Story [Tolkien] "I Have Been Hungry All These Years" | Celebrimbor, epic one-shot

“I Have Been Hungry All These Years”

Genre: Drama, General
Time Frame: Years of the Trees - The Second Age
Characters: Celebrimbor, Curufin, Celegorm/Aredhel, Maedhros, Galadriel/Celeborn, Finrod, Lúthien/Beren, Emeldir, Finduilas, Elrond, Elros, Celebrían, Sauron, and too many more to mention

Summary: Celebrimbor, and a history of giving.


Notes: Almost two months ago, over on AO3, I broke a personal record for my hit count on This Taste of Shadow, and I offered a fic-gift to the kind soul who gave me that count. That reader then pointed out that, in the hundreds of thousands of words of my entire collection, I did not write about Celebrimbor even once. Sooo, I went to rectify that . . . and it turns out that my muse had quite a few repressed feelings on the matter. While many authors have examined Celebrimbor and Sauron's disturbing dynamic to perfection, I wanted to look at some of the lesser explored time-periods of his life, and this was what I came up with. In the end, this was just too long for my ficlet collection (which is saying something ), and breaking it up to post as chapters disrupted the flow - so here we are with a massive 'epic one-shot', I am choosing to call it. If you do attempt to read this 28k beast, I recommend the aid of strong coffee and excellent lighting.

For those of you familiar with my Tolkien work, you will find lots of familiar faces, and too many throw-backs and tie-ins to my ficlet collection to mention. To those of you who are not familiar, but are curious anyway: Celebrimbor Curufinion is the Noldorin Elf-smith who created the Rings of Power for Men and Dwarves with Sauron in the Second Age. (He created the Three Rings for Elves by himself, thus freeing them of Sauron's taint.) He is the grandson of Fëanor, the Elf who created the Silmarils (which the Silmarillion is named for), and whose family was responsible for many of the good, the bad, and the ugly things that transpired in the First Age. He held an unrequited love for Galadriel all of his life, and his efforts to rise above his family name, unfortunately, led him to unwittingly aiding in the creation of the One Ring. But "he was uncorrupted in heart and faith" until the end, which we will be further exploring just about now . . .


First, some handy dandy notes/translations:

In the scenes that occur in Aman, I use Quenyan names; in Middle-earth, their Sindarin counterparts. So:
Telperinquar: Celebrimbor
Carnistir: Caranthir
Curufinwë: Curufin
Tyelkormo: Celegorm
Irissë: Aredhel
Artanis: Galadriel
Fëanáro: Fëanor
Maitimo: Maedhros
Makalaurë: Maglor
Nolofinwë: Fingolfin
Annatar/Mairon: Sauron

Endórë: Middle-earth
Aman: Valinor, the Undying Lands, the West, etc.
Arda: The world as a whole

The Valar: The spiritual beings who aided Eru (God) with the creation of the world. (Manwë, Varda, and Melkor/Morgoth, for example)
The Maiar: The spiritual 'helpers' of the Valar. (Gandalf and Sauron, for example)

Noldor: One of the three main branches of Elves, who went West when summoned at the Awakening of the Elves, but who then rebelled during the Darkening and returned to Middle-earth. (Galadriel, for example - her Vanya/Teleri heritage aside)
Sindar: One of the Elven clans who never left Middle-earth when summoned, but who stayed for a love of the forests and stars. (Celeborn and Thranduil, for example)
Moriquendi: Literally 'Dark Elf' - those who have never seen the light of the Trees; normally used as a derogatory term for the Sindar/Silvan/Avari Elves.

Fëa: Soul
Hröa: Body

Atani: Quenya(the Elven tongue of the West) for Mankind
Quendi: Quenya for Elves

The Two Trees: Laurelin (the Sun) and Telperion (the Moon) were the sources of light before the Sun and Moon - which were created from their fruit.

The Silmarils: Three hallowed gems of unparalleled beauty, with mesmerizing powers, created by Fëanor, who captured the light of the Trees within their facets. When the Trees were destroyed, they were the only remnants of that light besides the fruit from which the Sun and Moon were created. But they were stolen by Melkor/Morgoth (the Dark Vala who was Sauron's master) and taken to Middle-earth. Fëanor and his seven sons swore an Oath to retrieve the Silmarils, no matter the cost, and that Oath led to much bloodshed and tragedy, culminating in the Three Kinslayings.


And I think those are the biggest ones! If I missed anything, or if there is anything you are curious over, let me know! I always enjoy a good chat about this world. For now, I thank you all for reading, and I hope that you enjoy the story!

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“I Have Been Hungry All These Years”
by Mira_Jade​

IX.

His earliest memories were of his father; of the fire of the forge setting his face aflame while he held stars in his hands and coaxed the fruits of the earth to bend and shape and form to his will.

There was a softness to his father in this place; here and only here. Here, with a smith's hammer in hand, there was an ease and purpose that Telperinquar noticed, even at a tender age. There was a belonging; a purpose and what could be called a love, as Curufinwë knew love to be. As a child, Telperinquar only knew that he wanted to share in that love – he wanted it so badly that it was as a burning, deep inside him.

(Perhaps, years – centuries – later, he would understand that he wanted a similar look – a similar love - turned on him, whenever – however – he could. Yet, in those days he was only a son; a son who wished to be his father's mirror in all things . . . and for so long that mirror was blemished. Fogged. Imperfect.)

So Telperinquar watched as Curufinwë cast the project he had been trying to perfect – a ring, something so simple, yet something he hoped that his father would wear on his own finger, next to the creations of his own hand, of his grandfather's hand – into the waste bin that would later be consigned for the smelter. He watched the cooling trinket with a heavy heart, for it had taken him weeks to produce a mold fit for his father's approval, and now . . .

“Imperfect. There were impurities in the casting, and you shall have to start again,” Curufinwë remarked without inflection in his tone, merely glancing before turning back to his own work for the day. At his side his apprentices flocked like chicks under the wings of a mother hen, and Telperinquar immediately felt as inconsequential as a cloud to a stormy sky in the face of his father's regard. He watched them for a moment, envious of the attention they garnered, before squaring his jaw, feeling his veins alight within him as he turned to start over anew.

Once more . . .

. . . and then a second time.

. . . thrice.

By the fourth time his father tossed his attempts into the bin, even Grandfather Fëanáro was there, agreeing with his son's critique as Curufinwë put the ring aside. It did not matter that Fëanáro placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, his eyes bright – so bright, nearly Vala-bright – to commend his efforts . . . for it was still imperfect. Without perfection, it could never be enough.

Upset, Telperinquar could not sleep that night – he could not even speak to his mother to tell her of the highs and lows of his day. He watched as Lelyanis' eyes flickered, and though he could have assured her that he was well, his heart was too heavy for half truths. The burden of his failure was yet too great to share with another. He could not yet bear her attempts to sooth his feelings of inadequacy, and so, he said nothing.

(Though Lelyanis guessed his pains well enough, and that night was another night of terse silence following her trying to touch her husband's mind and show him how his words and actions were taken, even if they were not intended as such. Someday, he would try to remember smiles and laughter within his childhood home, for they were there, were they not? They had to be. Yet, in those days before the Darkening, there was little of either to be found.)

He tried to find peace in dreams that night, but Irmo's comfort was as slippery as the ring he'd tried to craft. By the time Telperion was waning, Telperinquar could bear the shame of his failure no more. He pushed back the bedsheets in frustration, determined to start anew.

The forge was absent of all activity that late at night – that early in the morning, really - and Telperinquar was careful, so careful, as he gathered what he needed, knowing that any mistakes – and the dangers they held - would be on his own head without a master there to oversee his efforts.

And so he tried a fifth time.

. . . and a sixth time.

By his seventh attempt, his eyes were strained from frustration and a lack of sleep. And so, when the tongs slipped from his hand, causing the still glowing circlet to fall, he reflexively went to catch it - trusting the thick material of his gloves to protect him . . . that was, until the circlet eluded his grip, and rolled down his arm to land in the crook of his elbow and burn through his sleeve -

- he hissed, biting back a curse his mother would certainly not approve of his knowing, before shaking the ring loose and looking with satisfaction when the Valar-be-damned thing landed on the ground by his feet.

Telperinquar narrowed his eyes at the ring as he pulled back his sleeve to reveal the rather impressive burn now marring his skin. It was not as bad as some of the injuries he'd seen his father's apprentices endure, and yet . . .

It still hurt, and, frustrated, he cleaned up his things so that no one would ever know of his continued failures. His mind was heavy, and his thoughts were already racing for how to conceal the wound from his father. For failing once – twice – was expected of any novice. But five times . . . seven times? Seven failed tries from a grandson of the great Curufinwë Fëanáro? No. Such was unacceptable – unforgivable, even - and he was overwhelmed by the ignominy of his most shameful deficiency.

Telperinquar sighed, and stepped out into the early morning light, resigned to his fate. He would simply have to become a baker, he thought. Or maybe Great-grandfather Finwë would let him serve as a page underneath Uncle Maitimo's supervision – that was, if he was not so ashamed by one of his blood for such a public position at court. He would most likely find a way to botch that, as well . . . Yet that thought was a truly disheartening one; Telperinquar tried to cast is aside, albeit with little success.

Around him, the Trees were just starting to lighten the sky with dawn; dimming the glow of Varda's stars, but welcoming the birds to sing as mist rose from the cool of the ground in deference to the warmth of the day to come. Yet, the beauty of Aman was then quite beyond his ability to appreciate as he instead slumped down on a bench lining the path. He was not quite ready to go back home, and explain . . .

Wincing, he pulled back his singed sleeve to crossly examine the wound once more. The skin around the burn was already red and welting – impressively angry, even though his pride smarted more so than any mere pain of his body. Distantly, he knew that he should have the burn seen to, when -

There was the sound of a horse's hooves on the cobbled path. He looked up, but did not have to wonder for the horseman's identity when a huge, pink tongue reached out to lick his face encouragingly. When sitting, he had to look up at Huan, and the wolf-hound made a soft woofing sound in the back of his throat – as if empathizing with his pain.

“Ah, I should have known that kin was about for Huan to take off in such a way, with not a doe in sight,” Telperinquar looked up to see his Uncle Tyelkormo step out from the haze of the mist. He was leading a dappled grey and white stallion behind him, laden for an extended stay in the wild, while he himself wore his dark brown hunting leathers, with his bow and knives strapped to his back. His eyes were very bright in the soft light of the dawn, and the white-gold of his hair caught the first rays of Laurelin's light as if with the heart of a flame.

Telperinquar reached to scratch Huan behind his ears, with the hound's affection already doing much to soften the hard lines of his spirit. Huan wagged his tail in pleasure at the caress, leaning into his hands to shamelessly encourage more.

“I did not mean to keep you from your hunt,” Telperinquar apologized as Tyelkormo came to sit next to him on the bench. The stallion came to stop next to Huan, bending his graceful head down to look for similar caresses – and treats – and Telperinquar happily obliged him.

“Ay, but Irissë can wait for me,” Tyelkormo shrugged his words off. His eyes sparkled conspiratorially as he leaned in close to say: “Truth be told, it has been too long since I last stroked her ire, so you do me a favor, nephew.”

Telperinquar merely nodded, and continued to attend to Huan and the grey courser. Though relations between the son of Míriel and the sons of Indis had been tense since his earliest memories, the last few years between their houses had been as a spark wanting for flame – this even he knew. As such, he was glad that his uncle sought to hold onto his friendship with their half-cousin. Their last time feasting at his great-grandfather's halls in Tirion, Irissë had dumped her goblet of wine over Uncle Carnistir's head for the unthinking cut of his tongue. Their family – as a whole – had not been called back to the High Court of the Noldor since.

The silence stretched, before he felt a soft hand gingerly reach out to encourage him to loose his arm from where he held it cradled against himself – freeing his wound for his uncle's eyes to see.

“It is a bit early for forge-craft, is it not?” Tyelkormo inquired. He raised a pale brow, no doubt expecting a further explanation.

But Telperinquar's face merely flushed, ill as he was to speak to any in the family of his failure -

“And I know the mark of red-hot metal more so than most,” Tyelkormo continued. “It burns like Aulë's eyes, does it not?”

Telperinquar merely pulled his arm away, and tugged his singed sleeve back into place, not wishing to talk about it – not even with the uncle that he favored over any others, simply for him being his father's favorite too.

Tyelkormo did not frown, but Telperinquar could feel his puzzlement. He leaned down closer to Huan to hide his face, and was rewarded by the hound licking his cheek again. The stallion blew out a warm breath into his hair, tickling his ear.

When he glanced at his uncle again, Tyelkormo was undoing his leather gloves so that he could roll up the sleeve of his tunic, and there -

- was the remainder of a most impressive burn. The skin was still marked a faint brown where his body had scarred from the injury – even with the healing of the Elves and the grace of Aman. That, Telperinquar's mind raced, must have been a truly severe -

“Liquid silver – it burned right through my glove,” Tyelkormo revealed. “And that was the last day Atar tried to leash me to the forge, the Valar be praised for their mercy.”

Telperinquar blinked, unsure how anyone with Fëanáro's blood could wish to be far from the heat and creation of forge-craft. Yet, he did not want to be rude with his saying so. Instead, he slowly rolled his sleeve up again, and gave his own tale: “The ring was still red-hot. The tongs slipped, and I tried to catch it. I failed.”

“Aiya,” Tyelkormo made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. “There is nothing quite as ill as the kiss of hot metal. I would have a dozen more scars to show you, had they not long since healed.”

“Atar would not have been moved,” Telperinquar found the words coming without conscious thought. Once he started, he could not withhold their speaking - as if he'd released a dam on a river. “Atar can handle folds of white-hot metal with his bare hands – just as Grandfather Fëanáro can. They are more than simply Elf-kind in those moments . . . they are something elemental . . . something that is one with the fire and the heat and their creation. I too wish to be that way, but I . . . I cannot forge as something as simple as a ring without floundering. Seven times I failed, and Atar did not once look on my work and speak of his pride in my efforts. Earlier, Grandfather too saw my failure, to further compound my inadequacy. I . . . I am nothing to him, and I will continue to be nothing to him, unless . . .”

He swallowed, and to his humiliation he felt his eyes burn with unshed tears. He could not blink them away quickly enough, and his cheeks turned wet as a result. Not even Huan quickly moving to lick away the proof of his grief could cause him to smile, so great was his despondency.

“You are too harsh on yourself, Telpe,” his uncle said, after a moment had passed. His voice was soft, and kind – which only caused his eyes to burn anew. “You are mere decades old, and already you are at your father's side when apprentices four – five times – your senior are just learning their craft. Yes, you will fail as you master your chosen skill – just as I did not first know how to perfectly aim my arrows, nor did Makalaurë perfectly strum his harp at first - and take that from someone who had to endure listening to him practice for what seemed like centuries. You merely need a similar practice, and time – just as your father learned through practice, and even your grandfather too – just ask Grandfather Mahtan if you do not believe me.”

“Grandfather,” Telperinquar said with the utmost seriousness – as if he had just been told that Manwë himself was not the lord of the heavens, “is perfect at his craft.”

“He can make a pretty thing or two, I grant you that,” Tyelkormo shrugged, and for a moment his expression was tight, as if he fought back a frown. “But it was not always so.”

Telperinquar let loose a breath in reply, but did not say more. Tyelkormo gave a wry smile for his disbelief, before firmly stating: “Your father does know pride for you,” in a low voice. “Just as your grandfather does. I . . . my father had to wait a long time for Curvo. Before that he had Maitimo, who was disinterested in his crafts, but excels at court. Then he had Makalaurë, who is a minstrel born in every possible way. Then I showed my preference for the ways of Oromë, and . . . well, who knows where Carnistir's true calling lies?” this he winked to say, “We each made our own way, far from Fëanáro's crafts, and he was thankful beyond measure when your father was born to him.”

