A.N.: As I have made clear (a very long time ago, as I am on my way of becoming the Queen of Procrastination), I have been toying with the idea of a sequel of sorts to Omentie. When I finally managed to grab myself out of a handful of Darkover series books and take a good look at the Silmarillion, the fic was pretty much done overnight. It seems Eol was quite willing to tell his side of the tale.
And so, without further ado, I’ll let him do just that.

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Eol wondered what he’d done wrong. Not a pleasant experience, for he was a prince among the elder, the Master of his house and land, and- yes, he could admit it, if only to himself- much too proud for comfort.

And he bore the lump that threatened to permanently constrict his airway with a philosophical shrug, whilst searching his long memory for the moment that had turned the tide. The Dark Elf refused to think of it as Fate. Eol was too self-righteous, too strong to even consider one’s lot in life was set from the moment of begetting or before, that one was but a puppet playing a role for the amusement of the Powers as the long stream of Time passed by.

Fate, he thought with contempt, was an excuse of the weak.

The lord of Nan Elmoth considered himself better than that, and ruthlessly urged his steed to fly over the miles between his land and the dwelling of the Usurpers sons of Feanor, a lone tear falling down his cheek unnoticed. That he would ever be forced to go there of his own volition was in itself enough atonement for whatever sin he had committed. What he was, was a realistic. Eol saw things as they were, and spoke of them without embellishment- when he deigned to speak. Ar-Feiniel had often said he worked hard and spoke little, and he agreed with her. Why waste time and energy on words when it was clear what they needed was firm action? He was sure his deeds would speak for him better than he could. Ever since Thingol had given him his feuf, Eol dedicated himself to keep land and people safe from harm.

And it was a bitter medicine to swallow, realizing that he should have wielded words with the same mastery he did hammer and forge. The relentless pursue across the plains gave him plenty of time to think, and the emotions, rather than the motion of the faint pain of hunger, made him dizzy.

For Eol had thought- hoped, even- his constancy would counteract Aredhel’s mood swings. That he was a solid enough character to balance the stain in her past. The years worrying of the shadow that threatened to invade their borders and swallow them both had tempered her and given her a sense of reality that the spoiled princess of the golodh had lacked. The gift of their son certainly had brought her a sense of fulfillment that made her bloom. Life, with all its toil and trouble, was good, and they were content.

For a while.

But Aredhel would not be content to remain in one place for long. Slowly, the wanderlust that brought her to Endor and to him awoke again. And with it the desire to visit her cousins, the Kinslayers.

Never mind that around the borders the servants of the Enemy were closing in on them. Never mind that Eol bode her to mind her fallen bodyguards, whose bodies had never been found. Never mind he pointed out- repeatedly- he was of the Teleri, and loath to have his wife dealing with the Sons of Feanor; all these the lady dismissed as petty jealousy of narrow-mindedness, and heeded not. Many heated words were exchanged on the affair, until at last Ar-Feiniel stopped talking about it altogether. But she did not stop talking about it with Maeglin. The lady seduced their son with the tales of the works of the golodhrin, filling the youth with a yearning to go see for himself the ivory cage she called Ostolinde.

To leave his house for the land of the usurpers. His father for the slayers of their kin. Was it any wonder Eol had lost his nerve? Had Aredhel really thought he would yield when it was his son and not her who asked?

“You are of the house of Eol, Maeglin, my son,” he said. “Not of the Golodhrin. All this land is the land of the Teleri, and I will not deal nor have my son deal with the slayers of our kin, the invaders and usurpers of our homes. In this you shall obey me, or I will set you in bonds.”*

Blind by rage he had been, and regretted his words almost as soon as he uttered them, for Maeglin was his son in mind and mood, if not in looks for he took after his mother. And as the blood cooled in his vessels Eol recognized the cold rage and the hurt in the youth’s eyes. From that moment forth Maeglin shunned him and went abroad with him no more, and Eol mistrusted his own child.

