Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The halls of the palace crawled with orcs. Maeglin needed them to keep the elves that had survived the sack and siege in line, but that didn’t make it any easier to look at them, even for him.

But even with the orcs, he couldn’t keep the city under control.

Maeglin scowled, then called their commander forward. “Bring me the surviving lords.”

During the siege the forces of Morgoth had been given specific instructions: they weren’t to kill the lords of the city if they could avoid it.

Glorfindel, Galdor, and Ecthelion had all survived and been captured. Egalmoth had been seen fleeing with Tuor and Idril and since most of the House of the Heavenly Arch had escaped, Maeglin hadn’t seen a reason to install a new leader. Rog had initially survived as well, but he’d managed to break out of his prison and Maeglin had killed him, replacing him with Enerdhil as the leader of the House of the Hammer.

Duilin had been as he’d fired arrows from the city walls, so Maeglin had captured his son, Tuilindo, instead, letting him be in charge of the house of the Swallow.

Penlod had fallen, trampled into dust in an alley, so the Houses of Snow and Pillar went to Pengolodh.

Salgant was noticeably absent, but Maeglin had killed the minstrel himself after his forces had rebelled and had the remainder of his house executed by the orcs.

Then, he’d had the remainder of the Lords brought to the Palace. The Tower of Turgon had fallen, but the Palace had remained more or less intact, and Maeglin had taken it over. He could have made the House of the Mole into the palace, but that would mean letting more people into his house than he was fully comfortable with.

Better to keep them away from his halls.

The Lords were clearly still exhausted, many leaning on one another for support, it had been a few days since the battle, but it was clear they hadn't rested. A few still seemed to be wearing their armor and most of them were stained by blood and dirt. The only thing missing was their weapons, which Maeglin had ordered taken from them as soon as he'd won. 

Maeglin leaned back in the throne, surveying the room with dark eyes. “As Turgon’s heir, I am now the King.”

It wasn’t a terribly eloquent thing to say, but it got his point across. He hammered it home by adding, “That means that you do whatever I tell you, even if I order you to kill one of your own.”

He motioned to Rog and Turgon’s heads, mounted on stakes along the wall. “Unless you’d like to join your friends.” Turgon’s head was still slightly squished from where they’d dug it out from the rubble, but it got the point across.

“Perhaps we would.” Galdor stepped forward, shaking off Glorfindel’s hand when the Golden Lord attempted to stop him.

Maeglin waved to one of the orcs. “Cut out his tongue.”

“Lord Maeglin,” Glorfindel said quickly. “He may find it difficult to carry out your orders if he lacks a tongue.”

Maeglin held up his hand to slow the orc as he mulled over Glorfindel’s words. He wasn’t willing to admit that the elf had a point, but since he did have a point, he needed to do something.

“Take him to the Square of the King and give him forty lashes. Then leave him tied to a post until I order him released.” Then, just to prove that he wasn’t easily manipulated. “Take Glorfindel with you. He should have ten lashes for speaking out of turn.”

Orcs grabbed both of the Lords he’d indicated, pulling them toward the door with more force than was necessary. “Give the rest of them five,” Maeglin called. “Just because I’m bored.”

He imagined them protesting or perhaps begging for mercy, but instead they walked outside obediently, following the orcs without a word.

Maeglin lounged on the throne, watching them go, telling himself that he was imagining the disappointed look from Turgon’s head.

Unable to sit by himself, with only a few heads to keep himself company, Maeglin strode out to the balcony, leaning on the rail and watching as the orcs striped the lords of their armor, throwing it into a pile on the ground.

A few of the remaining citizens were watching, too afraid to flee as they were pulled forward, one by one, and beaten.

A few of them screamed.

A few seemed to cry.

But not a single one begged.

Even Galdor remained stoic as blood poured down his back. He had to be helped away from the post when his beating was done.

Maeglin growled and stormed down from the balcony, into the Square. He stopped in front of the line of lords, where they were sitting, leaning on one another for support. Almost at random, he chose one, pointing to Ecthelion and saying, “Come here.”

Glorfindel looked as though he was going to argue again, but Ecthelion brushed him off, stepping up to Maeglin and bowing, only a slight tremor giving away the pain he was in.

“What does my King desire?”

Maeglin hadn’t made up his mind as to what he wanted. All he knew was that he was livid his captives had refused to give him the show he’d wanted. He turned back to the orc that had delivered their beating. “Lash him.”

The creature tilted its head, giving Maeglin a curious look. “‘Ow many?”

“Until I tell you to stop!”

Ecthelion stepped to the post without another word, offering his hands to the orc and letting it tie him in place. The orc took it’s place behind him, whip in hand, without another word.

But it wasn’t Ecthelion he watched. It was Glorfindel.

The Golden lord seemed frozen, watching with horror as he close friend was tortured. He winced with each strike of the whip, and grew paler the longer it lasted.

But when he stood, Maeglin knew something had happened. Glorfindel seemed to plan to run to Ecthelion, but Tuilindo stopped him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back.

Maeglin glanced over his shoulder. The Lord of the Fountain had gone limp, the shackles on his wrists were the only thing holding him upright. “Glorfindel, see if he’s alive.”

Glorfindel rushed forward, placing a hand on Ecthelion’s throat to check his pulse. “He lives.”

“Pity.”

Glorfindel ran his hand through Ecthelion’s dark hair, and Maeglin could already tell he’d won. As if on cue, Glorfindel asked, “Might I take him to a healer?”

“Beg me.”

One of the other lords gasped. Maeglin didn’t care enough to see which one. Glorfindel barely seemed to think before moving forward, kneeling on the ground in front of Maeglin and murmuring, “Please my lord, allow me to help him.”

“No.”

Glorfindel’s head shot up, his eyes widening. “Please! Lord Maeglin-”

Someone called for Glorfindel to be quiet, but Maeglin kept his eyes firmly on the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. “King. I am your King, and you will refer to me as such.”

“King Maeglin,” he said, clasping his hands together tightly. “He needs a healer or-”

“Or he will die a horrific death,” Maeglin finished, almost gleeful at the horrified expression on Glorfindel’s face.

“Please-”

“One week.” Maeglin turned on his heel. “No, three days. You may have three days to heal him. Bring him to me at the end of it.”

Glorfindel sobbed in thanks as he rushed to grab his friend. Maeglin didn’t look back, striding into the Palace with a grin on his face.

Perhaps he hadn’t gotten Idril, but at least he could finally show his uncle’s precious friends exactly what he thought of them.

Chapter Text

He only gave Glorfindel a day before ordering the Golden Lord to the palace. “Only him,” he told the orc he sent to deliver his message. “I don’t need the whipping boy.”

He’d found Glorfindel’s weak spot - the other lords, Ecthelion in particular - and intended to exploit it for all it was worth. Then he’d just have to figure out what to do with the rest of them.

Maeglin paced the library, running his hands over the rows of books. He’d once spent hours in there, trying desperately to teach himself Quenya to impress his uncle. In the end, he hadn’t truly succeeded. He still spoke with an accent, still found himself falling back on old habits and using Sindarin or Avarin.

He was debating having the books burned when the door opened, Glorfindel stepping inside and bowing. “My King,” he murmured.

“How the whipping boy?” Maeglin asked, enjoying the way Glorfindel winced at the moniker.

“Ecthelion is doing well,” Glorfindel replied, bowing his head. “His wounds are beginning to close.”

“Good.” The smith grinned. “I will have need of him soon.”

He didn’t have anything specific planned, but the way Glorfindel paled amused him. “As my lord commands.”

“I need someone to act as my second,” he said. “Someone more intelligent than an orc.” Glorfindel didn’t seem to know what to say, so Maeglin said, “I’ve chosen you.”

“I am honored-”

“You are my eyes and ears. You report everything directly to me. You will come to me every morning and every evening.”

Glorfindel bowed.

“I know you hate me.”

“I have never hated you.”

“Maeglin’s eyes flashed. “Don’t lie to me-”

“My king-”

“Here are my expectations,” Maeglin interrupted. “You may call me by my name, in private. In fact, I order you to.” A part of him missed his name, he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had used it near him. Glorfindel only nodded at the order.

“You may offer objections, but again, only in private, and you will allow yourself to be overruled.”

“Of course-”

“Since you care for him so much, Ecthelion can be your whipping boy.” As he’d predicted, Glorfindel went slightly pale at the threat. “If you anger me I’ll have him whipped again.”

“I understand-”

“I’ll make you hold the whip.” Glorfindel flinched but nodded. Maeglin wasn’t finished, grinning as he said, “But if you cause too much trouble, I’ll give him to the orcs. They’re getting bored.” Once he had the elves under control, he’d have to figure out what to do with the orcs. They weren’t happy being forced into the role of peacekeepers.

“I live to serve,” Glorfindel whispered.

“You’re lying,” Maeglin replied, flopping into a chair. “But I like the way it sounds.”

“Was there anything else, my lord?” 

“I have a ruling,” he said, looking back to the shelves of books. “I wish for you to take word of it to the citizens.”

“I am yours to command.”

Maeglin leaned back, looking up at Glorfindel calmly. “I’m outlawing Quenya.”

Clearly he’d caught the lord off guard. “My king?”

“Anyone who is caught speaking Quenya without my permission will have their tongue torn out.”

Glorfindel seemed to consider, then softly spoke in Sindarin, “My lord, with all due respect, there are many citizens who may not speak Sindarin, or, if they do, speak only a little.”

Maeglin didn’t bother changing to Sindarin, enjoying the fact that he could use Quenya and Glorfindel couldn’t. “I didn’t speak Quenya when I came here,” he said softly. “I learned.”

“Perhaps if my lord gave a few weeks to allow people to transition.”

“No.” He pushed himself to his feet, still shorter than Glorfindel, but hoping he looked somewhat imposing. “They learn tonight.”

Glorfindel bowed again. “As you command.”

Maeglin leaned back. “How many tongues do you think I’ll get?” he asked. “I’m going to have a jar made for them.”

“I hope not many.”

“You may speak Quenya in my presence.”

“Thank you, I-”

“If you catch anyone breaking the rule, don’t bother bringing me the elf, just the tongue. Am I clear?”

“Very.”

Maeglin grinned, envisioning Glorfindel holding someone down and cutting out their tongue. No doubt, Glorfindel would cry as much as they did.  “Oh, and Glorfindel?”

The Golden Lord paused.

“Since you lied to me, bring Ecthelion to me tomorrow.”

“My lord-”

“He can start his new duties-”

“He’s still injured!”

Maeglin shrugged. “I truly don’t care. Now leave, before I send an orc for him.”

Glorfindel bowed and hurried away.

Maeglin watched him go, his eyes flashing. He stood and stormed from the room, grabbing a servant who had the misfortune of being in the hall. He’d noticed her before, noticed she bore a passing resemblance to Idril.

It would have to do.

Maeglin slowly unbuttoned his tunic, his back to the servant who was standing by his bed, perfectly still. He took another swig of his wine, hoping it was enough to muddle his vision just slightly.

Leaving his pants on, he stretched out on his back, giving the girl a nod. “Undress,” he ordered.

She shivered as she unlaced her dress, her eyes wide. Maeglin watched her intently, his eyes gleaming. “Come here,” he ordered, motioning her forward.

Her sides heaved as she moved forward, stopping just in front of him. He grabbed her and pulled her into his lap, kissing her.

“Don’t cry,” he said against her lips. “You are doing your duty to your king.”

She nodded and wiped away her tears, bringing her hands up to touch his hair.

He pulled her closer, closing his eyes and telling himself that she was Idril. But he couldn’t.

Even with his eyes closed, it was all wrong. She was too short, too thin, didn’t smell right.

“Guards!” Maeglin yelled, pushing her from his lap.

An orc entered his brutish face the last thing Maeglin wanted to see. “Take her away,” he said, nodding to the servant.

“To where?”

“I don’t care!” Maeglin grabbed her, shoving her through the door, ignoring her pleas for mercy.

Before the orc could grab her, she turned, grabbing his arm, “Your majesty, please- mercy-”

He knew what the orcs would do with a naked girl, and - try as he might - he couldn’t hate her. She’d never wronged him, not personally. If he let them rape her-

Maeglin swore and she sobbed. He waved away the orc, dragging her down the stairs until he found another elven servant. The man could only gape as Maeglin stormed toward him, dragging the naked girl. “Take her to the House of the Golden Flower,” he ordered. Then, so he wouldn’t appear merciful, he said, “Tell Lord Glorfindel she’s to be kept in the cellar, water and bread only.”

The man nodded, grabbing her and hurrying her away.