(Tyelkormo said no more than that – he could say no more than that - and only years later would Telperinquar stand as Celebrimbor, and understand that his uncle had buried his own pains for Fëanáro's cold disinterest in order to help heal his bond with his own father.)

“I know that Curvo feels much the same about you. Only, he has a hard time saying so. He has a hard time saying anything if he is not speaking about the properties of metallurgy and gemology, really – sometimes even I have to force him to switch to a subject that does not bore me to tears, and I am very fond of your father, at that.”

Telperinquar was never bored to tears when his father spoke of such, but that was not the point of his uncle's words. So he hushed himself, and instead pondered what he said closely. He listened.

“Do you enjoy your father's work?” Tyelkormo asked plainly. When Telperinquar looked up, he could see a line of green brightly glowing in the grey of his eyes.

“Yes,” he answered without thinking. “I enjoy it more than anything. In the forge I feel . . .” At peace; challenged and eased and embraced all at once. I feel powerful, at one with the flames and whole with that which I birth from my hands. At least, I think I can feel so . . . someday.

But, he did not quite know how to say such aloud. So he fell silent, and felt his fëa linger heavily on the air between them – enough so that his uncle could feel a fraction of his thoughts, and from that feeling . . .

“I understand,” Tyelkormo finally said. There was a soft smile on his face, even when the corners of his mouth were sad. “Yet, never be afraid to tell your father how you feel - he needs to hear, even when the words are not to his liking. And never, ever feel as if you are chained to one course, one destiny, because of his expectations. All too often that is a trap sons fall into with their fathers, and if I could, I would see you spared, whereas others . . .”

But he pressed his lips together, and would not finish his thought. Perhaps he could not.

Telperinquar reached over to place a hand on his uncle's arm, right next to the red mark on his skin, and smiled as warmly as he could. “I thank you,” he said. “Your words have helped, truly.”

“Well then, that is all I can ask for,” Tyelkormo recovered himself. He blinked, and whatever heavy feeling had been in his eyes was gone, as if it had never been. “Now let's fetch Irissë – I know that she will have something for your burn in her pack. If you come with me, you will also do me the favor of explaining my tardiness – for which I would be most grateful.”

Telperinquar was simply glad that he did not yet have to show his parents the result of his folly – so much so that he did not even mind showing his wound to Irissë. Irissë, who could be rather . . .

“Cousin Irissë can be . . .” Telperinquar started delicately aloud, agreeing with his uncle's wisdom in appeasing her.

“Terrifying?” Tyelkormo finished for him, a slanted smile making a slash of his mouth. “I know. But I like that about her.”

It seemed a proper thing to smile at his words, so Telperinquar smiled, and got to his feet – now feeling well enough to enjoy the height of the dawn and the song of the birds once more. His skin still smarted fiercely, but it was a waning hurt – a healing hurt - and he simply felt determination fill him anew for the days to come.

When he finally crafted his first ring, it was a simple thing – plain and unadorned. Yet, even his father declared it adequate – free of imperfections and impurities - and Telperinquar felt as if he had crafted the equal of his grandfather's Silmarils.

(Yet, it was not his father he gave the ring to, as he had first intended, but his uncle – who did indeed wear the ring on his smallest finger, even when he forsook all other adornments. He continued to do so, unto that final day in Nargothrond, centuries still to come.)



.

.

VIII.

She was, quite simply put, the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes upon.

He'd only seen her in passing, stealing glances from afar while his family dwelt alongside the northernmost shores of Lake Mithrim - close enough to his great-uncle's people for easy communication, but far enough away to keep relations peaceful between their families. He had seen her on the shores of the lake as the sun rose, painting shades of fire in the gold of her hair, and when she looked at him, her eyes were a sudden, painful memory of the Trees.

(He forced himself to remember the Trees whenever his memories turned dark; remembering their light and the soft humming of Yavanna's Maiar, rather than the sight of ships aflame on the horizon . . . rather than seeing his father's sword stained red and knowing . . . rather than remembering the sound of his mother begging her husband to leave her son with her, even as he took everything else. No, Telperinquar – Celebrimbor, the Sindar had taken to calling him - did not think about such things whenever he could.)

Seeing her was the first time he had smiled since coming to Endórë – with there being no reason at all to smile when Grandfather Fëanáro perished . . . when Uncle Maitimo was taken . . . when his father and Uncle Tyelkormo protested Uncle Makalaurë's short-lived rule whenever, however, they could. She had been as the second dawn of the Sun to him - lightening his heart where the first had chased the darkness from his eyes.

So, it was with baited breath that he sought her out now. The Mereth Aderthad was his uncle Fingolfin's effort to meet on neutral ground by the Pools of Ivren, and thus begin the long process of suturing the wound between their sundered families - just as it was an ideal opportunity for them to get to know their Sindarin neighbors better through their being included in the invitation to attend. Many of the Sindar of the North they already knew well – even if they favored Fingolfin and Finarfin's people, with his father and most of his brothers being of mind that the Moriquendi had much they could learn from them, rather than the other way around - but this day they were graced with envoys from the Hidden Kingdom of Doriath, a rare blessing from the isolated and careful ways of Elu Thingol. Any other time, Celebrimbor would have been eager to speak with the likes of Beleg and Mablung, had they not so entirely captured her attention as well.

Artanis Arafinwiel, he sighed her name within his mind, once again finding the golden crown of her hair as a bright spot amongst the comparatively dull heads of those gathered. She sat with her brothers, her bearing regal and her posture poised. Her eyes were gleaming as she and Beleg spoke on and on, and – quite unexpectedly – Celebrimbor felt a flare of jealousy light the underside of his heart at the sight. Ashamed by the untoward emotion, he swallowed it away, trying to tell himself that he was instead happy for her clear happiness - he could wait a moment more to engage her attentions. He had, after all, waited all these years to begin with.

When he had first noticed her on the shores of Lake Mithrim, and tried to subtly ask his father more about her, Curufin's words had been crisp and pointed in reply - giving her birth and accomplishments with a terse tone, while providing little more of anything else.

Celegorm had proven to be a more open source, muttering something about Atar's baffling obsession with her hair before bluntly stating: “Artanis is an arrogant, self-righteous shrew. For she too spilled the blood of Elf-kind in Alqualondë, but she will give our House no quarter now. Fingolfin seeks peace,” for that he spat on the ground, “but she will remember, and judge that which even the Valar themselves cannot wholly understand.”

Yet his words, rather than putting Celebrimbor off, only lit a hope in his chest – for he remembered those last days in Aman in but snippets. He had been too young to hold a sword, or to swear his father's Oath - and for the idea of someday doing so, his stomach turned as if he were still upon the sea - but he knew the deeds of his House, and he knew the whispers that were spoken about them. He was tainted by association, and there were times when he did not know whether he should bristle in righteous indignation or hold his head down in shame, so conflicting the emotions within him were.

(Even now he could feel the unsettling ripples of pain and betrayal as a disturbance upon deep water. For Alqualondë, for Losgar, for the Helcaraxë . . . some of Fingolfin's people tried to smile, they tried to remember their friendships of old – just as many of the Fëanorians did. Yet, underneath it all . . .)

Yet, Celebrimbor reasoned, Artanis too had spilled the blood of her fellow Quendi on the seashore (if only in defense of her mother's people, the shipbuilders they had attacked for use of their vessels) . . . she would not look on him as if the hands of his kin had blotted out the light of the Trees from the land. But, rather . . .

When he finally summoned the courage to approach her – waiting for her to be surrounded by only two of her brothers, which was still a formidable enough task by itself – he did so with a measured step. He forced himself not to rush, to keep his expression composed in serenity, rather than bursting with joy - just as his heart certainly felt fit to do.

His hands did not tremble when he gave her that which he'd forged after his first time looking upon her beauty - nor did he utter the dozens of flowery words which had suddenly surged to the forefront of his mind. Instead, he merely whispered: “A gift to commemorate this day of remembered friendships. Though my attempt was to first create a piece to match the glory of your hair, I fear that my efforts failed in comparison.”

Raising a pale brow, Artanis looked down to open the lid of the box. When it opened, her face was lit by the stone he had filled with sunlight within. The new Sun, just risen in the sky, shone through its clear white casing, forever there to be remembered. Such had been his first time experimenting with that particular skill, and though his efforts were crude to his critical inner-eye, it was a technique he hoped to someday master.

“This is a beautiful gift, created by a caring hand,” Artanis at last replied. Though her voice was grave, there was a twinkling in her eyes when she looked on him. He felt his heart twist, overjoyed in his chest.

Though he would have rather helped her don the necklace himself, she handed the silver chain to Aegnor, who went to help her fasten it about her neck. When she let the heavy mass of her hair fall back into place, he watched as one entranced.

“I thank you for your efforts, Master-smith,” Artanis gave her gratitude, her voice lightening just slightly about the edges. “You do me a great honor with your attention.”

“I am no master-smith,” his cheeks flush as he said so. “That would be my father. But – please, call me Celebrimbor, my lady. We are cousins, after a sort, are we not? There should be only familiarity between family.”

“Perhaps you are not yet,” she did not quite agree, tilting her head thoughtfully. For a moment, he felt as if she looked not at him, but rather beyond him. “And yet . . .” she blinked, and her eyes then cleared. She tilted her head, as if she'd come to some sort of decision. “Very well, Celebrimbor. You must call me Artanis then.”

She offered him her hand, and – triumphantly – he kept his own hand from shaking long enough to gently wrap his fingers about her own, and kiss the back of her knuckles. She smiled at him one last time before turning with her brothers, and Celebrimbor took her dismissal gracefully.

He walked back to his own place, feeling as if his feet hardly touched the ground all the while. His fëa was pulsing within the shell of his body, bright and incandescent - so much so that he was shocked that its light did not pour out from his skin in telling waves.

When his stomach at last calmed, he helped himself to a goblet of sweet honey wine, and a moment did not pass before he was joined by his uncle. He had known Celegorm to be trailing after Irissë – Aredhel, he reminded himself now - almost since the moment they had arrived, for she had scorned him by Lake Mithrim from the day her father's host arrived, to the day his own family departed, and Celegorm had hoped for the passing of the years to have softened her heart. And yet . . .

Celebrimbor needed only to glance at his uncle's face to know it was not so. He felt his own joy dim when Celegorm gestured for the strong red wine they had available, and poured himself an overly generous cup.

His eyes were dark shade of forest shadow as he drained that glass and then poured himself another. By the time he was finishing that cup too, Curufin had arrived to place a hand on his arm in warning. Celebrimbor looked up when Maedhros too came to take a seat next to him at the table – he also having noticed Aredhel's rejection. There were, Celebrimbor thought uncomfortably, not many who had not noticed.

“You need not come to watch over me,” Celegorm's voice was harsh. “I will not embarrass our father's name by making any such scene you think I shall.”

“Perhaps,” Maedhros returned – a new edge to his voice that Celebrimbor had never from him, prior to his captivity at Thangorodrim, “I merely wished to ask my brother how he's faring. Your pain is as a wound to us all, Tyelko; that has not changed since Aman.”

Celegorm snorted. “I am most at ease, brother, so you need not worry,” this he returned scornfully. When he smiled, Celebrimbor could see his teeth. “After all, is that not what this day is supposed to celebrate? We are all fine, we are all wonderful - gathered here as we are and pretending that we are ashamed for the works our Oath inspired, pretending that we are at peace while it goes unanswered still.” He snorted, and poured another goblet of wine. “Nolofinwë is a fool if he thinks that such a mummery will convince anyone of that impossibility. It is a farce, this day. It is a -”

“ - our uncle does what he thinks is right for our people,” Maedhros started, his voice not quite gentle, but softening, nonetheless.

“Oh yes,” Celegorm arched a mean brow, “Nolofinwë does so for the sake of our people. And yet, stolen is his claim to do so - no matter what sort of pretty words you swore when handing over Father's birthright; your birthright, now that he is dead. I view him as no king over me, and neither shall he ever hold the fealty of my heart. Father would have been ashamed of you, Maitimo Nelyafinwë. His spirit cries in Mandos, and you cannot hear him, for so thoroughly have you forgotten the blood that begot you in favor of earning his regard, his love and affection and - ”

“Tyelko,” Curufin was the one to reach over to put a hand on his brother's arm, stilling him from raising his glass to his lips. “That is enough.”

“And you would pretend that you think differently than I?” Celegorm wrenched his arm away to stand. “The facade of this day has gotten to you too, Curvo, and it sickens me.”

Celebrimbor watched as his father too stood, so much a reflection of Fëanor that it was then painful to behold. But it was Maedhros who commanded the attention of all without standing – without raising his voice by the slightest degree. In the happy light of noontide, with the gentle babble of the lakes and the trilling song of the birds, his scars were very, very white over the pale skin of his face, and in his eyes burned a strange fire.

“You know very well my reason for giving our father's crown to our uncle,” Maedhros said in a low voice. “And if you think for one moment that such was not done for our Oath - for memory of our father, for our grandfather, even - then you underestimate me. You know my reasons, and Fingon's regard is the least of them. But I will speak no more of this, Tyelkormo – so, enjoy this day. Try to believe the facade if you will, and yet, do not allow your bitterness to tarnish that which others are trying to make true as their own.”

Celegorm simply stared, his fists clenching, and for a moment, Celebrimbor thought that he would try to strike his brother. He tasted the violence on the air, the same as his holding metal between his teeth.

Maedhros noticed too, and he smiled a fey smile, sharp and dangerous. “You have my permission to leave, brother,” he waved his sole hand, and Celegorm's eyes banked with a dark light before Curufin pulled firmly – pointedly – on his arm, and turned him away. But, the look in his eyes also was one that Celebrimbor did not care for . . . not in the slightest.

He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable for the altercation – now common as such arguments were – wishing that . . .

The warm glow he'd known from earlier had by then dimmed considerably, and Celebrimbor sighed – a look that was matched by his uncle as Maedhros leaned forward to cradle his forehead in his remaining hand. Yet, when he looked up, his eyes had cleared of shadow, even if his expression was still grim.

“I saw you favoring Artanis earlier,” Maedhros said to him, and he blinked, surprised for his noticing.

“I crafted a gift for her,” Celebrimbor replied slowly, carefully. “This seemed a good day to give such things.”

The corner of his uncle's mouth twisted in a smile, though its edges were sad. “I am glad you know joy, Telpe,” he said, “And yet . . . be careful, young one, for difficult it is pledging your heart where love cannot truly follow. I would not see you have to bear up underneath that pain if I could but speak to its prevention.”

Maedhros too stood, and Celebrimbor felt his hand rest on his shoulder as a weight before turning away.



.

.

VII.

The Dagor Bragollach came as suddenly as a summer storm; swift and violent, leaving behind only desolation and loss in its wake. So much loss.

It had been the first time he'd truly held a sword in battle – with he having been little more than a child during the Battle Under Stars, and awkwardly fumbling with his steel when stray Orcs came too close to the supplies they'd unloaded from the ships. But this . . . for this Celebrimbor fought, and endured through the destruction of Himlad and their perilous flight north of Doriath as they sought out their cousin Finrod's halls in Nargothrond for sanctuary and refuge.

Rather would they have made their way to Himring, where Maedhros was able to hold onto his defense of the north, but it had been impossible to do so with Morgoth's forces barring the way, and so, here they were now – refugees at the door, all but overwhelming Finrod's halls in number with both their ranks, and Orodreth's people who too had escaped from the tower of Tol-Sirion, seeking out shelter within Nargothrond's hidden ways.

