He’d watched and listened and waited to be addressed next – there was little else to do except hope that he would not be thrown to some predatory creature or to the whims of another. The words he had told his captors that he had to speak to their Lord had been conveyed – but altered in a sudden grip of fear that threatened to toss his stomach.
Maeglin glanced up from where he’d been pushed down to his knees, and met Morgoth’s eyes. That, he learned, was a mistake. There was more to fear under his gaze than any other’s he had ever seen. There had been stories, but seeing was believing – and now, he believed. The voice in his mind screamed to abandon the lie, which he had told himself was a valorous and cunning move at preserving the secrecy of Turgon’s beloved haven. But now it seemed a pathetic and misplaced attempt, one not worthy of putting any more effort into preserving.
His eyes quickly lowered from Morgoth’s, darting to Sauron before looking down again to his bound wrists. If he didn’t say something, then it might be assumed that he was lying. That was likely to prove dangerous – just as dangerous as trying to continue a lie that already was being questioned. The elf drew in a long, shuddering breath and felt his quivering shake loose a bead of sweat to roll down his temple and cheek, to his neck.
Life seemed much better than death – and proving himself useless to those who now held his life in their hands would likely be the quick path to that end, or some other dismal misery that would eventually end the same way. In his mind, Maeglin yearned for the fields and open skies of Gondolin and the caverns and slopes of the mountains and mines, rather than this place. There was so much he had wanted to see and do… which meant he had to tread carefully, for the sake of keeping his life and something of a future. The wisest course of action, Maeglin decided, was to divert the attention on some subtly similar point.
“You can decide all the plans you want now,” he began uncertainly, and with a tremble to his voice – he was aware that how he spoke now meant that he risked much to himself and to those still in the valley, “but even I know that there is something that prevents you from having already done to secure the entire country in your grasp.”
Breathing in, he waited for that half-second of telling reaction. Would they take it, or would he need to ply with words a little more? Anything but to die now…!
Morgoth was silent for a long moment, regarding the boy with a sideways, membranous wink. He missed nothing of the trembling, the damp brow, the words unsaid. It was a clever move, redirecting the line of questioning while neither could see the other’s hand.
What a cunning little rodent, the Vala thought, with something like fondness, or at least recognition. Terrified, but canny enough to play this game, though his life and freedom are at stake.
“And what is it exactly, that even babes in Gondolin know, is preventing the Dark Lord from taking all Beleriand, hm? What delays his conquest? Tell me, clever mole,” He jabbed a talon at the sable crest of Maeglin’s tabard, “or I shall bury you up to the neck in ash and let you bake as black as your standard."
Hope fluttered in his chest, and for a moment the intense desire to vomit all of the bile in his stomach lessened (it would be yellow; it wouldn’t be the first time emptying his belly on the ground in front of him, and thankfully it wasn’t in front of the Ainur).
There was no time to congratulate himself internally for his cleverness. The threat that Morgoth made, hopefully made casually but he had no desire to find out, made his heart stop as his mind imagined rather gruesomely that claw puncturing fabric and skin and bone. The elf’s mouth gaped as he shuddered again at the thought – if he wasn’t careful, it may be a likely end.
He didn’t miss Morgoth’s observation – how could he know how young he was? Though I may be fully grown, how can he perceive that I am one of the youngest in Gondolin? Maeglin swallowed back the welling of fresh saliva in his mouth so that he could answer clearly. Feeling successful thus far, he knew he had to continue convincingly, and that Morgoth followed the intended line of questioning gave him enough hope to inject confidence into his voice.
"A moment ago, you gave it away. Do you take the defensive or the offensive? You have no plan. From what I have been told about you and how your forces operate – you act when you have a plan. But you have none, and I would not need to be a close councilor to Turgon in order to know what I know."
Do not divulge that! he chided himself. Blinking, he continued on. No need to keep Morgoth waiting… “And what I know is that the Crissaegrim offer no path or pass into the valley. You have no plan because there is no way in.”
"And yet, does my good eye deceive me?” Melkor leaned forward mockingly, scrutinizing the young elf in the beam of his stare. “It seems to me there is at least a way out of the valley… or else have the Eldar learned to fly?"
Behind Maeglin, the Dark Lord’s lieutenant stirred unbidden, placing a heavy hand full of mute warning on the elf’s neck.
"Make no mistake, little mole; you buy seconds of your life with this news. Tell me more. Tell me Turgon’s plan of attack, if indeed you are his close advisor.”
The hand on the boy’s neck moved to his hair, pulling it back taught with a snap.
“Tell me everything, and there may yet be some reward I could give you."
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