some sketches for an old au of mine, where Maeglin survives Gondolin and flees from Morgoth’s forces hunting him. He has a run in with the Feanorians in one of the elven cities and is recognized as an Angband thrall/spy. To save his own life, he bargains with his ability to recreate Angrist and to share what plans of Morgoth’s he’d been privy to.
Vibes partly inspired by this track from Rurouni Kenshin
HEY HI HELLO! I just wanted to say I'm okay. Had a couple of serious-ish health issues and went from posting daily to not at all for a (long) sec there. A lot is sorted now and I'm back, bubbies! Have John. This highly beautiful and luscious John. ✌🏻
Because there was some interest for my Feanorians get blamed for the fall of Gondolin au, have some disjointed snippets from the fic that never was:
Falling stone and the clear chime of silver had Tuor jerking around to find Idril clambering over the rubble towards them. Her hair ornaments were tangled in her hair, ash from the Alley of Roses smeared across her face. Eärendil broke free from his nurse’s hands to cling fearfully to his mother leg.
“What of your father?” Tuor asked, voice harsh from the smoke.
“He knew the city would fall, and so he took his own life.” Idril’s gaze was blank, and Tuor realized with a grim pang that his wife had surely watched her father slide a blade into his own stomach. Turgon would rather die at his own hand than witness his shame and the fall of his city.
And it had all come at the hands of one most dear to the king. Tuor glanced behind them, at the roof of Gar Ainion’s burning temple. He had flung Maeglin from its highest stepshinself, knowing the fall would finish what his sword had begun. The traitor’s body had tumbled down the unforgiving stone, black hair and blood, but Tuor had not seen the end as smoke billowed out between them.
His hands had finally purged the filth from Turgon’s family, and its honor was restored. There was no more he could do, not here.
.
The messenger looked half-dead, and no doubt his mount looked equally worn, as he had ridden days and nights without rest to bring them news.
That Gondolin… was destroyed.
The room was silent after the messenger had made his grim report. The doors had been opened to let birdsong and the spring sun pour in, unsuitable accompaniment to the words of death.
The silence was broken by a furious snort. “Fire follows where the Fëanorians go. Apparently no one is safe from their grasping hands, not even Turgon sequestered in his hidden city.” The firebrand that was Gwedhion of Mithrim was not one Fingon wished to have present for such reports, jumping to conclusions based solely on his own bias.
“Be not so swift to lay this tragedy at the Fëanorians’ feet,” Fingon said wearily. “The brothers who would incite fire and bloodshed for any perceived slight are dead, fallen beside Dior.”
“And you think Maedhros would not stoop to this?” Calaerchon said acidly. Fingolfin’s old war advisor tapped his closed fan against the floor. It was clear in his eyes that Fingon was not his father. “Do not defend him because of your shared blood.”
Fingon’s lips thinned. It was an old argument. “I do not defend him. I simply think you leaping to conclusions is sufficient idiocy for today.”
.
Maedhros sat across from the boy, watching as he scarfed down a bowl of noodles like a starving cat. “…When was the last time you ate?” he asked bluntly.
There was a furtive look to the boy’s eyes that told him enough. A beggar who stank of corpses and looked like he’d crawled out of a mass grave himself.
The way he’d reacted when Curufin had pounced on him had spoken of someone with training—as an assassin or something else, Maedhros did not know. And he would take pleasure in tearing this little traitor apart and examining the pieces at his leisure. But first…
A bath, Maedhros decided.