But Finrod was a gracious host – even when Curufin and Celegorm proved to be . . . trying company, at times, with such an enclosed population of Sindarin and Fëanorian souls fighting for dominance. Many of the Sindar, both alarmed by the violence of the Dagor Bragollach and ill at ease with their new neighbors, left Finrod's halls for the protected ways of Doriath – thus shifting the balance of power even more so in the underground kingdom, for which he could often hear his father and uncle speaking about in the shadows, long into the night.

Though Celebrimbor could feel the tides as they came and went, he stood as unmovable as the shore in their wake. He stayed away from the political intrigues, and instead kept his head down in the forges. The Dwarves of Ered Luin were regular visitors in the kingdom they had helped hew from stone, and he delighted in their friendship and shared knowledge – so much so that he fancied that he was finding a true belonging in Middle-earth for the first, so much so that he turned a blind eye to the ground moving underneath his feet, hoping as he did that the earth would level out and find its balance once more.

The only blow to his sanctuary came the spring after their arrival – when Artanis came from the hidden ways of Doriath to visit her brothers. Though Celebrimbor knew that Finrod had left once to tell his sister about the fall of Angrod and Aegnor, she still made her way to Doriath on the anniversary of their deaths to console her remaining brothers, bringing with her a companion . . . and news regarding that companion.

And, her news was that which Finrod was only too happy to share – announcing that, after centuries of building his suit, Prince Celeborn of Doriath had finally succeeded in winning his sister's hand in marriage. She had agreed to his suit shortly following the Dagor Bragollach, and, after a period of mourning for her fallen brothers, they would . . .

Celebrimbor felt hollow at the news – news that left him even more brittle and pained for seeing just how pleased she was for the decree, with her normally serene countenance smiling a smile that reached her eyes, and her hand so firmly held by the silver lord at her side that he could not help but notice, and look on in envy for. This . . . this Sindarin elf, who had never seen the glory of the Trees, but nonetheless looked on his cousin as if she was the newly risen Sun to his eyes . . . it was a look that Celebrimbor knew full well, and understood. No matter how much he told himself that she could have done better, that she deserved more, her happiness was a nearly tangible thing – and it all hinged on the Moriquendi standing proud and unmovable by her side.

For, although he had little cause to cross paths with the House of Finarfin since the Feast of Reuniting, he'd held her memory bright in his mind, and compared all those he met to the way her spirit seemed to tug so powerfully upon his own. How, he wondered as he made his way blindly from the feasting hall, could such a pull be felt by only one and no the other? This he wondered emptily, brokenly: how could the moon draw the tides, but not be so affected in return? How . . .

He kept himself to the sanctuary of the forges during Artanis' – Galadriel's – stay in Nargothrond, losing himself in the numerous commissions that came his way - for his father had scarce bothered with his crafts since Fëanor's death, and the artistic continuation of his family's legacy thus fell on his shoulders. Such was a burden he normally accepted with all contentment in pride, and yet, now . . .

When Finrod took note of his despondency – and, if he understood the reason why, he wisely said nothing aloud – he asked his company for his upcoming journey to the forests of Brethil. He had yet to look in on the survivors of Dorthonion for their lingering skirmishes with Morgoth's filth in the north, and he wished to pay his respects to Emeldir, the wife of Barahir – who had saved his life during the Bragollach, and to whom he owed an enormous debt, even still.

Glad for the excuse to leave his darker thoughts behind, Celebrimbor accepted Finrod's offer, and traveled for the first without his father and uncle – who, by their own words, would not visit a land that was technically still underneath the domain of King Thingol. By Finrod's orchestration, Thingol had leased the forest of Brethil to the Haladin underneath the protection of Nargothrond. Even so, underneath the penalty of death was a Kinslayer to be found amongst the Grey-king's ilk, and while Brethil was technically considered to be a land apart from Doriath, his kin cared to risk it not.

(More to Celebrimbor's confusion did they mention a her they had no desire to dwell amongst, even if she was years dead at this time. When he asked, he received nothing but terse silence and a demand to cast the subject aside, and still, he wondered . . .)

But, more and more often did his uncle have words lined with teeth, and his father's thoughts were dark as they turned on Morgoth in the north. The shameful truth was that Celebrimbor was glad for the time he could take away from them, in which he could hopefully settle his own mind about a great many things.

They left Nargothrond early in the morning, and made it to the crossings of Teiglin by the late afternoon. They then stopped in the forest by the Haudh-en Arwen to camp for the night. Technically, they could have pressed on to the Haladin's settlement within the hour, but Finrod would hear nothing of it - wanting instead to honor the human woman who was buried there, for such was their reason for taking such a northerly course in the first place.

Celebrimbor had never met one of the Atani, little as his father and uncle had any dealings – or want for dealings – with the Secondborn. But he knew that half of his uncles, and many of his cousins, saw something of worth in the sons of Men. He knew his father and uncle's opinion for the Sindarin and the Dwarves to have altered underneath his independent understanding of them, and so, truly curious, he asked Finrod why he mourned one of such an ephemeral existence. Rather than taking insult for his question, Finrod sat him down and told him the tale of Haleth the Chieftess of the Haladin long into the night. There were pauses in his speech, however – questions he was told to instead ask his own family about, and, curiously, Celebrimbor took those gleanings and tucked them away for a later time.

In the morning, Celebrimbor too laid a bouquet of fresh spring flowers on Lady Haleth's grave, and stood there for a long moment in silence as the dawn touched the land anew. Then, they pushed on deeper into the forests.

They reached the settlement of the Haladin soon after – now shared as it was by the survivors of Ladros, few as they were. They were greeted with quite the cheer, for Finrod was beloved by the Bëorians, and the Haladin too held him in special regard for his dealings with their much adored Lady.

Celebrimbor watched as Finrod bowed his head to Chief Haldan of the Haladin as an equal, and clasped the mortal in an embrace – who was white of head with heavy lines creased into his face, but with a broad form, still rippling with the strength of his days – with fondness in his expression.

Next to greet him was an equally elderly woman named Andreth, who was just as white of head, but more frail of body. Yet, in her eyes was a true fire that brightened upon seeing the Elf-lord. Celebrimbor blinked, taken aback by the heat he felt from the mortal souls around him, burning as they did like sunlight - rather than the eternal star-souls of the Elves - for their shortened time upon the land. And, from this woman in particular he felt . . .

He was surprised to see tears in Finrod's eyes as he tenderly held her face in his hands and kissed first her one cheek and then the next. “I have much to speak with you on,” he gently told Andreth. “Later, if you would allow me.”

“Long have I waited for this day,” the elderly woman answered simply, holding onto his hands with a strength seemingly at odds with her many years. “I never once thought to outlive him, and yet, now . . .” there was grief in her eyes, even as she smiled a true smile, full of some memory Celebrimbor could not understand. “If the Valar are kind, however, someday we shall meet again. But, until then . . .” yet she could not finish her sentence, so heavy were her words.

“Later,” Finrod only clasped her hands once more to say, and then . . .

Celebrimbor was surprised when the Elf-lord – golden and resplendent in his glory - fell to one knee before the woman who was waiting at Andreth's side. She was younger than the two elders, even though age and grief had touched her face with lines, and locks of steely silver shot through the rich, earthen colour of her hair. Finrod bowed, however, and the woman's stern face seemed to soften for his doing so. Where grief had felt as an old wound, accepted and healing in Andreth's spirit, this woman was as a storm to his senses, and only did that tempest seem to calm for Finrod's place before her.

“My lady,” Finrod started on a thick voice, heavy with emotion. “You know as well as I that the only reason I stand here before you is through the bravery of your husband. To Barahir I owe my life, and with the life he saved, I will dedicate my last breath to seeing that you and yours live in comfort and protection, as best I may. If there is ever a need I do not anticipate, you need but ask it of me; if it is in my power to grant, such shall be yours.”

“For now, your presence is balm enough,” Emeldir tugged on his hands to rise, little caring for his place before her. “I say that you have made enough of such prostrations, my lord. Our people have had too much of tears, and on this day, we wish only to rejoice.”

And rejoice the Atani were most determined to do. Though a pall of grief clouded over the Men as a whole, Celebrimbor watched as they smiled in the face of it – as they pulled themselves forward and carried on with a strength of spirit that amazed him for its vivacity. Quietly, he observed the bright flares of their souls, and silently basked in the quick casts of their spirits. Throughout the course of the day, he found Haldan to be a learned horseman and skilled swordsman - even in his latter years - and he enjoyed speaking with the mortal and finding his own reasonings challenged and provoked. Such was found all the more so when speaking with Andreth the Wise-woman, whom, he came to find, had earned her title in every possible definition of the word.

The land of Arda marred would be even darker when these souls winked from existence, Celebrimbor could not help but think. That night, as the people danced to the harper's reels, he sat back and wondered at the will of the One for the diversity of His creation. At length he pondered the Firstborn . . . the Secondborn . . . the Dwarves . . . all living and loving and doing their best to thrive in the time they had allowed to them. And they did so in the darkened ways of Middle-earth, far from the glory of Valinor in the Uttermost West.

Was, he wondered thoughtfully, there a way to amplify such a living . . . to brighten the lands of Endórë - as forgotten as they felt to be from the consideration of the Valar, ever so far away? Was there a way to bring the light of Aman into the war-torn, struggling ways of Middle-earth?

(It was, he concluded simply, something to think upon. And so, that idea – that wanting – was one he never quite pushed aside, or felt truly fulfilled, even upon the end of his days.)

Having had enough of speech for the day, Celebrimbor sat out of the way of the gathering, and took to carving a hunk of oak, he not being able to go without crafting something – anything - for too long, and having finally reached his limit.

It was as such that she joined him – Barahir's wife, Emeldir, who was called the Man-hearted, and rightly so for her courage during the Bragollach, or so he heard.

“You are a quiet one, my lord,” she said in greeting, offering him a mug of the hot spiced wine that was being served to ward off the chill of the spring evening.

“I learn more through observation than speech, I have come to find,” he replied after a moment, taking the wine with a grateful tilt of his head.

“And what have you come to learn this day?” Emeldir asked, her eyes glittering, even in the shadows of the approaching night.

“A great many things,” he responded simply, for which she smiled.

“You remind me of my son,” she said after a pause. “He too was a thoughtful soul - too lost in his own mind, at times . . . but he was a sweet boy, nonetheless.” Her eyes twinkled to say so, and he felt amusement for a woman who was aged as a child by elven standards nonetheless looking upon him with a matron's caring gaze.

“He was?” Celebrimbor noted the past tense cautiously, well aware of the wound he could have been opening with his saying so. Yet, his curious was ever his downfall.

“My Beren is with his father now,” Emeldir said after a moment. She had to pause to gather her words, painful as they clearly were for the speaking. “They live as outlaws in Dorthonion, still fighting against Morgoth's conquest of our land, and I . . .” she took in a deep breath, and let it out slow. “For my husband's commitment to his people, to Dorthonion, I knew the possibility of this day since first I wed him . . . but it is harder, in a way, for a mother to let go of her son - even more so than her mate.”

Celebrimbor felt an unexpected jolt of feeling, remembering his own mother in the West. Lelyanis was only as a ghost of memory to him - as if his mind had blurred her presence so as to avoid the pain of her absence. Better than the shape of her face or the sound of her voice did he remember the feeling of peace and home she had ever been within his spirit – such as she ever remained, even still.

(The veil of the West and the Doom of Námo put a wall between them, but, even so, he liked to think that when he reached for that founding place in his soul, she could feel him do so, and perhaps, know that her son was alive somewhere, and thinking well of her. Only ages of the world later would he be able to ask, and through his asking then know . . .)

He then squared his jaw, and took to his carving again. He had no conscious figure in mind, confident as he was that a shape would soon emerge, and reveal itself to his waiting eyes.

“It is sometimes the fate of sons, to follow their fathers,” he found himself muttering, a tightening within his chest for saying so.

“Just as it is to their mothers to love them, even so,” Emeldir remarked wryly, her eyes thoughtful as they turned upon his work.

He then wondered if his father ever wondered about Lelyanis in the West. He wondered if he regretted shaming her name, if he regretted parting – and parting in such a way, at that. And . . . if he did regret, did he try to reach out as Celebrimbor reached out? Ever attempting to seek . . .

He swallowed, then remembering the hurt, wounded way Curufin had regarded Lelyanis when she refused to accompany them to Formenos to share in Fëanor's exile; and, later, the way he'd declared her as dead to him when she tried to steer him from his Oath and his determination to pursue Morgoth to the fenced ways of Middle-earth. There had been so many harsh words spoken in those final days, when all was unendingly dark around them, and he . . .

. . . he had said nothing – unable as he was to stand aside when his father called for him to follow. That was what sons did to fathers: they followed, they obeyed, and he could not . . .

(It had not been the rolling of the sea that had caused his stomach to turn when the ocean swam in rage, tossing their ill gained ships the way an angry child would an offending toy. As Fëanor shouted into the storm, he remembered the red on his father's sword – remembered being too much of a coward to ask where it had come from - and only then did he remember his mother, and how she had wept for his leaving. Then, and only then, had he had wept too . . . if his father noticed, he mistook his tears for the fury of the rain battering their faces. If he suspected more than that, not once did Curufin ask, and never did Celebrimbor tell.)

His knife bit deep into the wood, and he swallowed away his memories with the force of long practice.

“No matter how far they go,” Emeldir added after a long moment, her clear eyes glittering. He could feel the understanding in her spirit - the perception - and for a moment he wondered at it. “They are remembered by their mothers, and loved all the while.”

Celebrimbor swallowed, but he did not look up for her words, as if afraid for how his eyes would betray him if he did so. Perhaps understanding, she touched his hand once as she went to stand, and then continued on with her duties as a hostess. But at that simple touch, he thought he could see, and from that glimpse, understand . . .

Two figures emerged from the wood by the time he was finished. He did not need to see Finrod's surprised expression to know that he had captured the likenesses of Beren and Barahir perfectly, but rather, before they departed, he simply pressed the carved oak into Emeldir's hand and whispered, “Just as a son too never forgets.”

He heard her sharply drawn inhale of breath, and it pleased him – hoping, as he did, that the memory brought her comfort in the years to come, and from that comfort, peace.



.
.

VI.

For the second time in so short a period, they had guests in Nargothrond.

At first, Celebrimbor had been surprised when his father and uncle left so soon after Finrod departed Nargothrond with Beren, only to be equally as surprised when they returned with a figure robed in blue – with hair darker than the night and eyes as bright as silver twilight, with an air of otherness and more about her. She had clearly been traveling in the wild for some time, for her hair was tangled, and her robes were stained and muddied. Her soft white hands were scraped and dirty, but her eyes were bright – too bright, brighter than even those who still bore a memory of the Trees in their gaze.

And so he looked, and could not look away.

“She is Princess Lúthien of Doriath,” Finduilas had whispered into his ear as the lady passed, shock in her eyes as a clear unease touched her voice – Finduilas being one of the few still absolutely loyal to the House of Finarfin who still dared to speak with him. But, rather than sharing in her unease, Celebrimbor felt a stirring of hope, wondering . . .

After dealing so unkindly with Beren Barahir's son and Lord Finrod, did his father intend to offer his aid? Had his uncle's heart softened? Did they intend to make right their errors, and -

- joy made his step fast, and hope was as a tangible thing to him as he flew to his father's rooms.

“You have aided Princess Lúthien,” he started without preamble as he rushed through the doors, his words quick and nearly gushing from his mouth. He looked, and found his father sitting, pouring over a letter as if searching for errors. Celegorm stood by the hearth, newly lit against the chill of the autumn night, gazing down at the dance of the flames as if they were speaking to him.

But the silence he received in reply did little to deter Celebrimbor. “She is who Beren goes to quest for – do you intend to help her? Shall we send riders after Finrod now? Are we to intervene?”

In return, the silence stretched. Curufin raised a dark brow, looking not at him – but at his brother. Celegorm did not once look away from the flames, though something about his features tightened, grimace-like at his questions.

“We do mean to give them aid . . . do we not?” Celebrimbor tried to form his words as a statement – as a blow, even – but they still came out a question. Hating that he had to do so, he hesitated, and reevaluated his assumption.

And, finally, Celegorm turned from the fire to look at him. “Rather, I would say,” he replied slowly, “that Lúthien shall be the one to aid us.”

Slowly, he brought himself to meet his uncle's eyes – a feat that Celebrimbor had found impossible since he tried to step forward when Finrod asked for those true of heart to accompany him, and his uncle had held him back. He had not been able to look either of his family in the eye since then . . . and, if he were honest with himself, his disquiet had been a thing steadily growing over the years, ever since . . .

(But Celebrimbor would not think about that now; he would not remember his uncle's hand on his shoulder in fondness as Irissë dabbed at the burn on his arm and scowled about Fëanorian pig-headedness, only to have her own matching nature returned and remarked upon. How sweet those days seemed then, only to fall apart when Fëanor drew his sword on Fingolfin his brother only days later . . . and, ever since . . .)

“What do you mean?” Celebrimbor asked. His voice was cold, even to his own ears. “What is it you try to say?”

Curufin looked up at his tone, his eyes narrowing, and he could feel the oppressive cast of his father's spirit - warning him away from any ill-spoken words. But Celebrimbor squared his jaw, and waited for Celegorm's reply.

“There will be an alliance between Nargothrond and Doriath, between the Sindar and the Noldor,” Celegorm said after a long pause. His eyes were then terribly grey, with nothing of the green within to be seen. “Lúthien will consent to become my wife, and, with her at my side, we shall at long last turn the full attention of the Elves upon Morgoth in the North, and end his tyranny over this land.”

Celebrimbor blinked, slow as he was to first understand. For Nargothrond was Finrod's realm – and the kingdom would pass to Orodreth and Finduilas after him, even if Finrod did fall in aiding Beren with his quest . . .

Yet, he understood suddenly – as a blow - there was an overwhelmingly Fëanorian favor in Nargothrond. There had been ever since their numbers merged with Finrod's, and many of the Sindar left for both the Bragollach and their arrival . . . Since then, his father and uncle had woven their webs and spun their words; thus solidifying their control over Nagothrond. Now, if they so wished . . .

“You never intended for Finrod to return,” he found the words small as they fell from his mouth – the same as they had been when he asked about the fate of the first dead Telerin sailor he saw when they boarded their stolen ships. “You never intended for Finrod to live, for Beren to live, and when he dies . . .”

Lúthien would then have no attachment on her heart, and in her grief . . .

“But she does not love you,” he blurted, bewildered – as if that alone should have meant everything. It was so simple a thing to understand that Celebrimbor did not know how else to phrase his disbelief over their chosen course.

“Love will not matter,” Celegorm returned harshly, and Celebrimbor could feel his uncle's fëa lick at his skin as an angry and wounded thing. “When has it ever mattered to the Moriquendi, at that? No, Lúthien will forget her foolish attachment to that mortal, and focus solely on her duty to her people - for that shall be all she has left to her.”

Celebrimbor swallowed, knowing of what his uncle referred to, but uneasy – and unwilling - to blame the crimes of one upon an entire race as a whole.

(For he had remained at Himlad when his uncle had ridden out to avoid Irissë when she at long last sought him out – her heart no doubt softening, allowing her to wish to seek, and perhaps receive apologies and forgiveness in return. The task had fallen to him to welcome her and bid her stay until his father and uncle could return. He had known of her growing discontentment as the months passed and Celegorm ignored her out of wounded pride and spite . . . and, when she did not return from her daily ride that one time, he had been the one to organize the search party, only for, years later, to learn . . . )

Yet, Eöl was not the Sindar as a whole, and Lúthien should not have to pay for Aredhel's death. It was not right, he thought, it was not good, and he -

He looked to his father, wanting to know his mind on the matter – for he could not possibly back such a farce of a marriage . . . could he? But he found that while Curufin's mouth was set in distaste, there was determination in his eyes. He may not have cared for his brother's choice of a bride – or his reasons for such a choice, disliking the hold either woman bore on Celegorm's heart – but he . . .

. . . he served his Oath, much as he ever did, Celebrimbor at last admitted, if even to himself. And, for that Oath . . .

“Do not stand there and looked so surprised,” Curufin at last scorned. “You are a son of a son of Fëanor, and you are no longer a child unable – or unwilling – to hold a sword and do what must be done. It is high time you hold yourself accountable, and act accordingly to your blood.”

Though centuries of hearing such words should have made him numb to the wound they inflicted, his father's voice still struck his fëa like a blow – but, this time, Curufin's words did not draw blood. They could not when he numbly looked on, and thought . . . so this is what it comes to . . . so this is how it ends. Lies and murder and the bonds of kith and kin and love itself spat upon to uphold a vow that had already been washed over in innocent blood once too many times before.

And he . . . he could not swear, he then understood. He at last admitted the truth to himself: he would never let the Oath of Fëanor pass across his tongue. Instead, he felt only disgust and a marrow-deep shame that it had taken him this long to acknowledge what had ever been right before his eyes.

But, for now, he simply squared his jaw, and held up his head without flinching.

All the while, Celegorm observed him with a carefully sharp eye – a hunter's eye, Celebrimbor could not help but think. His uncle was all skin pulled tight over knives in that moment, with his hröa wavering uneasily over the inferno of his fëa underneath. He seemed to be something elemental then, something that was a summer storm or the ocean in anger, and so, so far from the mentor and confidant he'd loved and adored as a child.

“You should heed your father in this,” Celegorm cautioned on a low, hissed whisper. His fingers were tapping dangerously against his thigh - too close to the blade he wore strapped to his hip, and for a moment Celebrimbor felt a whisper of apprehension, warning him away from his own blood. “So, what say you in reply, nephew?”

“I say . . .” Celebrimbor answered slowly, carefully, “that I will bring honor to my grandfather's name in the best way I know how . . . just as I ever will.”

When Celegorm smiled, the points of his teeth were very sharp. “Good boy,” he muttered, closing the few steps between them to kiss his forehead in a pantomime of familial fondness. Celebrimbor held himself stiffly all the while.

Curufin merely watched him – clearly weighing his words, while the pressure of his spirit let him know that the matter of his swearing their Oath was not nearly over – before waving his hand in dismissal. He was not needed anymore.

And so, Celebrimbor turned from them, his heart hammering and his thoughts spinning all the while.

The weeks passed, and Nargothrond settled into a routine where the Sindarin princess was concerned - with Celegorm being the only one to bring Lúthien food and drink, or escort her through the caverns for exercise when her rooms became too confining for comfort. Celebrimbor took note of her guards, of his uncle's timing as it fell into the clockwork pattern of predictability, and then . . .

After Celegorm delivered her evening meal, Celebrimbor arrived, and with a complex to create, but wonderfully effective, chemical compound released into the air, the guards were lulled into a dreamless sleep that they would not remember upon awakening. The lock upon the door was of Fëanorian make, but he was his father's student in all ways, and a skeleton key applied just so made quick work of that. Then, triumphant, he stole inside -

- only to have a vase break over his head in a surprising display of force.

Stunned, he struggled to hold onto consciousness as he stumbled and fell heavily to the ground – feeling his stomach turn as his vision wheeled sickly. The fierce cry the princess had given to aid with her blow then faltered as she took in the face of the Elf she'd bludgeoned, and he sensed her hold back from where she had meant to carry on with her attack – for her fists glowed faintly with her mother's Maiar might, and her eyes were all but aflame upon her face.

“Aiya,” she sucked in a shocked breath. “You are not him.”

“No, I am not my uncle,” Celebrimbor agreed, unsteadily turning to pull himself upright, rather than sprawling so ungraciously across the floor. His head was still spinning, and he held a hand to his throbbing temples, trying to force his vision to focus once more.

He touched a hand to his brow, and felt blood underneath the eight pointed star that stood as the centerpiece of his circlet – the edges of which had cut into his skin from the force of the vase breaking over his forehead.

“But you are one of them,” Lúthien did not immediately move to help him up, and when he forced his eyes to focus, he saw her standing warily before him, her eyes narrowed with distrust.

“I share blood with them,” he corrected, his voice coming out harsher than he first intended, “but I am not one of them.”

For the first, uttering the truth was a mad, liberating thing. He fought the urge he had to laugh at the words – laugh and laugh and laugh – as freeing as they were.

Lúthien looked at him uncertainly, and it was not until a rather familiar form bounded into the room after him that her eyes softened. As if he were a child all over again, Huan licked his face in greeting, woofing softly at the sight of his pain and sniffing at the open wound on his brow.

And Celebrimbor smiled, pushing the wolf-hound away. Huan only retreated to sit on his haunches, his tail still wagging happily. “I have come to help Your Highness,” he tried again, and after a moment, pregnant with promise, Lúthien's stance relaxed. Her terribly bright eyes weighed him, and whatever she found there must have satisfied her - for she then leaned down, and offered him a hand up.

Huan still shadowed their steps as she guided him to sit at the one table the room bore, before turning to pour a pitcher of water into the basin she had for washing. After fetching both that and a cloth, she came to sit next to him, concern etched into the gentle line of her brow.

“Take off your circlet, and let me see to that,” she instructed, and at the unconscious weight of command in her tone, Celebrimbor obeyed her without thinking.

The circlet was unaccountably heavy in his hand, and when he placed it down on the table, the noise of its striking the surface seemed to be as thunder to his ears.

“You do not have to do so,” he denied Lúthien's attempt to nurse him, meaning to take the rag from her. “I have suffered worse than this before.”

“But not by my hand,” Lúthien dodged his efforts, and stubbornly went on to dab at the wound for him. Her pursed lips said that she would continue to ignore his protests to the otherwise. “Allow me this – for it is difficult see to your own brow, no?”

Defeated by her logic, he sat still, and let her tend to him.

“And,” she said slowly, “I am sorry for striking you. By the time I realized you were not who I thought you were, it was too late to stay my hand. Lord Celegorm had already brought me my supper, and the idea of him returning in this late hour . . . ” she bit her lip, and he frowned, wanting to say that such a fear was not in his uncle's nature, and yet . . . “But,” she muttered. “Apparently Fëanorian heads are harder than I first credited them. Perhaps I should have known better.” Her tone turned wry with her saying so.

The timbre of her voice was pleasant to listen to, he thought, quite lulled by the sound of her speech, musical and lilting as it was - hypnotic, almost. This close, her face was uncommonly beautiful to look upon - that he could not deny. Yet, it was the might of her spirit that truly drew his fascination – turning her beauty from something pleasing to the eye to something that was more akin to the wonder of the heavens or the glory of the sea – something elemental, and awe-inspiring for being so.

He swallowed, and had to try twice to find his words.

Yet, she beat him to speaking, hesitantly whispering, “You said that you came to aid me,” as she dabbed the blood away from his brow. “Has there . . . has there been word from my father?”

“Not that I know,” Celebrimbor answered dutifully, wishing that he had kinder words to offer her when he felt grief bloom upon her spirit for his words.

“And he will not reply, not if I know him at all,” Lúthien muttered. “If it is an alliance your uncle seeks, it is a widened rift he shall create instead. Yet, he thinks to know my father's mind better than I, and he will heed me not.”

Celebrimbor frowned, feeling a whisper of truth – of foreboding - for her words, hinting at the days still to come. In true Fëanorian fashion, Celegorm expected absolute loyalty between kinsman, no matter their choices. For him, it was unthinkable that a father would not pledge his armies to his daughter's use if she so had need of them. And yet . . .

“I agree with you,” he said at long last. “Yet . . .”

“Lord Curufin is your father?” she finished for him, her words soft with an unexpected understanding, “And no matter what else he does or says, your father he will always be?”

“Yes,” he agreed after a long moment, that one word feeling as a wound in his lungs. “I love him . . . just as I love my uncle . . . but I am not sworn by their Oath, and, truth be told, its swearing is something I have artfully avoided for centuries. It is not right . . . it is despicable how Finrod was left alone with his decision to aid Beren . . . just as it is dishonorable how his kingdom is now coveted as dogs growling over a bone. Your treatment is just a foul a sin to mention, and I . . . I found that I could no longer stand so idly by, as I did before.”

Celebrimbor sighed, feeling suddenly weary in his skin. Lúthien was silent in reply – quietly reflective as she placed the bloodied rag back in the basin. Yet, the next time her fingers touched his wound, they were faintly alight with her mother's Maiar power. He felt the skin of his forehead knit back together with a sigh, the ache leaving his temples as if it was never there to begin with.

He blinked, and looked at her in surprise. Still somewhat disbelieving, he reached up to feel his healed brow, and found his skin whole to the touch, and not even the least bit tender underneath his fingertips.

“It was the least I could do,” she returned, her cheeks flushing pink as she said so. Her smile was small and impish, but her eyes were alight.

Slowly, he picked up his circlet, and placed it back upon his brow. Its place was heavy upon his head as he stood and went to collect the broken pieces of the vase, Lúthien watching him curiously all the while.

“I have cultivated quite a friendship with the Dwarves of Belegost,” he revealed at last. “In particular, I knew fondness for the smiths who helped hew this kingdom from stone. There is a secret way out – a trick door that only they know - and it you can make use of it here . . .”

Her eyes lightened at the information, and he almost wanted to ask what she had planned after striking Celegorm over the head – as she had first intended. His uncle would not have been so easily felled, and he felt a sour sort of nausea take hold of him as he imagined the rage that such an action would have inspired, and in return bore . . .

- but no, he cast that thought aside, and returned to his task at hand. On the floor by their feet, Huan's massive ears flickered back and forth, and not for the first time, Celebrimbor felt as if Oromë's hound could understand the words they spoke as one capable of speech himself.

“Take this way,” he arranged the broken pieces to form as accurate a map as he could, “and you will be free. From there, you must return to your father with all haste, as he can protect you from -”

“No,” she gently shook her head. “I will make my way north.”

He blinked at her, surprised. “Your Highness,” he tried to protest without ordering her course – feeling as if he fought against the bonds of some certain doom as he did so, “There is nothing but death awaiting you in the north – my kin have seen to that much. Better would it be for you to return to Doriath, to forget your mortal, and in time heal to - ”

“ - there will never be another as Beren to my heart,” she returned fiercely. Her fingertips were white from from where they pressed against the table, and once again her eyes were filled with a holy, incandescent light. “This quest was to be ours to bear – our burden alone. Now, Finrod . . . dear Finrod . . .” her voice was low with a hollow pain as she spoke. “I hear wolves when I close my eyes . . . I feel the Shadow as it taunts me, and I know, I know that I am bound to follow Beren for the hope of all – not only for sake of my own happiness. In the end, this quest will be for more than merely our right to wed, but only if I make my way to him now - now, before any more innocent blood is spilled in the name of our love.”

She reached out to take her hands in his own, and for a moment, Celebrimbor thought that he could understand why his uncle was so easily bewitched by her – for so tangible a force was her determination and her belief as it seemingly lit her from within.

“This is simply something I must do – it is a doom upon my shoulders that I cannot shrug aside . . . that I do not want to shrug aside. Do . . . do you understand what it is I say?” she whispered, but her voice shimmered with determination, with might. Her hands clasped his own, near to bruising, but he did not once think to cast her touch aside.

Did he understand such a love, such a devotion to a chosen course, a person, a cause? No, and yet . . . “No,” he answered on an exhale. He breathed in deeply again, as if he could make her strength his own. “No, I do not. But . . . someday, I hope to.”

Her eyes were soft for his reply, and her hands tightened about his own. “I pray that the Valar smile upon you for this, Telperinquar Curufinwion,” she blessed, her voice alight with an unfathomable power. He felt it trill between his bones, before settling deep within his heart. “May they never forget this day.”

“Better would I ask them to simply guard you on your way,” he said, his voice low with feeling. “For it is a hard choice you have made, and my heart is heavy for the burden you take upon yourself.”

But, there was little time for any words more than that. Instead, he turned back to the broken pieces of pottery, and said: “Now, repeat back to me the way you must go, one last time.”

And fate carried them from there.



.

.

V.

Years passed, until the time came when Celebrimbor realized that he was no longer a mere child amongst an ancient race, but rather, to some he was an elder great of years and many of days.

When he first arrived in Nargothrond with the refugees of Himlad, only days after Orodreth's host, he had noticed Orodreth's quiet daughter Finduilas. The girl had a naturally shy disposition, but she was even more lost to brooding and silence after experiencing the destruction wrought by the Bragollach. She smiled but rarely, and laughed only when she was in the company of Gwindor – the only other elf of Nargothrond who had not yet seen his first century of life. Together, they were child-like in all of their ways, and many knew smiles and fondness for the breath of fresh air the young ones were.

For her quiet disposition, Finduilas was thin and willowy to match, her hair merging the gold of Finarfin's house with the silver of the Sindar to create tresses that were nearly white, seemingly blurring into the nearly luminescent paleness of her skin. Her eyes were the only spot of colour upon her body – a watery green, huge and rarely blinking as she ponderously watched and listened to all that occurred around her.

Oftentimes, Finduilas would come to his forge and quietly sit while he went about his work. The rhythm of the hammer upon the anvil was soothing, she said, and she liked to watch the bright flare of the hearth and red-hot glow of the metal as it was folded and brought to life before her eyes. While she never picked up any of his tools to try herself, he found an attentive listener in her - and a mind quick to pick up the intricacies of metallurgy in all of its ways, at that. She would rival Fëanor himself if she ever took part in his craft, rather than merely observing, he took to teasing her, ever eager as he was to see a smile turn the sad line of her mouth. The days when he could pick her up from her melancholy were happy days indeed, and he cherished them.

Which was why, when she came to his forge with a quiet step and a thoughtful twist upon her pale brow, Celebrimbor put aside the project he'd been working on, and gave her his undivided attention.

“What can I help you with today, princess?” he asked, knowing how she did not care for the title – even though Orodreth her father now held Finrod's crown, and such graces were hers by blood.

She did not smile at his emphasis upon her title, however, nor did she do more than blink at his speaking – showing the true weight of the thoughts burdening her mind. When she looked down, clearly taking a moment to choose her words, Celebrimbor let her take the time she needed. Instead of pressing her, he sat down down at his work-bench, and started on the task of setting jewels into an elaborate choker necklace – a project which could easily be paused and picked up again when she decided she was ready to speak.

“It is my wish to bid a commission of you,” Finduilas at last said, tilting up her head and looking him in the eye with her saying so.

Celebrimbor smiled in reply, and encompassed all of his workroom when he held his arms out wide. “What is mine is yours, my lady, this you know to be true. Tell me, what would you have me make? A net of sapphires to compliment your new gown - or maybe a pendant for your father's begetting day? Or?” for this he pitched his voice to a low whisper, allowing his eyes to glint conspiratorially, “do you wish to commission a gift for your Gwindor to celebrate his return? A new set of daggers, perhaps, or maybe a new pair of vambraces – either would cheer him quite nicely. Or a helm, even? I can make him the equal of the Dragon-helm if you wish it of me – for too long have I gone without a challenge, not since reforging Adanedhel's blade.”

Her pale cheeks flushed, and her eyes fell to the floor again. He paused, feeling as if he had unwittingly spoken in error for the way her fëa flared, as if wounded. Or, he reflected after a moment – her spirit was not wounded, but expecting a blow, nonetheless.

“Yes,” she said in reply, looking down – as if in guilt, he would think if he did not know her better, “A gift for Gwindor would be most thoughtful.”

“Yet,” Celebrimbor said slowly, carefully – well understanding words spoken out of duty rather than from the heart, “That is not what you first wished to ask of me.”

Finduilas shook her head, silently agreeing with him as she stepped forward to run a careful hand over the wood of his work-bench - as if she were more interested in the grains and swirls underneath her fingertips than she was with what she wished to say. Yet, in trying to convey her disinterest, she only confirmed it all the more so.

“The sword you forged for Adanedhel is a great blade,” she finally said, glancing up to meet his eyes as she said spoke. Just as quickly, her gaze fell away.

“It is an acceptable piece,” Celebrimbor replied. “Yet, I had a good stock to work from in Beleg's blade.”

“It is a great sword for a great swordsman,” Finduilas did not quite agree. “You do yourself a disservice in downplaying your skills.”

(For many were those who could open their eyes wide and shape their words to praise, but Celebrimbor would ever look on any ware he crafted, and imagine his father holding the piece in his place. Would Curufin commend? Would Fëanor approve? Yet, all too often, all he heard was: 'imperfect, again,' in his mind as he went about his work, even though his side had long been absent of his father's shadow.)

“Rare would it be that anyone accuse a Fëanorian of humility,” Celebrimbor refused to give into his darker thoughts – not when he wished to earn a smile from his guest. A smile and, perhaps, her speaking of her heart openly and truly, as she had done so many times before. “You do me a great honor with your praise, Princess.”

Just barely, the corners of her mouth turned upwards, and Celebrimbor counted his victory when she continued, “I would challenge you to make the sword's equal with armor to match. Perhaps using that stock of dwarf-mail you have, with runes of protection laid within - and rubies to match the black he he prefers. Or,” Finduilas quickly amended her speech, “you may simply craft wherever your hand would lead you.” Her cheeks flushed with her saying so, as if she had given too much away, too quickly, and only just realized her doing so.

“It is a great gift you wish to give,” Celebrimbor said after a moment, unsure how precisely to shape his reply as an idea – a form of understanding – took shape in his mind.

“As the Lady of Nargothrond, it is my prerogative to see the men underneath my father's command properly outfitted to protect this realm to the best of their ability,” Finduilas returned, strength filling her voice with her every word. His gaze softened for hearing her as such, catching a glimpse of the woman and ruler he knew she could grow into if this marred land but allowed her. “It would please my father if you were to do so.”

“Yet,” Celebrimbor said gently, “It is not Orodreth here asking this of me.”

“No,” she tilted her head, “I am. And . . . I wish the gift not be attached to my name when it is given. Merely say that it is from an admirer.”

“An admirer?” he raised a brow, his question clear.

“Yes,” Finduilas squared her jaw to say so. “An admirer.”

At this, Celebrimbor was silent. A part of him wondered if it was just Gwindor's affection for the mortal man that Finduilas responded to, or if she was drawn to the burden the Atan carried behind him like a shadow. Strange were his ways and speech, and years of living with Oath-takers had made him wise in spying out a cursed course – even if such was not a curse drawn down by the Man's own doing. A great doom lied on the shoulders of Adanedhel, and for that doom . . .

Celebrimbor frowned, and wondered at the light in Finduilas' eyes now, knowing all too well the danger in one's heart assigning affections where they were not sought, and could not be returned. Such was a path he could clearly make out and define before her, and if he could but help her feet from its walking . . .

“I see the way you look at me,” Finduilas caught his gaze, and wisely defined it. “But my intentions are only this: to help ease the shadow that I know to haunt his every step. I wish this very much, and if my gift can both lighten his spirits and very well protect him in the days to come . . . then, such is a gift that I truly wish to give.”

For a moment, Celebrimbor remembered hair that caught the new light of the Sun, and eyes that were the far off memory of the Trees, and he inhaled deeply. He fiddled with the clasp of the necklace he had been working on, rubies thoughtlessly cast on his work-bench before him. In the flickering candle-light, they were a dark smear of colour against the pale grain of the polished wood, and he frowned at the ghost of premonition brushing against his senses, warning . . .

“I would not disagree with such a wish,” Celebrimbor at last said, feeling as he if spoke against some approaching black thing – unmovable and certain, no matter how he shaped his words. “But I would say this to you, as one dear to me: be careful with placing your heart where love cannot truly follow, for great is the pain of such a path – perhaps more so than any other.” Maedhros' words from years ago were as blades in his mouth, and he swallowed around the sting of their cut.

(For true those words were, even so many years later. No matter how he swallowed the memory of her away, no matter how he looked to find that attachment, that love, in another woman anew. Instead, his heart knew its match, and for that knowing, it refused to be touched by any other.)

Her smile, when she gave it, was sad and soft in reply. Perhaps she guessed at his own afflictions; perhaps she knew, but she did not say so either way,

“Yet, I do this as a friend, with no risk of my heart. And,” her smile turned true, her green-blue eyes glittering with a bright light, “It is as a friend that I ask this task of you - not as your lady. Please, aid me in this, Telpe. It should mean the world to me.”

“Then,” Celebrimbor reached over to squeeze her hand fondly, “as a friend, I find that I can ill refuse you.”

Her smile reached her eyes then – radiant in its brightness as it did away with the last veils of grief about her face. She leaned over to kiss his cheek in her happiness, and he closed his eyes against the gesture - feeling as if he did not hold onto her in that moment, her place by his side would be but fleeting, and, forgotten, she would all but fade away.

A strange sort of sorrow hung about him as he went to fetch his sketchbook, and sat down before her again.

“Now,” he started practically, firmly pushing his misgivings away, “Tell me the particulars of what you wish for me to craft, and we shall go from there.”



.

.

IV.

Years came, and years went; Finrod's predictions about the realm he'd raised from stone came to pass when Nargothrond was laid low by the dragon Glaurung and Adanedhel's – Túrin's - long fought curse. Orodreth perished, Finduilas was cruelly slain, and it was left to him to lead the survivors of their people through the Fell Winder and on to the coast and Círdan's folk. There he remained in the court of Gil-galad as first Doriath fell, and then Gondolin . . .

(For the Silmaril worked its enchantments well, taking one bearer down its cursed path after another. First, Lúthien's father, and then her son . . . He had felt his own father flicker as a flame against his senses before fading out, while the fainter spot his uncle still claimed within his fëa gave way like smoke to the wind. He had closed his eyes at their passing, and told himself not to weep – even as his eyes nonetheless burned. It was a grief that shamed him, but he could not push his sorrow aside, no matter how he tried.)

When the Havens of Sirion were populated by the refugees of both Doriath and Gondolin, he was careful to keep his feet to the Isle of Balar – for few of the Sindarin survivors wished to see one of the House of Fëanor, even one who had sworn not of his grandfather's Oath. To an extent, he understood their wishes, and he had no desire to reopen old wounds if such could be avoided on his part.

He did . . . he did see Elwing Dior's daughter once, as a young woman standing regal and tall by her guardians' side as she was given in marriage to Eärendil Tuor's son. She had worn the Silmaril, set into the gaudy brilliance of the Nauglamír, about her throat, and the gem had been so, so bright before his eyes. In her face had been such a reflection of Lúthien, her grandmother, that Celebrimbor did not know whether or not to linger with his grief or his missing – or worse, his vague longing for the work of his grandfather's hands. Such was something that he knew to be the flame of Fëanor at the very core of him, and yet, he still looked away from the Silmaril in shame, caring not for the crack in his walls that allowed that light to shine through.

By that time the wound on his heart had well healed, and while he knew that he would always hold his regard for her as a flame brightly burning, he thought himself safe enough from his own heart to ask Galadriel for a dance at the wedding feast – and what started as a commendation for the child she and her husband had raised soon turned into a low, breathless plea to throw the Silmaril into the sea and let it be forgotten there – far from all, where it could harm no one, no more. For, Galadriel knew as well as he that the Oath would only sleep for so long, and though Maedhros would first fight its pull . . .

. . . soon its call would be overwhelming, and just like Doriath and Alqualondë, Sirion too would fall.

(As much as he wished to forestall the spilling of innocent blood, a part of him mourned at the idea of losing any more of the family he still had left, no matter how estranged they were, and he knew . . .

. . . It was only a matter of time.)

So, when Galadriel first appeared before Gil-galad's court, holding a letter written in a familiar, elegant scrawl, he felt his blood turn cold, and he knew.

Out of mercy – or pity on the High-king's part – he was not sent back to Sirion with Galadriel on that first tide. Instead, he came with Gil-galad's ships, assembled as quickly as they could be summoned, and yet . . . Smoke burned on the horizon even before Sirion could properly be seen, and he knew, with a sinking feeling . . .

(The Ambarussa falling had been as a faint discomfort in his side – a grief he could not properly put into words before understanding set in. He fixed his jaw with more anger than pain, once again loathing the foolish, hateful Oath of his kinsmen with every bone he had to loathe within him.)

The battle had taken many casualties from both sides, he numbly noted as he made his way through the ruined harbor with Gil-galad's retinue. The white stone walls were blackened with smoke, and the fair, cobblestone streets ran red with blood in many places – showing where a body had been felled, and then moved to join the mass pyre that was even now burning in the market square. There, dozens sang an eerie, haunting song of lamentation to Námo, filled with grief and loss. Their voices followed him throughout the city, shadowing his every stride. Once again the Oath of Fëanor had taken the blood of kin to repay the spilled blood of a dearly beloved kinsman, and he . . .

Celebrimbor felt nauseated, sick to his stomach, hating that the same blood that caused this ruin flowed in his veins to match. Did he . . . was he equal to the horrors around him? some small part of him would ever wonder. Was he capable of the same bloodshed, the same carnage? It was a thought that worried him, at times, the whisper that even now said: if that foolish girl would have just returned the Silmaril, letting it be where it truly belonged . . .

- but he closed that part of himself away. He buried it deep, as far down in his mind as it would go - as if that part of himself could be forgotten in the shadows of his soul, and there be forever lost.

He followed behind Gil-galad as the King sought out where Galadriel was tending to the wounded. Though she was no healer under normal circumstances, the might of her fëa was undeniable, and she shared as much of her light as she could while the surviving healers of Sirion were stretched as thin as they were. When they arrived, she was seeing to her husband – for Celeborn had nearly lost his sword-arm – if not more than that - in the fray, and only Galadriel's tireless determination and sheer strength of spirit had his wounds healing and progressing where first the injury had looked dire indeed.

Yet, the Sindarin prince had taken the twin sons of Fëanor in payment for that wound – one slain only through a great struggle, and the second falling as if simply giving up once his brother was dead before him. Celeborn's voice was hard as he shared that part of the battle, but there was the slightest softening about his eyes as he related the deaths of his kinsman. Such was not a kindness or a pity, Celebrimbor understood, but a simple acknowledgment of his blood tie, nonetheless.

He then numbly listened to Elwing's surrendering herself to the sea, and Ulmo's grace in preserving her soul alive. . . And then, her sons . . .

Hearing such news was a blow, remembering as he did his uncle as a patient tutor and easy confident for every youth of the House of Finwë – from Fingon to himself to Argon. Maglor too did he remember for his joy in song and his gentle, easy disposition, and now . . . for this . . . He bit the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood, and tried in vain to wrestle with his bafflement – with his hatred and missing and pain.

The first time Celeborn and Oropher accompanied Gil-galad in a parley with Maedhros and Maglor to have the children returned, their efforts were for naught. Maedhros would return Elwing's sons only when Elwing surrendered his father's Silmaril. Yet, as neither Elwing nor Eärendil had returned, nor did the people of Sirion know when, or if, they would . . . bound as the Half-elf had been for the Straight Road and the Uttermost West itself . . .

Twice more did Gil-galad try to treat with his uncle, and twice more did Maedhros turn the young King's efforts away.

And so, Celebrimbor offered to go – alone, eager as he was for his uncles to see sense in this matter, and return the children to their remaining family and those who loved them.

There was division amongst Gil-galad's council for his doing so. Some questioned his loyalties, particularly those amongst the Sindar who were especially embittered since Sirion's destruction; while some wanted no more of speech, but rather, were eager to attack as they had twice been ambushed in kind. Such was an especially loud wish on the side of Oropher's followers - for Elwing's sons were the last link they had to Thingol, and if their Queen had truly forsaken them . . . Without her return, the power of Thingol's crown would fall to Elmo's sons and grandsons – but only if they could not retrieve the children in a timely manner. Celebrimbor could not tell the want in Oropher's eyes for power, or for the return of his uncle's descendants, and after a moment he ceased trying to tell them apart when the two desires were so closely entwined.

Surprisingly, it was Celeborn who spoke in favor of his going – silencing a great many of the Sindarin voices who objected, and drawing a pause from the Noldorin mouths of the council as well. His was a respected voice – for more than his winning both Galadriel's hand and heart, at that – and there were many amongst the Noldor who too accounted him amongst the Wise.

Celebrimbor had stared, surprised – and, even if only to himself, reevaluating the hasty marriage to one lesser he had first thought Galadriel to make. The silver lord's speech and expression were calm, but there was a hot flame burning in his eyes, and his spirit rippled on the air in both pain and impotent anger – for the simple fact of the matter was that Gil-galad's numbers were not enough to reclaim the children by force when they were stretched so thin underneath the burden of Morgoth's yoke. If lives could be spared by kinsman listening to the voice of a kinsman . . . Celeborn trusted, or, at the very least, his worry for the sons of Elwing – the woman he and Galadriel had raised since Doriath – was enough for him to push any of his personal misgivings and doubts aside to do so.

Soon enough, the council was in agreement, and it was with a heavy heart that Celebrimbor once again donned his circlet of ever-silver, with the Fëanorian star burning at the center of the diadem. Such was the first time he had worn the piece since Lúthien herself had dwelt in Nargothrond, and its place was heavy upon his brow.

(Distantly, he remembered throwing the circlet to the ground as he disowned himself from his family, watching the disbelief and scorn in his father's eyes with a nauseating blend of crippling pain and near breathless satisfaction. Yet, he had later reclaimed the band, determined that if he would not swear his grandfather's Oath, he would at least honor his grandfather's name in the best way he could.)

Grimly setting his jaw, he then cloaked himself in red - forsaking armor and steel of any kind as he rode north to where Gil-galad's scouts last knew his uncle's host to camp by the seashore, still hoping as Maedhros did for the possibility of Eärendil's return and willingness to trade the Silmaril for the lives of his sons.

It took but a few words to convince the bewildered guards of his identity, and few more than that for the tongue-tied herald to admit him, and then -

- Celebrimbor did not have time to square his shoulders, nor was he able to let his mouth fill with his strong words. For, rather than his uncles sitting aloof and untouchable at his admittance – as he half expected them to – first Maglor, then Maedhros, rose quicker than first he could see, and then their strong arms were encircling him. They embraced him with joy and disbelief, and for a long moment he sank almost bonelessly into their hold, feeling as a child safe in the arms of his family once more. He blinked, and felt traitorous tears burn as liquid fire behind his eyes, even as his own arms tightened, accepting the embrace as freely as it had been given.

(Only the knowledge of how many tears were shed because of his kin helped stay his course. He wanted to ask of his father - to ask if Curufin spoke of him, mentioned him, or perhaps even regretted the manner of their parting and their words traded in pain and anger. Then . . . his father's death . . . for that he so dearly wished to ask, but he did not. He would not. Instead, he swallowed his words away. Fiercely, he forced himself to remember Doriath, and Sirion, and then - )

Feeling as if he were the Moon stepping away from the Sun, he loosed himself from their embrace, and stood on his own once more.

“Do you come with word from Gil-galad?” Maglor was the first to ask, his eyes glittering in expectation. He slipped into Quenyan amongst his closest family, and for a moment, hearing the language of his birth spoken so beautifully was as a balm against many a deeply gorged wound.

“Surely Eärendil has returned by now. Is he ready to treat with us?” Maedhros too wore a hungry look in his eyes – want for the Silmaril of Lúthien, and such a simple faith in a father's love for his sons making this as an inevitability to his mind. Even Fëanor, for all of his faults, would have . . .

. . . but would he have? Celebrimbor then wondered unkindly, before forcing the thought aside. There was no use dwelling in impossible what-ifs, and such was not what he had came for.

“We still have not seen, nor heard, from either Eärendil or Elwing,” Celebrimbor imparted his lack of news. “And there are those who doubt that we ever will.”

Galadriel was amongst those ranks, for she saw a hazy idea of the future to come, and knew that the way West could open before the mixed blood of the Peredhil and the light of the Silmaril. But that, he did not say.

“You've come for the children, then,” Maglor said as understanding dawned. The light in his eyes dimmed, just as Maedhros' look turned closed off at the revelation. A certain welcomeness about his stance then turned cold, and his mouth hooked in a thin line. It was only then that Celebrimbor saw how much the years had changed his uncle - turning him stretched in his own skin, as if he were metal left too long in the fire, and was now brittle underneath the blows of the hammer. The years hung over him like a pall, like a shadow, and Celebrimbor mourned to see the loss of the light of his spirit over all else the Oath had taken.

“Yes, I do come for the children,” Celebrimbor confirmed, holding his head up high with a surety he did not feel. “I have come to ask you to see reason, and listen - ”

“ - to see reason as Elwing did? As Dior did before her?” Maedhros snorted. “It was a lack of reason on the behalf of Doriath and Sirion that brought the sword, for had they just listened, and given to us - ”

“ - Uncle, do you even hear yourself?” Celebrimbor interrupted incredulously. “The blood of Beren and Lúthien too was spilled on the facets of that cursed gem, and Dior could give it up just as easily as you could. But he did not sacrifice the innocent blood of others to claim, and keep it for himself!”

“Did he not?” Maedhros' eyes flashed. “Did he not deem the blood of his kingdom – of his wife and sons and very self – worth his doing so? Those lives are on his hands, almost as much as they are on our own, and he did not have our Oath lashing at his back, pushing him to do so.”

“Yet, has not blood enough been spilled for your Oath?” Celebrimbor returned. “Please, the children are innocent in this, and I cannot believe that you would . . .” He swallowed, but could not find his words. “Maitimo would not be as cruel as this – Russandol would not. Not ever. He would bleed himself before causing harm to any other, and now . . .”

Now everything was so twisted from where it once had been, and he felt weary underneath the weight of his name and the long stretch of his many years.

Maedhros' eyes were burning with a harsh fire, one he could not tell from Fëanor or Angband survived in his spirit. Once again, Celebrimbor had to fight the urge to step back – not to distance himself from his heart, but to cautiously defend himself from any threat of violence to come. Maedhros noticed, he thought, for a moment later he looked away, and held his one hand to his temples as if pained.

“Please,” Celebrimbor turned to Maglor then – Maglor, who'd watched their words with a burdened weight in his eyes, and looked as if he so dearly wanted . . . “Please, allow the children to come back with me. Do good by them, even in this way alone. I know that you want to, even if your Oath constrains your deeds. But you are stronger than any mere vow of tongue - I know that you can be.”

Maedhros gave a low, brittle laugh at that. “Speak you so easily about what you cannot possibly understand. You wear the Star of Fëanor upon your brow, but you come as a wolf in sheep's clothing,” he shook his head in disappointment, in disgust, Celebrimbor hated to see. “Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords; this we promised, and for that promise, all we do will amount to nothing more than dust and ash in this land.

“You may stand there and pretend that you are not underneath a similar doom as we. Yet you are a son of a son of Fëanor, and his accursed blood runs through your veins the same as it does through our own. It will drive you, it will consume you, until, someday, you will look behind you as I do now and wonder at the carnage left in your wake.”

“No,” Celebrimbor tilted his head up defiantly. “I foreswore my name; I disowned myself from my father. I share not in your fate – just as you can free the children of that same fate now. They need not pay for the sins of our name. Not in this way.”

“Yet, can you empty your veins to cut yourself off from Fëanor completely? No, you cannot,” Maedhros returned with a raised brow. “His fire burns within you as something consuming, and someday there will be nothing left to burn. No mere words spoken aloud can ever turn that fact aside.”

A long moment passed, heavy with silence. Until, finally, Maedhros waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It would be best for you to take your leave – now – with no harm done to you. You say that you are no kin of ours, and we shall remember your words as such. Next time, you will not find so easy a passage within our holdings, nor will quarter be shown if you stand between we and our Oath again.”

Celebrimbor squared his jaw, feeling as a scolded child before the anger of an elder. But he bit his tongue and swallowed that feeling away – knowing that he was the stronger one here, knowing that he was right.

“Wait,” he held up a hand, unwilling to leave so soon. “I thought that you might prove insensible to reason, so I brought this in case the children were to be your guests for longer than we would prefer.”

He shouldered off his pack, and let it fall to the ground between them with a dull thud. His mouth pressed into a bloodless line, and his eyes burned with anger as he undid the clasp and reached within to reveal -

- first one book, and then two and three. Each were carefully illustrated for a child's enjoyment, the lines of text simple and easy to understand. “Elrond, I am told,” he started in a terse, thin voice, “does not care for storms. Read to him when they come – these books are his favourites.

“Elros needs nothing more than this to comfort him,” he pulled out a stuffed deer – the toy clearly ancient, and sewn over again more than once where loving hands had tugged its limbs from its body. “Beren made this for Dior, did you know? It was one of the few things Elwing was able to grab when Doriath was destroyed around her.”

If he thought to have the satisfaction of Maedhros flinching, he was disappointed. Behind him, however, Maglor knelt to touch the offerings as if in a daze, for which Celebrimbor had no pity to see.

He emptied the rest of the pack – Elros' toy boats, a puzzle-cube Elrond favored, clothes and warm cloaks and lists of what the twins preferred for food and drink and pastimes, given from those who had known the children best and loved them dearly. Celebrimbor remembered Galadriel penning the notes; he recalled how her fingers had been white over the stem of the quill, how she had clenched her jaw to keep her tears from falling – still too angry as she was to yet give into any sort of grief. He made fists of his own hands now, his regard for her still a brightly burning thing deep within him, and for her to know any pain that he could possibly sooth . . .

Celebrimbor swallowed, and had to try again to find his breath.

When he stood, ready to follow the guard who waited to show him out, he fought the urge he had to take of his circlet and cast it before them – as he once had before his father. For, in a queer way, he still wished to honor his grandfather's name where so many had dragged it through the muck and mire. He still thought now as he did then, and perhaps, someday . . .

Yet, until that day could come, he said in parting: “I may be cursed, but at least I actively fight against my destiny. Perhaps I will someday fail in that fight, but until then . . .” he sighed and said: “I hope you find peace for your actions, and treat the children fairly while they are in your care. I hope that they are able to forgive you someday – for your sakes . . . for I fear that I shall not ever be able to do so. You are truly not my kin as I remembered them to be.”

Sharply, he turned to leave, feeling his inky hair fan out behind him as he did so. So long had he been told that he resembled his father in every way, and Curufin had looked to be Fëanor reborn - especially when he was moved to anger – and he wondered if he appeared as a ghost of his grandfather then. Yet, he did not look back to see his uncles' expressions in return. Rather, he kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead, even when they burned as with forge-fire.

Even so, he could feel his uncles' eyes as a heat of their own until that too faded away; then nothing more than a remembered warmth.



.

.

III.

Then, only a scattering of years later – a blinking in the immortal eyes of an Elf - the twins were returned to the Isle of Balar.

Yet, while Celebrimbor would have expected to see them wide-eyed and grateful to be returned to their kindred – their kindred who were sinned against, rather than those who committed such sins – his expectations were proved to be amazingly wrong with but a glance.

In the nearly two decades they had been away, Eärendil's sons had turned from children to two lanky youths, each with limbs too tall and long for them to be called graceful by any means. Their hair was black, so black that Celebrimbor could have attributed such to Finwë's blood in their veins, but it was the shade of twilight in their eyes that marked them as Lúthien's descendants in every way. They were polite enough when introduced to Círdan and Gil-galad in the King's own chambers - for Gil-galad had quickly moved to claim the two as his wards until they came of age, thus forestalling any unkind tongues who wished to comment on their upbringing amongst Kinslayers - and they were equally as polite with Celeborn and Galadriel, even though their words were the bland pleasantness assigned to strangers. Celebrimbor waited back with Oropher and Thranduil and Amdír – careful to keep a healthy distance between himself and the first lord, as always – as they were the only ones with a blood tie to the children, and watched with a tightly held jaw as the twins were asked about their time amongst, and escape from, the Fëanorians in great detail.

It was Elros who revealed in a clipped, hard sentence, that they did not escape. Rather, they were forced to leave – they were given no choice in their staying, as such was decided to be the best for their well-being and future to come. Perhaps wisely, Elros closed his mouth before saying that they were surrendered out of love, but everyone gathered in the room felt the sentiment nonetheless. There was a flicker in Elrond's gaze that spoke of agreement with his brother's words, though he did not give voice to the memory that had so clearly crossed his mind.

Elros' statement provoked a snort of derision from Oropher, while Gil-galad's face remained unmovable in its serenity as he smoothly professed his gladness for their return, in any way - covering over the near blunder with the polished ease of a practiced politician.

No matter his personal opinions, it was obvious that the children had been well cared for during their years away from proper elven society. They were both well dressed, and they were clearly well-fed and healthy - with calluses from learning the art of the sword, and the wiry beginnings of muscle from hours spent in the saddle. Maedhros' hours of devotion to study, and Maglor's love for language, showed in the way they each spoke elegantly and learnedly – when they could be moved to speak more than two words together, that was. All too often, Celebrimbor thought that he could feel the weight of their speaking between their own minds - clearly used to sustaining themselves in such a way when they had only each other to depend on – but such was a flickering of knowing to his mind, and nothing more.

(For he remembered the Ambarussa before swallowing that memory away. The empty, yawning recesses in his soul where once his family had burned were now silent voids, aching in their absence. As always, he turned those missing places away as gaps between bones, and regarded them no more than he was forced to.)

Even Galadriel was able to coax but a few words in reply when it was her turn to bid them welcome – and she was rewarded with more than most for the twins' vague recollection of her from the time before they were taken from Sirion. Celebrimbor later watched the way her hands fisted as she left the chamber, noticing how she had to fight to keep her expression serene and graceful in countenance. Her grief was such a palpable thing that he cursed his uncles and their Oath anew, hating to see her know pain in any form.

Yet, the twins were oblivious to the grief they had caused, bemired in their own situation as they were. Baffled, Celebrimbor only glanced back once before taking his leave, wondering if he'd ever loved the blood of Fëanor as well as these two children did. It was a thought that gave him pause, and, not caring for the path his mind took, he turned it aside.

Celebrimbor did not have much cause to speak to the sons of Eärendil after that. He did not see them again until a sennight later, when Gil-galad sent the twins to his workshop for the commission of two matching circlets for the feast the following week to come – where the High-king intended to present Elrond and Elros to Balar as a whole, ready as he was to put the rumors and whispered words over their arrival to an end with one sure stroke. Such ornaments would remind all those gathered of the blood of several Elven-kings, along with the ruling blood of the Three Houses of Men these two bore - and hopefully, help ease their way back into the hierarchy they had been torn from.

They were not the most reticent clients he'd ever worked for, but their silence to any of the ideas he had to pose sat ill with him. Unseen from their eyes as they leafed through a catalog of gems, he ran a hand through his hair in a rare show of frustration, not sure what to say or do to help what was so obviously a wound, deeply inflicted, before him.

He was trying to steer Elros away from a choice of rubies – hoping to guide him to the blue sapphires of Fingolfin's House instead, rather than the fire and blood of Fëanor's name – when Elrond thoughtfully paused over a design that mimicked the eight pointed star of Fëanor without being an exact match in shape.

“You too are of Fëanorian blood, are you not?” Elrond at last asked, reaching out to thoughtfully trace the design with his first finger. While he spoke quietly, there was a force behind the gentleness of his voice – reminding Celebrimbor of Maglor in a sudden, unguarded moment. He frowned at the boy's phrasing, caring little for the association it implied.

“I am the son of Curufin Fëanorian, it is true,” he answered, the words stiffly drawn from his mouth. By blood only was he was bound to that House, he thought, but did not say. Fëanor had no hold over his heart, or his actions, more than that.

Even so, the carefully blank planes of Elrond's face relaxed, and a faint glimmer appeared in Elros' eyes for his answer.

“Then you understand,” Elrond gave a rare smile to say. With those words, his voice was filled with more inflection than Celebrimbor had yet to hear from both of the twins combined.

Elros turned on his stool to face him, his eyes alight with what Celebrimbor could only call joy. “It must wound you as well as we: the whispers, the accusations. To hear all of the good Maedhros and Maglor tried to do for Middle-earth as a whole – fighting against Morgoth over and over again while the Sindar sat still and safe in their forests - all but forgotten, with only the blood remembered -”

“ - most dwelling in Balar have lost loved ones aplenty to the House of Fëanor - more than I care to think on, really,” Celebrimbor interrupted curtly. “You would do well to remember that whilst you dwell in Gil-galad's keeping.”

Celebrimbor turned to look down at the sketches before him, setting his jaw tightly at the confused look the twins turned on him. “I did not swear my father's Oath,” he explained the sudden rancor in his voice as simply as he could. “I am estranged from my kin, and have been for many years.”

“We swore no Oath, either,” Elros said, “but that does not mean that we cannot say how theirs was a course cruelly scripted, and know pity and understanding in kind.”

“No matter what actions stained their hands, we did love those who loved us,” Elrond said softly. “It is much the same for you, we'd imagine.”

The boy's eyes were uncannily bright – reminding him of Galadriel with the way they glimmered with understanding and insight. He'd heard Gil-galad whispering about the child bearing the Sight of Indis along with the powers of healing and enchantment - for such was one of the reasons Maedhros had returned the twins, with their having no way to foster and encourage such a talent amongst their own ranks. Galadriel had been glad to take Elrond on as her student, eager as she was to make up for the days she had lost out on – perhaps, just as Maedhros knew she would have done. Celebrimbor swallowed against that knowing, caring for it but little.

“I am afraid that the last time I spoke with my uncles, we parted on less than pleasant terms,” Celebrimbor's voice was dry as he said so. He looked down, but the sketches and gems all seemed to blur before his eyes.

“So did we, unfortunately,” Elros said with a sigh. He too picked at the parchment before him, his eyes still tracing over the classifications of rubies, the painted colours doing but little to capture the true brilliance of their light.

“I called Maedhros father only days before we were cast aside,” Elrond muttered. “He . . . he did not take it well.”

Unsure if it was intentional or not, Celebrimbor caught a glimpse of memory from the boy: of Maedhros' eyes wide as he entreating that he could not, that he deserved not. But it did not matter, for Elrond could see into his mind - could see the memories of blood and taking alongside the years he had tried to do right by his Oath and the whole of Middle-earth. And, in the end he knew, he knew . . .

“Elwing abandoned us to an uncertain fate for her coveting the Silmaril of Lúthien, and Eärendil never saw fit to return and claim the sons he'd left to the Kinslayers that our parents so claimed to revile,” Elrond shrugged, his eyes darkening. “Perhaps such was their duty, but then, so was the fulfillment of their Oath for Maglor and Maedhros. They could do no differently, and yet, they wished . . .”

He then turned and looked up, and Celebrimbor felt small underneath the weight of his gaze, already heavy beyond his years as it was. He did not look away, however - he could not - and finally Elrond said, “I saw you too in Maedhros' mind. It was fleeting, but I saw his love for all of his family – he envied you, and your ability to turn aside the Oath, to cast away the chains of Fëanor and forget. He wished to do the same, but his Oath was one he could not foreswear, now without the Darkness as payment, and so . . .”

But his voice tapered off, and Elrond could say no more. Elros reached over to place a comforting hand on his twin's shoulder. He was silent in his encouragement, but Elrond inhaled nonetheless, drawing strength from his support.

And Celebrimbor too sighed, closing his eyes as Elrond shared with him one last thing: of Curufin within Maedhros' mind, letting him glimpse the wound on his spirit and his pain for his son's betrayal. Though his words were harsh and his spirit was as the blade of a knife to his senses, Curufin mourned when he thought when no one was looking, and rather than praying to the Valar whom he doubted would hear, he nonetheless whispered his wife's name and gave his apologies for never being the husband and father he could have been. For, how could he, when he was instead Fëanor's most favoured son in all things?

Celebrimbor blinked, and wrenched himself away from the shared memory, feeling it as a battering ram against his years of careful hate and apathy where his father's blood was concerned. He had been content in his revilement, at ease with his scorn, and now . . .

He closed his eyes, and reached up a hand to rub at his temples, unsure of what to think, what to feel, and -

- he looked down when a thin hand reached over to touch his arm in offered strength and shared mourning. He felt a massive, blue presence brush against his spirit, and he recognized a healer's touch – perhaps clumsy and untried, but the intent was clear enough as he felt his spirit calm and his breath give way for peace in his chest.

And so, he inhaled, and let his fëa flush with gratitude before he gently encouraged the child to pull away. Such a sharing of memories and mingling of spirits was a rare talent, and while Elrond may have had stores of untapped potential, he was still untrained, and Celebrimbor did not want to hear from Galadriel later when she heard how he'd let her latest apprentice carry on when he could have stopped him.

Elrond caught the last thought from his mind, however, and smiled. Elros did too – reluctantly, Celebrimbor thought – but no less truly, and the moment felt as a beginning, no matter how small it may have been.

And so: “I understand,” he said to their earlier claim. He understood how it was to hate their deeds, but still love the person for themselves . . . For he still loved his family, he at last admitted that truth to himself - trying to hold onto his kinder memories: of Maedhros' hand on his shoulder in encouragement . . . of Maglor's singing when he was a child . . . of Celegorm treating his burns for him, and his father guiding the hammer in his hands, even when he was still too young to attempt his crafts. Ever was his father's pride so deeply buried, but it was still there, there, and -

Thoughtfully, he leafed through his designs, seeking the setting of stones that was alike to Fëanor's eight pointed star, but not . . . and decided.

“This?” he finally offered a compromise. “But with Gil-galad's blue? I am sure that I can combine something more than suitable that way.”

Elrond looked down thoughtfully, approval in his eyes, while Elros smiled half a smile, inclining his head in a more tangible show of agreement. Crisply, Celebrimbor nodded in satisfaction as he gathered his sketches, already eager as he was to get to work.



.

.

II

In many ways, Ost-in-edhil was a sanctuary; a gift after the war torn days of the First Age and the cursed actions of his family there-in.

Like many, he had refused to return to the Uttermost West after the War of Wrath and Morgoth's final defeat, for there was still a great land here, a beautiful land, deserving of the care and the splendor of Valinor itself. For as long as he could, he was determined to stay and grant what light he could to the scarred land he knew as his home.

. . . for which he'd received a most intriguing visitor . . . a most intriguing offer, one that he considered carefully – or, at least, attempted to. For his mind seemed to be in a haze that day, lost in a tense fog as he stared down at the trinket Annatar had left with him. It was a ring, simply crafted and unassuming at first glance, and yet. . .

In his mind, Galadriel's warnings - Gil-galad's warnings - melded together in a tapestry of words and glances, but it was difficult for him to focus on them for too long. It was to drive a lancing sort of pain behind his eyes whenever he did so, as if he had been crafting for too many days straight, without stopping for rest and nourishment.

It was, he reflected, a rather vexing thing.

To aid with his migraine, he drank a tonic and sat thoughtfully in the half-light of his workroom, his projects sitting still and untouched around him. And that was how she found him.

Reflexively, he gave a half-smile to see Galadriel's daughter coming towards him. Celebrían was a sweet child, if at times prone to the antics of youth – which she and her friends had proven just the night before with their breaking into the wards of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain to find the monster who had newly arrived within – as elaborate as the games of children could be.

He assumed that was what she was here for now - for her expression, rather than being bright and cheerful, was closed off and hesitant, and she bit her lip at his invitation to come in and sit at his workbench. She was a pretty child, he thought, with her father's mass of silver hair just barely touched with Galadriel's tendency for waves, and her startlingly bright blue eyes clear and clever upon her face. Her features were still soft with the roundness of youth, but he thought where he could see the delicate faces of the Sindar merge with Galadriel's strong Noldorin lines to create what would be quite the beauty in her years to come. She was a happy child, with all of the eager energy he could imagine of Galadriel at that age, and knowing her was one of his joys for remaining in Middle-earth.

Even still, there were times when looking on Celebrían was as a blow – imagining how, had things been different . . . but no. He had lived with his unrequited affections for centuries now, so much so that he would not turn aside the friendship of Artanis' daughter for any offered riches. He would sooner be able to forsake one of his lungs before he could turn a part of Galadriel away.

And so, he set his face into a gentle expression, and said: “I heard that you had quite the adventure last eve.”

Slowly, Celebrían nodded, and darted a look up to meet his eyes – as if weighing him. “There was a dare,” she revealed slowly. “Aredhelon . . .” she swallowed, and then started again, narrowing her eyes in memory of the other youth. “It was said that there was a creature who had been welcomed here,” this she phrased carefully, “who would offer you gifts, but take part of your soul as payment for those gifts. I was to ask a boon of this creature to prove my bravery, whilst endeavoring to keep my soul in tact . . . It sounds silly now, but when the challenge was first uttered . . .”

She set her mouth in a thin line, and Celebrimbor was less amused by the antics of the children as he was disturbed for the tale they told. Annatar had hardly been his guest for little more than a passing of three days time, and already . . .

“Yet, I did not find a monster,” Celebrían continued honestly – even though her voice was hesitant, and she worried with the ties of her cloak as she said so. “Lord Annatar found me, and escorted me home.” She fairly mumbled the last words, and Celebrimbor had to strain to hear her speak.

Celebrimbor smiled, pleased to hear of Annatar's generous behavior. “That was very gracious of him,” he said, trying to keep the note of satisfaction out of his voice – knowing that he would mention this when next Galadriel tried to encourage him to send his guest away. “The forge can be a dangerous place without an elder attending to you.”

“I know that I was wrong to do so,” Celebrían agreed, shame coloring her cheeks, “and that is why I am here to offer my apologies for trespassing. It was badly done of me.”

“You are forgiven,” Celebrimbor assured her, inclining his head. “You are not the only one who strayed where perhaps they ought not have in their youth.” He remembered the fallen ring, and his uncle helping him with his burn, and fought back a wave of bittersweet nostalgia for the memory.

“My father was not pleased that Annatar escorted me back, even though he thanked him, nonetheless,” Celebrían said after a long moment, as if weighing her words and how she should speak them. “Annatar . . . he was amused for my story, but he did not seem surprised to hear it. His spirit . . . it is as if his skin is pulled too tight over a great heat, and that flame is all but straining to escape the body he wears. His eyes . . . when he looked at me . . . I . . . I did not - do not - care for his gaze, not at all.”

It took him a moment to realize that the child was sharing her misgivings, not out of a way to explain her actions, but out of concern for him. He felt the corner of his mouth turn, unsure if he should feel weary or touched by her doing so.

“You have never before met one of the Maiar, have you?” Celebrimbor asked then. “Many such spirits made flesh feel so to your senses.”

“A Maia?” Celebrían asked, blinking as she said so. “You believe him to be one of the Ainur?”

“I believe so,” Celebrimbor inclined his head in answer. “He says that he learned at the feet of Aulë himself before the beginning of all things, and as he is clearly not of Elven-kind . . .”

“A Maia,” she repeated, this time thoughtfully, as if weighing his words. “Yes,” she said softly – but still hesitantly. “I suppose that would explain him feeling as such.”

“And that is why he is still here,” Celebrimbor leaned over, speaking lowly, as if sharing a secret. “I am curious for what else he could share, for what else he could teach us.”

“Ah,” Celebrían said slowly, understanding warring with true acceptance on her features. She still looked troubled, but her expression turned for the better when she reached into the pocket of her cloak to pull out a velvet bag.

He tilted his head curiously, watching as her face brightened as she brought out her creation – a necklace of somewhat crudely carved beads, but with an eye for understated color and a hand that promised skill to come if she kept up with her arts. The focal-point of the piece was a polished piece of milky quartz - for which he remembered teaching her the basic steps for treating such a mineral early on in her visits to his forge.

“You were paying attention,” he approved as he took in her craftsmanship, turning the necklace over thoughtfully in hand.

(Distantly he heard his father mutter imperfect in his mind, but he pushed that voice aside in order to smile on the child.)

“It did not not quite turn out the way I had first pictured it,” she admitted, a young artist's frustration apparent in her voice. “But I've wanted to give it to you for some time, and now it may double with my apology.”

“It is an effort that promises skill to come,” he praised without being overly flattering. “And, what's more important than that, I like it.”

She smiled prettily at his words, her cheeks flushing pink. “It was a rewarding endeavor, and I enjoyed applying myself,” she confessed. “Though I do not think that I will ever enjoy your arts as well as you.”

That which was Noldor fought with that which was Sindar in her blood, he thought, but did not say in favor of putting the necklace on. It came to rest alongside his own work – perhaps drab and dull in comparison, and yet, it was quickly becoming one of his favourite pieces he owned. He had grown so used to crafting wares for others that he could not remember the last time somebody had made a gift for him.

(No one had since his father, memory was a whisper of knowing amongst his thoughts. Even then, the last thing Curufin had crafted for him had been a sword . . . a sword that he had, in return, refused to pledge to Fëanor's Oath.)

But he shook his head to clear away such thoughts – heavy and oppressive as they had been as of late, and always on the forefront of his mind, at that. Strange, he thought, when for the centuries of the Second Age he had come to know a rather numb sort of apathy as to thoughts of his blood. Yet, now his old memories – his old wounds – were ever waiting, just as impurities rising to the top of a crucible, and he could not keep them far from his mind for long.

Yet, he would not think on such things in front of the child. “You are quite forgiven,” he settled for saying. “And my words are true when I say that I will cherish this. I thank you.”

He rose so that he could bow to her properly – a gesture which she returned in kind. This time, when she turned to leave – for, no doubt her parents' punishment for the night before did not allow her to be gone for long – there was a true smile upon her face, and it brightened his spirits to see.

Just as she was exiting, however, Annatar himself was entering his workroom. The heavy feeling about Celebrimbor's temples intensified, and he watched as Celebrían hastily curtsied and stayed as far away from Annatar as she could as she slipped out behind him – her back nearly brushing the post of the door for her doing so.

“My lord,” she however paused and muttered respectfully, mindful of her courtesies as the daughter of the Lord and Lady of Ost-in-edhil.

“Lady Celeborniel, what a pleasant surprise,” Annatar returned in kind, the baritone of his voice as smooth as molten gold as it filled the air with its heat. It was a sound Celebrimbor could feel as a caress upon his skin, and he fought the urge he had to frown at its cadence . . . for why should he be uneasy of such a near tangible beauty?

For that was one of the first things that had caught Celebrimbor's eye. More than a mere Fëanorian appreciation for beautiful things had drawn him to this man – for he remembered the Maiar of Valinor, how they too had bodies of striking divinity and unparalleled loveliness to match. There was no way that the creature before him – with his bronze skin and his copper fall of hair, with the painfully symmetrical sculpt of his features and the Aulë-given flame in his eyes – could not be one of the Holy Ones, sent as a blessing to those still clinging to the marred wonder of Middle-earth and Arda as a whole . . .

This, Celebrimbor so very dearly wished to be so; he fervently wanted Annatar to be who he said that he was, and thus, with his promises fulfill . . .

(A light for Endórë to match even the glory of the Trees. Proof that he was more than his father . . . more than his grandfather . . . and through his gifts share with all three races, and perhaps rewrite the name of his family – reinvent his every drop of shared blood with Curufinwë Fëanáro until the stain of his heritage was remembered no more.)

“I trust that you have not yet found the monster you sought last eve?” Annatar continued smoothly, cutting into Celebrimbor's thoughts. The telling gold of his eyes banked as he looked down on the child. “There is no beast of claws and fangs waiting, untoward in the shadows, to claim your soul?”

Though she glanced behind her, as if dearly wishing to leave, Celebrimbor watched as she tilted up her head in a gesture that was all her mother, and said: “No beast of claws and fangs have I found. Such is true, my lord.”

Annatar chuckled, and the sound of it seemed to follow the dips of his spine underneath his skin. Unconsciously, he unclenched his fists – not having realized that he curled his fingers in the first place.

“And I hope that you never shall,” Annatar inclined his head to say. “Run along now, child; I am sure your parents will be missing you if you tarry any longer.”

His words seemed to hold a word of power, for after glancing between him and Annatar one last time, Celebrían dutifully turned, and went on her way.

Celebrimbor watched her leave, glancing aside only to see that Annatar's eyes too followed her until he could see her no more.

“An enchanting child,” Annatar muttered when she was out of sight, raising a copper brow thoughtfully as he stared where she had disappeared.

“I have always thought so,” Celebrimbor agreed, pushing the string of beads beneath the collar of his tunic. The piece of polished quartz came to rest over his heart, beautiful in its imperfection.

“Now,” he said as he walked to his workbench, and retrieved the ring he had left there. The metal in his hand seemed to burn as if still red-hot as he made his choice, and set his feet on his path. “What you spoke to me of yesterday . . . I wish to hear more – anything more you would have to say.”

Annatar's eyes glittered, and Celebrimbor opened his ears – and his heart – to listen.



.

.

I.

Perhaps, a part of Celebrimbor always knew that it would end this way:

With Annatar and him, on the steps of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.

He had first thought himself strong enough for this when he had boldly offered himself as such. For truly, from the first time he had donned the Three, only to feel the Lord of the Rings through the One Ring itself – no, ever since the first time Annatar poured his spirit into the first Ring they forged together, he had known that this was how it would come to pass, and for that passing . . .

His death would give time enough for Celeborn and his men to hold outside of Ost-in-edhil until Elrond and his army could arrive from Lindon, Celebrimbor tried to assure himself. His death would, perhaps, give Galadriel time enough to carry through on what she had passed through the mountains to accomplish so many years ago, and he . . .

For those he had wronged, even while trying so dearly to help – ignoring all counsel to the contrary to do so - he would fall . . . and, perhaps, through that fall, atone for his wrongs in the smallest of ways.

Even so, his hands shook as that black mailed figure came closer, and closer; he could not keep them still. He tried to seize his courage, to make it a strength indomitable as the white flame at the forge's belly, and yet, his heartbeat thundered in his chest; he could feel his pulse in the strain he put upon his fingertips.

(Distantly, he wondered if his grandfather's hands had shaken before the Balrog; shaken before his mortal wounds and the tangible inevitability of his death. He wondered if Maedhros had trembled, standing before Morgoth for the first in Angband, chained and forced to kneel, but never quite submitting. He wondered if Finrod had known fear, standing before Sauron and his lupine eyes of flame to see - )

“Telpe, Telpe, Telpe,” Annatar's voice of liquid gold was as beautiful as it ever was. He was still as beautiful as Celebrimbor remembered him to be, with his waves of copper hair spilling over the obsidian plates of his armor, and his eyes of flame now burning to match the One Eye emblazoned upon his banner. Upon his hand the One Ring glowed, while behind him Ost-in-edhil was little more than smoke and ruin. Celebrimbor could still hear the screams from here – of the living and the warring and the dying – and he held his jaw tightly at the sound, refusing to give his foe the satisfaction of his grief and fear.

('My realm will never last for any other to inherit. I have piled stones upon stones for no one's line to rule,' Finrod had once said, and now, Celebrimbor remembered his words, and knew a pain to match the sorrow in his cousin's voice then. 'The wild will reclaim these stones, and erase any memory of what once was; all but for the memories of those who once dwelt here, and remember.')

He did not protest when he was taken; nor did he fight when he was bound. He fought only when Annatar reached out a gauntleted hand to tenderly trace the line of his jaw and hold the side of his face in his hand, his thumb running underneath his mouth as if his touch was wanted, as if he had the right -

“How I have longed for this moment, my Telperinquar.”

- fiercely, Celebrimbor jerked his head away, and could feel his fëa lick underneath his skin like fire. He could feel his eyes burn from his face as Fëanor's blood rushed through his veins as something hot and angry and consuming. He bared his teeth in a fey show of rage, but Annatar only smiled a devastating smile as he dropped his caress in favor of backhanding him hard across the face – as if he was merely annoyed by his show of defiance, rather than impressed. His head snapped back from the force of the blow, given as it was with a Maia's might, and his hands fisted against his bonds. He swallowed, and tasted his own blood.

“Telpe, Telpe, Telpe,” Annatar – Sauron – sighed, the liquid heat of his voice crawling across his skin to settle as a weight in the pit of his stomach. “After all we have been through . . . after all we have created together . . . this is how you would receive me? I had hoped for more, yet you disappoint me.”

Disappoint me . . . in those black syllables he heard his father speak, he heard his grandfather speak, and he knew that Sauron was tugging on his soul like a minstrel at a harp, drawing forth memories and pains with a disturbingly practiced ease and pulling.

In reply, he spat a mouthful of bloody saliva at Sauron's feet, only to feel his blood simmer when Sauron merely raised a brow in reply – as if amused by his paltry show of defiance. When he was pulled away, and Sauron gave instructions for him to be bound in the cellars of the Gwaith-i-mírdain, he tried to hold his head up high, but the Orc leading him forced him to look down, to bow in the presence of the One. He nonetheless struggled pitifully, knowing that he now had few things in his life left that would be his to control, his to possess.

Only my tongue and my mind, Celebrimbor thought with a fierce surge of fey determination. Both would remain his own, and never, no matter what, would he let Sauron see, would he let Sauron know.

For Vilya and Narya were safe in Gil-galad's possession, while Nenya . . .

He had given Nenya to Galadriel himself, and the Ring would have a worthy and sacred place there once she overcame her misgivings to use the Ring as it was meant to be used. While the Nine would be profaned and the Seven misguided, the Three, oh the Three . . .

They were the greatest work of his hands, equal to the creation of his grandfather's Silmarils in his heart, and they would work wonders against the One for as long as they could – letting the people of Middle-earth fight as they had long fought against the Shadow. And he, while he had unknowingly helped craft the weapon that just may prove to be the undoing of Arda, still he hoped . . .

And hope was a burning thing, stronger than his rage and fear – the acidic taste in his mouth that doubted, that wondered if he was stronger than torment, greater than torture. Could he keep his silence with the full weight of a Maia's long perfected talent for inflicted suffering turned against him? Could he truly . . .

But no. He was of Fëanor's fire in this, and he would carry pride for the name he bore until the end. He would not break, he would not. Not this time.

He had one last gift to give the free peoples of Middle-earth, and give it he would.

The minutes - hours, days - seemed to pass in a blur after that. Distantly, he remembered the lines of white criss-crossing Maedhros' body, remembered wondering at their infliction but always loosing his nerve to ask for the haunted, far-away look his uncle still bore when he looked towards the North. He remembered Gwindor and his sleepless nights when he would wander Nargothrond – providing him company through his late nights in the forge when the ghosts of his memories would not let him be. He remembered that there had been nothing of Finrod's body left to bury, for so thoroughly had the wolves, had Sauron worked his art, and now . . .

('You are cursed,' he could hear his father sneer. 'You are weak. You wanted to repudiate our deeds, to foreswear our Oath, but through your creation an equal to the wound gorged by the Silmaril's will be inflicted upon the peoples of Middle-earth. Worthless son of mine, look at what you have wrought.')

Worse than any pain inflicted upon the body was Sauron's delving into his mind, searching . . . seeking . . . and when Celebrimbor would not give him what he sought, Sauron found his goal in other voices, other ghosts, and he used them to batter his psyche the same way he so brutally tore lines into his body to persuade him to speak, to persuade him to give up the last thing he still held dear . . .

('You too carry Fëanor's blood, and all you touch will be for dust and ash,' Maedhros proclaimed with terrible, haunting certainty. 'You are a fool to think otherwise.')

(In his mind, Celegorm pressed a kiss to his brow and ruffled his hair as he had a thousand times before, but his fingertips pressed into his shoulders, and there was only danger in the affection as he tugged meanly on one of his braids.)

And he flinched, he closed his eyes against the memories Sauron did not even have to fabricate to strike as a blow. The Maia smiled at his so childishly closing his eyes against his own pain, and his black merriment chased his thoughts and rumbled in the furthest corners of his spirit. There was no escaping, not with the lidless eye seeking and devouring all it gazed upon . . .

Dimly, distantly, he used what memories he could as a shield, holding onto them as warmth on a winter night. He would not give them up so easily. He would not.

('Then you understand how you can hate the deed but love the person,' Elrond's voice was sad but certain as he spoke. 'It is a terrible thing, to adore and revile as one, but you understand as well as I. You cannot push away your feeling so, no matter how reprehensible their deeds, in favor of the person you instead knew, and through that knowing loved.')

Before his eyes, he could not tell the fierce, menacing form of Sauron from the divine and seemingly untouchable beauty of Annatar – bent over scrolls in the corner of his workroom as they theorized and worked and crafted together . . . He had thought those days to be the happiest of his life, and he had delighted in the bond he had forged with the other man. That bond had defined him for so long, and yet, none of it had been real, none of it had truly meant a damned thing. He had been nothing more than a tool – as useful as hammer or anvil, but worth little more than the stretch and span of his mind, worth little more than the ingenious blood of Fëanor running through his veins. Once again, he amounted to little else in life.

But, perhaps . . .

('If I could give this one gift, great would my joy for its giving be,' dear, sad Finduilas mourned. Remembering her eyes, the gentle line of her mouth, and how that mouth knew only pain before her end . . .)

As Sauron dug in deep to seek the answers he sought, Celebrimbor felt his own mouth open to speak – wavering on the crest of a wave of agony and desperation as he was – but he swallowed his words for remembering Finduilas and her pain, Finduilas and her love . . . Her death had been on Morgoth's shoulders – a guilt Sauron shared – and with her . . . Orodreth and Gwindor and even dark, haunted Túrin with his doom chasing his every step . . .

. . . no.

No.

No.

('Who am I to live, when through my death he can know peace and joy for the years he has to him?' Finrod's smile was sad to say. 'I must do this, Telperinquar; there is no way I can turn my path aside, and it is with an open and willing heart that I place my life on the line for Barahir's son. I can do nothing else. Perhaps . . . perhaps, someday you will understand, and these remembered words will then be of some comfort to you.')

Did Finrod speak with foresight? he had wondered then - for now he knew . . . how he knew . . .

“Telpe,” Sauron bid him in a terribly gentle voice. “Let go; give in. You have held your silence admirably well – more so than most who have suffered underneath my hands. But there is no need for such obstinacy any longer. Don't you see that this hurts me too? Would that I rather hold you on high, by my side for all to see . . . Do you not understand the glory of what we created together? Do you not have any idea of what could still yet be if you would but let go of yourself and tell me what I need to know?”

Tell me, Sauron's words – Annatar's will – pressed upon his spirit with a terrible gentleness, and ever eager as he was to please and prove himself, his answer was as a stone lodged in his throat. For a moment, Celebrimbor so dearly wanted . . .

He swallowed, and could feel a tearing sensation through his throat. At this point, he could not tell the physical from the intangible; he could not tell the copper taste of blood from the sour taste of bile and the heavy bitterness of his own failure - his own duty to keep his silence.

No, he thought again, and he pushed his will outward when he no longer had a voice to speak.

. . . no.

No.

No.

“If you so insist . . . and yet, we have all the time possible allotted to us,” his refusal to speak only seemed to amuse the black Maia, and when he tried to force his mangled features into a glare, Sauron only laughed. In the rich cadence of the sound, there was a promise.

“The blood of Fëanor never lasts for long, no matter how hotly it first burns,” Sauron shrugged to say. “In the end, your defiance will make no difference. I will have what I want.”

His breath was hot on the back of his neck, and Celebrimbor trembled at the thought of more. He was already so tired, so weary, and he merely wanted to let go . . . let go and embrace the blackness he could even now feel reaching out to embrace him, promising him such a sleep . . . such a peace as a reward for the unfathomable cast of his years.

('You are more than your blood, more than the names of your kin,' Galadriel proclaimed with calm certainty. 'You are Telperinquar Curufinwion, and you are stronger than this. I know that you can be. Now, for your strength, go in peace, dear heart. Listen to my voice . . . and let go.')

He thought that he could feel a flicker of her grace across the distance; reaching out, helping to hold him separate from the pains of his body, from the force of the Dark Maia's aura swimming alongside his spirit like miasma through fresh air. And, gently, she pressed, she summoned . . . and from that summons, Celebrimbor felt . . .

“The Three, Telperinquar?” Sauron's voice thundered through his failing body, but he sounded as if he was far away. He heard the other man as if through a storm, and he turned to the light of day he could see blue skies breaking ahead. He turned to the promise of sunlight on his skin, even as Sauron rasped, “Tell me the location of the Three, and all of this can end.”

But he shrank away from the voice, from the promise of approval and the insistence of pain, and instead . . .

('I am proud of you,' Curufin whispered, his words resonating somewhere deep and wanting within him. 'I have always been, even when I could not find the words within me to say so.')

('You did what we wished we had the strength to do,' Maglor's voice wove through his mind like a melody. 'How we admired you for your courage in doing so.')

('Now, let us show you what peace awaits,' he thought that he could hear his uncle's voice as he once knew it, in the peace of Aman. Celegorm smiled, and the light of Laurelin shone in his hair. He held out a hand, and Celebrimbor wanted. His spirit reached, and for that reaching . . .)

“Come, my son,” a voice whispered, but this voice was not within his mind, but within his ears – speaking into the ruin of bone and flesh to find the spirit beneath. And his spirit listened; his spirit turned away, even as Annatar fisted his figurative hands about his waning fëa and tugged, angry that he would heed Námo's summons before he could claim the prize he so sought.

They are safe, the Three are safe, they will never be his, he thought wildly, blessedly – numbly – and he . . .

He took in a last, freeing breath as a hand reached out to pull him through the dark.



~MJ

 

Nyota's Heart - I just wanted to take a moment to thank you for your review - I'm thrilled that you enjoyed it! As always, your insights and gleanings make this whole writing thing a blast.