His heart had ever been given to another, but ambition became his constant companion when that love was denied. Her hair, inherited from a mother long lost, glinted gold in the sunlight like the precious metal he mined in the tunnels deep below the Hidden City. And yet she scorned his love, and forced him into an exile of the heart.

Maeglin looked around himself. The great columns, the fountains of marble and gold, the white Tower of the King, all lay broken and burning around him. The plains surrounding the city were already laid waste, and now the city itself fell around him. Turgon had fallen already, the balrogs had made sure of this. They had collapsed the Tower, killing him before he could muster a defense. Now Maeglin had but one mission.

He stalked up the broken steps, jumping over missing patches. The two trees still stood, one wrote of gold, the other of silver. His mother had often told Maeglin of the stories of Telperion and Laurelin, and he wondered for the briefest second if he’d ever see beauty such as them. But as he heard crying, he shook his head and twisted Anguirel in his hand. He had seen beauty such as they possessed; her name was Idril. He would have her at last, once all he had loved less than her broke and died around him. Gondolin had to die for his love to be reborn.

Yet two people still stood in the way: Tuor and Eärendil. The little child of seven, the product of a mixed marriage, a tainted marriage, had to be ended. Idril meant power, and since she had married the Man, Eärendil had become power. He was an heir. Maeglin was unable to forgive such a match, such a betrayal by King Turgon. Maeglin should’ve had her, should’ve been the one to produce an heir, should’ve controlled her fiery spirit. She belonged to him.

He caught sight of the heir upon a wall with Idril. Her golden hair flashed in the fiery waste around them. He grinned. She was within reach. A great roar to his left distracted him for a moment, and he looked over to find Gothmog battling Ecthelion. Duilin stood upon a distant wall, raining arrows down upon the orcs. But it was futile. Morgoth had come to destroy, and only those loyal to Maeglin would be spared. He rushed up the steps onto the wall where Idril tried to push Eärendil ahead.

“It’s over, Idril!” Maeglin laughed lightly. “Your son will die, your husband will die, your people will die.”

“They are our people!” Idril, face stained with tears, drew a dagger from a pouch she held. With a sigh she shook her head. “You will not hurt him.” She pushed her young son behind her, and raised the weapon against her traitorous cousin.

He adjusted his grip on Anguirel, the black sword already dripping with the blood of his former friends. If she would not be his, then she would die as well. None would be allowed beauty when he was denied it.

He strode forward, raising the sword above his head. They could all die for what they did to him, how they hurt him and forbid him from love. They would burn while Morgoth laughed.

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