Warnings: Please heed the warnings listed for this story, they are quite serious. Some of the major/heavy warnings include: rape, suicide, scenes of violence, graphic character death, abortion, child abuse, sexual scenes involving an underage character, and soldiers/captives suffering from PTSD.
I hope you enjoy reading this story, as that is my motivation for posting, and if there is anything you like I always love reviews :D
Character Pic Maglor:
1490 Year of the Trees, Taniquetil, Valinor
Maglor’s teeth clenched like a link of chain as he finished inside her. (It wasn’t to keep her name from spilling off his lips; he hadn’t called out her name in years.)
He rolled off her (not reaching out to pull her into his arms). She huffed, rising to her elbow and leaning over him. Even now his beauty stole her breath. Laurelin’s light cast golden shadows over his skin, reforging his face into a jewel set within a fall of black, black hair. She traced the aristocratic bones and the bow of his lips, ignoring his hands tightening to fists in the sheets at her lingering touch. It was just guilt eating away at him, souring their love.
Maglor, jaw clenched, opened his eyes and looked at her. Once she would have found tenderness in his star-grey eyes, now they regarded her warily, as if she caressed his skin with a bared blade. More and more pieces of himself stopped climbing into bed with her when his body did. But he would never stop coming back to her; she would not allow it.
She cupped his jaw, feeling the heat of his skin and the curve of his bones in her palm. “When will you return to me?”
He must be off, back to Tirion. Laurelin’s light waned, the Mingling fast approaching. The journey down the mountain would not wait. She doubted he’d make it back to the palace before night fell, but as long as he’d left the villa before her husband returned, their affair would remain secret.
“When I can.” He slipped off the bed and began searching the floor for his discarded clothes.
That wasn’t good enough. If she didn’t press now, while she had him here and could bind him with a promise to return to her, he might not come back. His family, who he loved (always) more, would keep him from her. The Fëanorions were so wrapped up in each other that in the past Maglor had followed his father and brothers into the wilds of Valinor without even sending word of his leaving for months.
“It grows so lonely here without you. Come back to bed, lie with me a moment.”
“You know I cannot linger.” He laced up his leggings, his back to her, the stiff line of his shoulders building a wall between them.
Irimë could not let him leave like this. Her voice took on a vulnerable note, “You will not come back.” Folding desperation into it, hands fisting the sheets as he looked back at her, “Every time it is I begging for scraps of your love! Cannot you see how you are hurting me? One day you will leave me for another. You are a prince of the Noldor. Countless women must throw themselves at you in Tirion while I am forgotten here on this mountain!”
“You know that is not true.” The look he cast back at her over the line of his shoulder was closed (as if he had to guard himself against her).
“How can I know that when you are never here?” Her lip trembled. She hated lowering herself to these displays, but it became harder and harder to draw him back.
His mouth thinned. “I cannot slip away so easily. My brothers have long suspected I have a lover, only your identity remains unknown, and I cannot risk it.”
“I would risk it for you. But I am never enough to come back to when your father—” His nostrils flared, a misstep on her part. She mustn’t pit his love for her against that which he bore his family. Resentment churned in her belly, but she chased his retreating body, capturing his hands. She brought them to her lips and kissed his palms, “I cannot bear our partings; the thought of your absence brings out the worst in me. Forgive me.”
He sighed. There was too much weight, too much weariness in that breath. She kissed his skin more desperately. “You know I only want to see you happy, don’t you? I will speak no more of your father. I know how you dislike it.”
“Forget it.” He drew his hands away. “And I will not speak of my father either, for you understand not the first thing about him.”
Hot words sprang to her tongue, but she swallowed them back. There was no quicker way to drive Maglor from her bed than to speak ill of his family. But she understood Fëanor a good deal better than Maglor, who could not see his father with clear eyes. Oh yes, she understood that selfish, spoiled creature.
“Let us not quarrel, my love, but tell me when you shall return to me?” She smiled at him, a smile she knew was full of beauty. “My skin longs for yours when you are away. Do not leave me with nothing to fill the lonely nights.” She wrapped her arms around his waist where he’d withdrawn to the bed’s edge, and bent her head to kiss his chest, mouth running up to his shoulders. “Say you will return within the month.”
“No, return to me, my love!” She kissed his neck.
“Enough, Irimë, I cannot.”
She pushed away from him, “You won’t! You will leave me bereft for months while you give a thousand others the sweetness of your presence that should have been mine! Why are you forever pushing me away when all I have ever done is love you? I have given you everything I am, Maglor, why isn’t that enough?”
Guilt flashed in his eyes, and he softened to her with a sigh, though he did not tell her he loved her. The words had not passed his lips in years. “You know this is the way it must be between us. I do not know what else you want from me.”
