angels in the architecture

Notes: 

Turukáno is Turgon’s Quenya name. (Fingon’s little brother.)

Írissë is Aredhel’s Quenya name.

(Fingon’s little sister.) 

Aiwendil was Radagast’s name in Valinor

Olórin was Gandalf’s name in Valinor

Artanáro is the secret Quenya name that Gil-Galad’s father gave him. It means “Noble Fire”. (Listen, my Russingon heart can’t help but note that his Quenya name sounds A LOT like Feanáro. Like maybe Maedhros got a vote in his name…I’m just saying.)  

Chapter Warnings: Slavery and all the ugly things that entail from it. People dealing with the trauma of non-con, but nothing more than allusions to the act itself. Sauron being a creep (standard behavior for him, really). 

___________________

Light from the Two Lamps flows ceaselessly during the spring of Arda.  

As has been his want for years, Mairon leaves his rooms in Aulë’s halls when most of the the other apprentices have not yet begun their labors. There is something very pleasing about the quiet and stillness of the workshops at these times. He enjoys watching everyone trickle in and begin their work. Just as he is in the middle of steeping his first cup of tea, Curumo unexpectedly enters. Despite his apparent dislike for Mairon, it’s not unusual for his fellow adept to arrive early, but not this early. 

Giving him a speculative look, Mairon asks, “These are not your usual hours. Do you have extra work that needs doing? I would be happy to help.”

Curumo stiffens at the sound of his voice and snaps, “I need nothing from you.” 

Biting back the rejoinder on his tongue, Mairon reminds himself not to take the abrasiveness personally. Not so long ago, he had been even more insufferable. Besides, Curumo’s particular dislike for Mairon stems from a hurt that is not unfounded. