Musings on Maeglin
|Disclaimer:||I usually play in Professor Tolkien's sandbox, but this time I've borrowed many of the toys from Marina, a k a Aearwen o Rómendor.|
|Summary:||Maeglin's maid Eäriel ponders her relationship with her employer. (This fic is based on the characters and situations of Marina's story The Captive and although you might enojoy the smut anyway, it will make more sense if you read her story first.)|
|Author's notes:||This was written for Marina, because I just couldn't help myself after reading about her baaad muse ;-)|
|Feedback:||Please write to to firstname.lastname@example.org|
I hum happily as I leave my parents' home near the fifth gate of Gondolin. The days spent with them have altered my mood completely, and I send a grateful thought to my master, Maeglin Lómion, Lord of the Mole, for his foresight to send me on this forced vacation despite my pleas to the contrary. It is a beautiful day in our wonderful city and every fountain seems to splash a merry greeting as I pass it on my way to the House of the Mole.
I do not know what to expect when I arrive, but my heart refuses to let hope die. Maybe my master has finally conquered his latest, long spell of brooding, with Galdor's help or by some peculiar grace of the Valar, for whom he claims to have so little regard. I try to dwell on this uplifting idea, on how all will be as it used to, and I will again find myself more frequently required not only in his kitchen, but in his chambers as well. In his bed. But, involuntarily, my mind is drawn to pondering the recent past.
These last weeks, nay months, prior to my leave have been odd. For some reason unfathomable to me, my master began to withdraw from company even more than has long been his wont. He no longer went to the smithy - his true home as I have often called it - and were it not for Erestor's informations, I would have thought the flames of the forge dying.
The feasts, which had previously been fewer and further between than in other Houses, ceased completely. The members of the House of the Mole began to take their meals elsewhere, and would only return in the dark of night for a brief rest before leaving again. My master shut himself into his chambers, leaving them only for short amounts of time; he even took to having his meals sent there. In what filth he must live I can only imagine, for he has long banned my entrance there.
It has brought me some comfort in this difficult time to notice that he has never stopped grooming himself; he has always been dressed well, and with his hair in perfect order. The latter, especially, surprises me - he has often said that he prefers me to comb him. I cannot imagine him changing his own sheets or sweeping the floors. The idea of Galdor, his lovely blond 'secretary', being employed in housework is equally ridiculous. Besides, I know that neither Galdor, nor anyone else in my master's household, has been permitted into his rooms since this madness began.
At first I thought I had unwittingly drawn his malcontent upon myself by some transgression against his fickle rules. My master cannot tolerate his hair being pulled. Neither does he have any forbearance with a minute wrinkle on his shirt, nor an errant husk in the simple rye porridge he prefers for his morning meal. But he had never before failed to air his displeasure in a most loud, and sometimes violent, manner. His silence was killing me. For many nights I blamed myself for falling out of his grace, until it dawned upon me that Galdor fared the same treatment of neglect.
I will confront Galdor about my dresses; I have waited, because it is not something I look forward to. He cries easily, and he must be desperate to have thought to attract our master's attention by dressing like a female and thus resemble Idril even more. He is not a very bright elf. Not only did he apparently think I would not notice the missing clothes – otherwise he does confide in me – but one of the dresses he took was the yellow one that our master favours just because it is a colour and fashion his fair cousin never wears. Unless I find it in my wardrobe upon my return, I shall demand it back immediately.
As I cross the palace square I notice, with some surprise, that the thought of the dress, or, rather, the appreciation wearing it has sometimes earned me, has caused a tingling sensation below my belly. I stop by the great fountain, pretending to admire how the jets of water glitter in the sun. As soon as a quick glance over my shoulder has confirmed that nobody seems to notice me, I hastily press my fingers to the tender spot. I allow myself to think about my master for a brief moment.
Then I leave, unfulfilled. There are too much people about, too many palace officials who would seek my attention in the futile hope of swaying my master's thoughts in this direction or the other. I have no interest in their coins now. I start walking with rapid strides, every five moments suppressing the prickling between my legs. Controlling my thoughts is harder, and I eventually give in to reminiscing about the morning that led to the sweetest torture I have ever experienced.
It started when I, after weeks of careful tiptoeing around my master and his foul temper, refused to let him continue to live in filth and dust in his stuffy chambers. I knew that I took a great risk defying him, but I could no longer bear the knowledge that he would each night rest his raven tresses – those that I longed to touch – on a dirty pillow, or sink his marble limbs into a tub that had not been cleaned for such an amount of time. I could not allow it to continue, not in a house where I served. This was a case where responsibility outweighed my feelings of respect. And so, when he was sitting at the kitchen table for the first time in many days, munching his rye with seeming content, I went to fetch my cleaning utensils.
"Where are you going?" he barked, startling me with the uncalled for harshness of his voice.
"My lord," I told him in a voice just as insecure as I suddenly felt. "I was about to tend to your chambers." My confidence was waning quickly, and I already doubted my decision.
"You do not go to my chambers. Not until further notice." His eyes were cold, and his piercing gaze made me look away for a second. And then, my resolve returned. I felt sorry for him.
"But, my lord," I tried explaining patiently, as one would to a stubborn child. "They are messy and unclean already, and you hate dust."
"My rooms are no concern of yours until I tell you!"
I tried to keep my calm despite his angry outburst, to not allow him to see how deep his rejection hurt me. But, when he suddenly shoved his bowl away, making it shatter with a deafening noise, and glue its carefully prepared contents to the stone floor, I was near tears. I hid my face as I crouched to collect the pieces of pottery. The simple task helped me to settle back into my safe role of humble servant. At least until he unnerved me again.
"Come here," he hissed. I turned my head in his direction and froze with fear. He was towering over me with a strange gleam in his eyes. I dropped the debris as he grabbed my arm, but he seemed not to notice, and the next second I found myself bent over the table with him pressing against my backside. That, in combination with his grip around the nape of my neck held me as securely as if I had been in a vice. I felt my heart pounding in my throat.
"You shall not disobey me!" he whispered menacingly, his voice but a waft of air against my ear. I would have nodded if I could. And yet, I knew even then that I would challenge him again, if my service to him required it. I take pride in my work.
"Never, my lord," I whispered meekly, and let out a sigh of relief when he released me.
Then his hands were under my skirt, his strong fingers groping at my flesh. He was none too gentle, and yet it was with dawning arousal that I felt the material ride high over my thighs and then be gathered around my waist. I had to bite my lip not to part my legs before he pushed his knees between them.
The feeling of his erect member pushing into me without further preparation made me gasp. His first two strokes were uncomfortable indeed, as he undoubtedly had intended, but then my body began to relax, welcoming the intrusion. My emotions for him were much too strong to be deterred by his roughness. I arched my back and held onto the table with blazing desire, revelling in each thrust, and the knowledge that I had found my way back to the heart, and bed, of my master.
I sighed with abandon as he grabbed my waist and lifted me slightly onto the table. The new angle gave me even more pleasure and I could not keep myself from whispering his name.
"Maeglin," I moaned as quietly as I could, knowing that he prefers me to refer to him as 'lord' or 'master'. "Take me, Maeglin. Make me yours!"
The loud slapping of flesh against flesh, combined with the moist sounds of his withdrawing only to be engulfed in my wetness again and again, must have drenched my words. He picked up his pace and I held my breath, waiting for the final moment when he would take us both over the edge. I felt my building passion begin to near the boiling point. Soon now, so very soon, just a little more... and then my ears were filled with his roar of triumph as he emptied himself, only to withdraw a second later. I cried out in frustration.
"Now, let that teach you who is the master of the house," he shouted as he left the room.
At first, I was too shocked to move. For what felt like an eternity I just lay there, a perfect picture of humiliation with my skirt hoisted up over my bottom and his sperm trickling down my thighs. And, worst of all, a burning itch in my treacherous cunt. I still wanted him. I still loved him!
During the weeks that followed, I tried to make my life easier by hating Maeglin. I found that I could not. Despite my efforts to recall everything he had ever done that deserved my contempt, the mere sight of him filled my heart with tender emotions, as well as desire. To please him, I began to avoid the entire area of the house where his rooms are located. I pretended that nobody lived there, and although I knew that he had all his meals brought to him, I kept telling myself that he spent all his time at his beloved forge, and that the food I cooked was going there.
When his mood gradually seemed to change for the better, I rejoiced. True, he still spent little time in the public areas of the house, but when he did, his disposition was almost sunny. Even his temper tantrums lacked sting, as if he wasn't truly as angry as his voice seemed to indicate. And yet, I was wary. His new, lovable self caused me the most difficult time in my life, and not only because he never took me to bed.
My master suddenly broke his habit of solitude, beginning to invite elves not of his own House. The visitors were not lords or highborn like himself, but working men of good reputation and reasonable standing in our society. They paid more attention to me than I liked, and the realization of why they were there hit me with despair. He was marrying me off. With this devious gesture of generosity, my beloved, my master, tried to oust me from his house
I refused. No punishment he could threaten me with would have been worse than the thought of not seeing him. Each time a new suitor was presented, I declared my undying love for my master, cried and begged him on my knees to allow me to remain in his service. I won.
Things went back to normal, or at least as normal as was possible in this madness. My master became moodier than ever, and although I took to avoiding him at times, he still filled me with desire. And then, something wonderful happened.
Early one morning, I was awakened by hard rapping on my door, and as I jumped to my feet, I heard my master's voice calling me to prepare food for him, and quick – he had business somewhere outside the city . Strangely, he did not sound annoyed; on other occasions it had made him furious when I had failed to foresee his wishes. But, I took no chances and rushed to the kitchen wearing only my shift.
He was there already and, as I cut slices of meat and cheese that would be easy for him to eat while travelling, I felt his eyes following my every move. I took two freshly baked loaves of bread – delivered from the bakery the same morning – and packed them carefully in a basket. When I went to fetch a wine skin, I felt his hand glide over my hair, and the unexpected soft touch made me stop short for a moment, until he sent me on my way with a swat to my behind, just as gentle.
When I returned, he took the wine from my hands and put it on the table together with the other things. "Come here," he whispered, and when I took an insecure step towards him, he chuckled and held out his arms. I stepped into his embrace, not daring to trust that this was not another trick of his devise. For months now, ever since that other day in the kitchen, I had felt a surge of desire whenever he was near. The tingling varied from near pain to just a dull reminder of my unfulfilled state, but nothing I could do would make it go away completely.
As he put his arms around me, I felt the sensation between my legs spike and I held my breath waiting for it to subside. It did not, and when I could not stand it any longer, I rested my head against his chest as I draw short, pained breaths. Then one of his hands snuck between our bodies. My thin shift did little to prevent it from leaving a hot trace over my skin. I squirmed, and he chuckled. And then, he placed his fingers on my burning centre and began to massage me there.
I moaned and writhed as he brought me pleasure more intense than I can describe, and when I lifted my hands to his chest for support, he encouraged me to hold on. Not until my screams for mercy had ebbed out for the third time and I was thoroughly spent did he let me go.
Then he left and when I next saw him, he was different in some ways. The journey changed him, made him calmer, but there was a new determination in his eyes that I still do not understand. He has continued to confine himself to his rooms, but now that he will occasionally bed me, if that is the proper word for something that seldom takes place in a bed, I am less prone to question him. Maybe he will sort things out eventually.
Only now, as I am on my way back to his house, the reason for my forced vacation dawns upon me. My master has been travelling again, although it is beyond me why he would deem it necessary to conceal this fact from me. I can only hope that it is a figment of his troubled mind and that there is nothing more sinister behind it. I do not expect to find out whither he went, nor do I need to. All I care for is to have my master returned to me, and his old, wicked self restored.
I turn around the corner and then slacken my pace as the main gates of the House of the Mole come into my view. What will I find behind that door?
Posted: February 20, 2007
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"Long live Thranduil, great Elf-king of Greenwood!"