She knew him so well, knew just what act to play to turn him to putty in her hands, and just which ones to tread lightly about lest his voice cool. But the game had grown tricky of late. He’d matured into a man of full stature and come into his own. He’d learned what it felt like to have every eye in the room riveted on him, his beauty, his unparalleled talent, enthralled in the sound of his voice. He was no longer an inexperienced youth fresh from years in the wild, eager to explore another’s body, with an open heart oh-so-easily plucked.
Before she could seal the game, the bedchamber door flung open. A fey spirit of summer-blue eyes, a grin like a pickle, and a wealth of golden hair more precious than all the gemstones in her peal-inlaid jewelry box, dashed in.
She snatched up the sheets, pressing them to her breast as her son skidded to a stop, wide eyes darting between Irimë’s sheet-covered form and Maglor’s naked chest. Her son’s fingers fluttered like nervous bird wings around a crudely carved toy boat. The sloppily stitched sail revealed its creator’s identity.
She swallowed thickly, cursing necessity and secrecy that had forced her to send the servants away lest they tell their lord, her husband, of Maglor’s presence in the villa. She’d sent Glorfindel to play by the stream, but it seemed he’d grown tired of sending his handcrafted boat sailing down the rocky mountain brook. Usually such play would entertain him for hours, but luck was against her this day. Without a minder to prevent him from bursting into his mother’s rooms like a whirlwind, her son had stumbled upon a scene he was far too young to witness but not young enough to misunderstand.
Glorfindel’s mouth was a soft O as his huge eyes trailed slowly over Maglor’s bare chest. Irimë’s stomach knotted as her son’s innocence revealed more than the normal curiously of a child observing a full-grown adult. He was too young to comprehend the desires that would turn his head and send heat coiling lower than his belly in a few years, but its first stirrings were already upon him: whispered conversations with other boys as they speculated on girls and that grow-up thing called sex, and the first tentative explorations under the bedcovers with only Telperion’s silver light for witness.
Maglor shifted under the child’s too-bold stare. “Glorfindel!” Irimë’s voice came harsh with fear, and snapped the child’s eyes back to her.
She wondered if this was some punishment of the gods for her lusts. But why must they punish her son for the parents’ sin? Glorfindel had been conceived in sin, the child of an incestuous relationship between aunt and nephew. Maglor didn’t know, Glorfindel didn’t know, and her husband hadn’t even a sliver of suspicion, but she knew. She saw the kindling of deviant desires in her son’s eyes as he looked upon, not only a male, but his unknown father, as punishment for her and Maglor’s flaunting of the laws.
If this was a punishment, than the Valar had underestimated Irimë, daughter of Finwë, if they thought she’d accept it submissively. She’d see this unnaturalness stamped out of her son if it broke her. She wouldn’t let her sins ruin her son’s life.
She’d gouge these perverse desires out of her son while he was yet young and malleable, so that when he reached maturity he’d be safely cloistered in the delights of female wiles. It was for the best. Glorfindel would only face a life of disgrace if any discovered abnormal leanings in him.
“Glorfindel darling,” she called her son forward.
“Mother,” a blush rode his cheeks, and he cast his gaze down as he approached her scantly covered body. He was too young to have witnessed his mother in bed with a man who was not his supposed father, but Irimë was almost thankful now that he’d discovered them. It was better to know of her son’s desires now, while he was still fixable.
His fingers curled shyly about his toy boat as he darted quick glances back at Maglor from beneath thick lashes. This would not do. Irimë placed her hand on Glorfindel’s storm of hair, calling her son’s attention back to her. “I am sure you are confused, even frightened—”
“I’m not frightened!” Glorfindel declared with all the passion of young boys desperate to prove they weren’t ‘babies’ anymore.
She smiled down at him indulgently, “Of course not. I am very proud of you for being so brave.” He beamed at the praise, head tilting ever-so-slightly into the fingers combing through the golden coils of his hair. “In fact, I have a special mission for my Golden Knight if he is up to the task.”
He nodded, an earnest expression on his face. They’d played this game before, but never had it held such importance as it did in this moment.
“It is a secret that you must seal in your heart as if the Kingdom’s fate rested solely upon it. It must never pass your lips, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother,” Glorfindel said, all seriousness.
“Good. Promise me, my Golden Knight, that you will never speak to anyone about Maglor being here today, or that you have seen us together. Especially not to your father. He won’t understand.”