But never, never ever, he conceived that they would leave him. And with barely a word.

The dark elf could not explain why he had felt ill-at-ease in Norgrod. He had traveled there often, and held the Naugrim his friends. But this year he found he could not quite enjoy the Midsummer feast, nor keep himself in the city. Eol decided to return as soon as was politely possible.

His heart was heavy.

Then he arrived, and found his lady wife and son two days gone, off to see the sons of Feanor.

Eol barely registered the pain. He yelled for a fresh horse to be brought and some provisions procured, and with those he went after his wayward family, alternating prayers for their safety and curses for their unfaithfulness under his breath. The sons of Feanor! Had they no shame?

Maybe, just maybe, he should have sent the lady back to Curufin with a nice ribbon and his best wishes. That certainly was more intricate a vengeance than Eol would ever conceive against the brat.

Maybe it served him right for bonding with a golodh.

The Dark Elf loved the stars and favored nighttime, but in his haste he no longer shied from the sun. Day and night he rode, cursing and praying, praying and cursing. And he entered the Himlad. Eol restrained himself best as he could, and even bore- with more civility than he should have liked- Curufin’s barbs. Typically, he thought to himself, Aredhel forgot to mention their wedding was as much her doing as his. Apparently he was being labeled some dark and unnatural creature that ensnared stray maidens in the wood. Hearing it one would think he all but sneaked into Gondolin and whisked the princess from under the King’ nose, after he killed her bodyguards with cold blood and touches of cruelty.

The golodh had far too much imagination. No wonder Feanor had roused them against the Powers, and with that brought the Enemy’s attention to Endor.

But then the elf-lord was gloating about the lady traveling westwards.

And Eol’s heart was broken.

For his family was fleeing to Gondolin. Aredhel never did tell him either its location or the means by which to gain entrance, and he knew that those who came in were scarce seen again. Turgon was ever careful of his secret. And once the King had them under his wings, Eol would never lay eyes on them again.

Eol bit his lips till he tasted the metallic tang of blood, and at once set himself on the road. Thoughts of orcs and olog hai, trolls and spiders, balrogs and fire-breathing dragons filled his mind.

At that moment, he would have happily throttled his wife and son himself.

No matter how often he cajoled the grey to keep pace; his prey was still days ahead of him. There was precious little to trail, specially in a hurry, and Eol thought he would be forced to admit Ar-Feiniel and Maeglin were forever lost up to the moment when their riderless horses met him on their way back in Brithiach, and he at last saw the white of Aredhel’s garment in the distance. Renewed, the Dark Elf crossed the miles even as he marked which way his lady wife was taking, and where in the rocks she disappeared.

But he was not known to the guards, and upon arrival at the entrance an unholy trio of armed guards jumped on him, and fought him, putting him in bonds and dragging him to the jail. For the penalty for entering the hidden city was pain of death- but Eol was strong, and grim, and of noble instance.

And he bellowed his rage, threw down his capturers more than once, and demanded to see King and wife.

Later- much later- the messenger came back with orders to release the prisoner and take him to the Throne Room, where the king would receive him. Aredhel had at least confirmed they were family.

So gracious of her.

The city was lovely. Eol was an artist himself, and the intrinsic beauty of the city could not be lost to him- but rather than soothing his raw nerves, it angered him all the more. The prince had whished the craftsmanship of the golodhrin was exaggerated, so he could take some comfort in the fact that his house was lovelier. But even that was denied him.

In the Throne Room Turgon sat in a high armchair of rosewood and gold, Aredhel on his right and Maeglin on his left, and some of the Gondolin Houses’ lords flanking his sides.

The dark Elf bit back a frustrated growl. Facts were what they were, and yet he had had to come all the way to Turgon’s dwelling and look into her eyes to accept it. Aredhel was cool and aloof, every bit a princess. She gave him no sign of warmth, or even of fear or repulsion. Or anything at all.

