distraction of touch he called up magic to hide the evidence of marriage-bonds in himself and Celebrimbor.

Idril situated him mostly behind her as they came into the entrance hall, giving him a glare before turning a radiant smile towards the elves and Men waiting there. "Atto, Atarnésa! How good to see you! My lords and ladies of Dor-Lómin, cousin Curufin, please come in."

"You seem as if you have news, Ityë," said the elf who must be her father Turgon, but Maeglin couldn't see anything past his very tall captors.

"I do! Tuor and I are wedded, if a little earlier than we'd meant to be, and of course I told you all about how we took Nan Elmoth, but we've had trouble getting any closer to our goal in entering Doriath," she said.

Then there came a voice that set loose a stream of memories in Maeglin's mind, saying lightly, "Well, darling, at least you took care of that awful place and--"

Maeglin shoved all of his captors -- soon-to-be-former captors? lovers? -- out of the way and ran to the voice. Someone gave a warning shout, and someone who looked like Celebrimbor tried to stop him, but a quick flick of his dagger got that person out of the way, and soon he was standing in front of his mother.

"Ammë?" he whispered, looking up at her eyes, which began to glimmer with recognition.

"Lómion?" she said.

Then the dam broke and she embraced him, kissing his brow and his cheek and his nose, and saying his name over and over as if she couldn't believe he was real. Maeglin hugged her back, just as disbelieving, and let himself be held and fussed over even as his marriage-bonds went turbulent and pained.

"Ammë, what are you doing here?" he said when she finally let him speak.

"I came to see Idril," she said, and Maeglin's eyes widened as he recalled her telling him of her family. Idril was her niece! "I had -- I had no idea you were here, Lómion; I couldn't even remember you or I would've come for you sooner! Ityë, how did you know to get him out?"

"I didn't," said Idril, even her iron control not enough to hold back an undercurrent of horror in her tone. "He's the prisoner I wrote to you about. All we knew was that he was Eöl's and he had a Noldorin mother -- not that it was you."

Aredhel shifted so that Maeglin was nearly hidden in her traveling cloak. Her voice was like ice. "You imprisoned my son?"

"How were we to know he wasn't an evil sorcerer?" said Túrin. "He did curse my cousin and Celebrimbor and try to kill us. I'm still not sure he isn't one."

"You dragged me off even after I helpfully left an opening for you to kill my father! You deserved it!" said Maeglin, now feeling secure enough thanks to Aredhel's protection that he had no qualms about shouting. "My only mistake was waiting until today to take one of you hostage and force you to let me go!"

"You didn't say anything about that! How could we have known?" said Túrin.

"Her highness is always trying to read my mind! So much that she accidentally bonded with me and you all got caught up in it and did the same! I thought she was supposed to be competent!" he said, and then realized just what he'd let slip.

"Bonded?" said Aredhel and her brother at the same time. Aredhel continued, "Lómion, what did they--"

"Ammë, don't worry about it," he said, hoping she'd drop the subject. "They're a step up from my old suitors, and they'll let me go now anyway. It doesn't really matter."

She narrowed her eyes. "It does. Darling, even if you wanted to marry them, and it doesn't sound like it, they all ought to know better than to do anything that might result in a bond with a prisoner!"

"It's fine," he insisted, not sure why he wanted to defend them, but his mouth was quicker than his mind. "Please, Ammë, it wasn't all their idea, and I'm a little bit fond of them at this point. I know you're plotting revenge already, but you don't need to. I'm perfectly capable of making them regret their choices myself."

A hint of a grin crept onto her face. "That's my son," she said. "I won't get in your way, then, but I'll be taking their parents to task for certain."

"For what?" said her brother.

"For not teaching your children how to conduct themselves with honor," she said, glaring at him and the others.

Maeglin turned back to his former captors with a grin on his face. "Well, it seems you're stuck with me to some extent," he said, heart racing as he dreamed up new ways to torment them and then drag them to his bed. "Don't think this means I'm going to be any nicer to you."