Glorfindel gave her a shrewd look that jarred with the plumpness of cheeks still caring baby fat, and eyes usually so guileless. Irimë suppressed the urge to squirm under her son’s gaze. If there was any doubt before it was now torn away: Glorfindel knew what it meant for two adults to be unclothed in the same room, or knew as much as any child could. But he said, after a moment of tension in which Irimë feared he’d refuse her and break the rules of their childish game, “I promise, Mother. I won’t tell anyone Cousin Maglor was here, not even Father.”
Irimë winced at the reminder of Maglor’s familial relationship.
As Maglor stepped around the bed to ruffled Glorfindel’s wild tuffs of gold, Irimë was thankful for Glorfindel’s coloring that blinded Maglor to Glorfindel’s true parentage. But Glorfindel’s Vanyarin-fair hair and blue eyes could only do so much to disguise the familiar bone structure of his face. Irimë feared, as Glorfindel matured, his resemblance to his true father would become more apparent.
She wished she could have told Maglor that the child he even now smiled at as he complimented the boy’s proudly displayed toy boat was his son. But she knew Maglor. He’d want a relationship with Glorfindel. He wouldn’t be able to hide his attachment, and he’d become jealous of another man’s place as father in his son’s life and end up doing something rash and foolishly noble (like claim Glorfindel publicly).
She wished he would. She wished he’d scoop them both up and carry them back to Tirion. But just as she knew Maglor would fight to be part of his son’s life, she also knew it would not end there. Maglor’s love went first and foremost to his father and brothers, and if they forced him to choose between them and his lover, he would always, always, choose them.
She had Maglor escort a chattering Glorfindel from the room, her son skipping ahead and singing praise of his pony that he’d set his heart on Maglor meeting. After Irimë slipped on a gown and pulled her thick hair back, she followed the two most important men in her life down to the stables. She fisted her long skirts to keep the hem from tailing in the mud and horse droppings as she picked her way through the stables and out to the paddock beyond.
She found her son seated high on the back of Maglor’s storm-grey stallion, with her lover holding him from behind, those elegant fingers controlling the proud beast with a few deft pulls and the melody of his voice. The stallion ran along the encircling fence of the paddock like a beaver biting at its paw for freedom when caught in the hunter’s trap. The Elder did not break-in horses, so their mounts always had a touch of the wild in their blood. Lord Oromë’s creatures would consent to carry an Elf for a time, and on occasion form a life-long bond with their riders if there was great loved between them.
Glorfindel beamed as the wind danced through his hair, playing with it like sunlight. His cheeks were pink with wind’s kiss, and his eyes two pieces of the summer sky. Irimë had never seen him so happy with his false father Calaher, her husband. It made her yearn all the more to reveal the special bond her son shared with Maglor. But the knowledge threatened too much.
Glorfindel’s abandon pony stamped its foot in jealously where it stood neglected and envious beside the paddock’s fence. The pony’s white mane had been braided with little tinkering bells, and its tail threaded with colorful ribbons. Looking at her son’s flamboyant pony, Irimë wondered if she should have picked up on Glorfindel’s abnormalities earlier. Well, it was not too late to straighten out her son’s soft, bent edges and lead him back to the proper path.
As Maglor pulled the stallion into a walk and steered them back towards the gate and Irimë’s waiting figure, she caught his eye. With one look he stole her breath. Heat twisted in her belly and rose in her throat. With just one look she’d gone dry-mouthed with lust.
Maglor slid as lithe as a cat from the horse’s back, and reached up to haul Glorfindel down, his hands cupped under the boy’s armpits. As Maglor ruffled Glorfindel’s hair and flashed him a shared, secret smile between boys, Irimë feared the red infusing her son’s cheeks was not solely from exertion.
“Maglor,” she called him away from her son. Maglor did not see the way Glorfindel’s face fell as Maglor left him to come to Irimë.
Irimë closed the distance to Maglor swiftly. She would not let him leave without a kiss. She slipped her arms around his neck, and sealed her mouth to his.
He returned the kiss –briefly. He pushed her body back from its flush against his, and twisted a look back at Glorfindel. Glorfindel watched them, head cocked like a curious, wondering bird. He smiled like sunrise when Maglor looked his away.
“Maglor,” she snapped. He looked back at her with a frown. She smoothed over the lines of tension in her face with a smile more beautiful than any sunrise. “Promise me you will return.”
A pause. His face was inches from hers and yet miles apart. He was somewhere else, back in Tirion with his brothers, or in Fëanor’s sprawling mess of a manner house Fëanor had raised a pack of wild boys in with his plain wife.
Her fingers dug into his arms. “You have to come back to me. Promise me.” Between her words squatted the leaden shadows of words lying forever between them: the words she’d used to hook him back when –almost—he escaped her arms, words that promised a heart that could not beat without its lover, words of death and madness.