Maeglin’s face was a study in impassiveness. He stood tall and silent as a grave, and just as welcoming.

Turgon greeted Eol with what honor he still possessed, declaring that he would be welcomed in the city and in the family. There was only one small problem. The prince would become his vassal, and indeed his prisoner, for the King’s law declared he could not depart Gondolin and live.

Never to depart?
“I acknowledge not your law,” he spoke with a quiet authority that nearly covered the insult. “No right have you or any of your kin in this land to seize realms or to set bounds, either here or there. This is the land of the Teleri, to which you bring war and all unquiet, dealing ever proudly and unjustly. I care not to spy upon you but to claim my own: my wife and my son. Yet if in Aredhel your sister you have some claim, then let her remain; let the bird go back to the cage, where soon she will sicken again, as she sickened before. But not Maeglin. My son you shall not withhold for me. Come, Maeglin, son of Eol! Your father commands you. Leave the house of his enemies and the slayers of his kin, or be accursed!”**

Maeglin did not answer. Turgon it was who rose, the faintest flicker of a blue vein in his forehead disclosing his wrath. And grimly he reaffirmed his law, that Eol should choose to die within the city, or to live within the city, and his son with him.

And Eol was like a marble statue, studying the king for a long moment. He could see Aredhel squirming in the seat, but it seemed to him like the echo of a dream. The golodhrin were at once alert and at the ready, and Eol knew he would have no more than one moment, and it would be over.

Now a dark chill ran down his spine, not altogether unpleasantly, and the sinda considered his choices with abnormal calm. It was clear to him his family was lost, as it was clear they loved him no more. And now the King decreed he was to lose his independence, his freedom, his friends and his lands.

It did not helped matters that he truly did abhor the Kinslayers. Living with them was not an option.

‘Death be then’, Eol thought grimly, ‘for me and mine.’ Such a strong man Maeglin was, so full of promise. But he would not be given to Turgon.

Eol was not jesting when he said that the King would not have Sharp Glance.

Fast and sure, his hand found the poisoned javelin he kept under his tunic, since his other weapons had been taken away at the gates by the guards, and threw it at Maeglin.

Whether he youth willed it or not, they’d be together in death.

“The second choice I take and for my son also! You shall not hold what is mine!”*

With a fascinated dread he watched as Aredhel rose form the seat and placed herself in front of her son, even as the court spurt to life. Guards and lords alike flew above him, throwing the Dark Elf to the ground within moments, as the King tended to his sister. Eol watched Turgon tenderly retrieve the dart from Aredhel’s shoulder, and suppressed a smile. There was no hope for Ar-Feiniel.

Somehow, it was fitting.

Alone in the cell Eol sensed the moment his wife’s fea yielded to the poison. He shuddered, disturbed by the knowledge that he, too, was a murderer now.

After her passing, it all became a blur. He could almost recall a trial, if indeed it was a trial. Eol was quite sure he had simply been led to Turgon and the King decreed his immediate termination. Once again he was dragged away, this time to Caragdur.

Maeglin went with the crowds to see his death, he knew, but his son never said a word. It was he, Eol, who broke the silence at last, cursing his offspring.

For his heart was still bleeding, and there was no respite from the pain.

And Eol welcomed death, and did not cry as he was cast forth from the precipice, but smiled.

Served him right, for dealing with the golodhrin.

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* Verbatim quotation from The Silmarillion.
** Almost verbatim quotation from The Silmarillion.

Endor– sindarin for Middle-earth
Golodh– sindarin for Noldo
Golodhrin– sindarin for Noldor
Ostolinde– Gondolin’s Quenya name

A.N.:While Eol delcares himself to be kin with the teleri, he is accounted among the Sindar. Probably we should not be too picky about that, since the Sindar clan is stated to be of telerin origin.
Eol’s appearance is said to be grim but noble, with fair skin, dark hair, and dark eyes, and very strong.