Maglor examined her with a shuttered expression, as if weighing how long he could remain absent from her arms before she began fading or acted on the revenge she swore against him if he abandoned her. She had meant every threat. She was not a woman easily scorned.
“You’re coming back, aren’t you Cousin Maglor?” Glorfindel’s high, hopeful voice piped up.
Maglor turned from her fully, shaking off her hold, and faced Glorfindel with crooked smile, a spark of mischief in his eyes, “Would you like that, sweetheart?”
Color swooped through Glorfindel’s cheeks, and his thick lashes lowed like fans over his eyes. His mouth curled into a secret little smile as he looked up at Maglor through his lashes, displaying a disturbing blend of coyness and innocence. Irimë’s stomach rolled. There was no time to waste; her son had been cursed with the loose nature of a bed boy.
“Yes, very much,” Glorfindel breathed in a tone far too close to flirtation.
Irimë was not imagining things, Maglor saw it too, but spoke no word of censure. His smile only grew sweeter, eyes softening as he looked upon Glorfindel. He said, his enthralling voice gentled, “Then I promise to return. You must practice your riding and show me how you improved when next I visit. What do you say, dear-heart? Deal?”
Glorfindel’s cheeks did not know they should be ashamed of the high, pink color riding them, his eyes did not know they spilling all his secrets out for the world to mock and shun, and his voice, untrained in concealment, poured his perversion out into the air like blood spraying from a wound, “I’ll practice every day! I promise!”
Maglor laughed, the sound pure and dazzling as diamonds. He closed the distance to Glorfindel and squeezed his shoulder. Though an innocent touch, it encouraged Glorfindel’s infatuation and Maglor should have known better. Glorfindel, who possessed all the subtly and restraint of the wanton, basked in the touch. It was a vile display, and Irimë determined to keep Maglor away from Glorfindel from now on.
She pulled Maglor away from her son, leading him to his horse (perhaps the first time in their acquaintance she was the one to hustle him out). “The hour grows late.”
Maglor did not deny her words, but lengthened his stride, pulling away from her. As he swung into the saddle, she caught at his hand, “You promised to return to me.”
His eyes flickered down to her, remote as starlight. She read in his face the correction he did not voice: he promised Glorfindel to return. But he nodded, sharply, and turned his horse’s head to the gate.
“Good-bye, Cousin!” Glorfindel called, running up to keep pace beside Maglor’s horse and wave. Maglor flashed a last smile at Glorfindel, lifting his hand in farewell, before urging his horse into a trot and clearing the gate.
He did not look back at her for one last drink at the banquet table of her beauty. She set her jaw. He had given his word; he would return to her. She just needed more time to work on his heart and coax the love he’d once carried for her back into life.
If only he did not dwell so far away; if only she were not cloistered up here in this gilded cage.
She looked about the secluded villa nestled on the knees of Taniquetil with distaste. The Vanyar were a pious, remote people, secluded by their zealous devotion to the Valar. They peeked out of curtained windows as she walked their city streets –forever an outsider—as if they could judge her upon her devotion to the Valar just by the way she walked or the hour she shopped. Their ladies gossiped behind closed doors, trays of delicacies before them and the light wines the Vanyarin were famous for in their goblets. They picked over who’d been seen doing what, and who was neglecting their worship at Manwë and Varda’s feet, all the while secure in their own virtuousness and pharisaical thoughts.
Irimë did not go up the Mountain to worship the Valar, for which she earned scandalous looks and no playmates for her son, for who would send their children to play with the child of an apostate? Her husband, on the other hand, was an honored lord of the Vanyar, and a devoted follower of the Valar.
It had been an arranged marriage. When her father made no effort to find her a match with an honorable Noldo lord, her mother took up the neglected duty. After so many years enduring the critical eyes of the Noldorin court that forever compared her to Míriel, Indis had wanted a happier, simpler life for her daughter. Irimë had known no happiness and wanted no simplicity, but she raised no objection to the marriage, placing her trust in her mother’s hands.
Maglor had been no more than a runny-noised child at the time, far from the man who’d one day steal her heart and make her bitterly regret the marriage vows that bound her to her husband without hope of legal separation.
As the pine trees swallowed up her lover, Irimë stuffed down the regrets that rubbed like sandpaper against her throat. She lifted her chin into the mountain wind. She would know happiness again, even if she had to wrestle Maglor’s heart, black and blue, back to her.
She steered her son inside to await her husband’s return from Manwë’s feet. She sat Glorfindel down and began the long labor of purging his unnatural desires. It would be a hard and painful road, but one she was determined to endure –for her son’s sake.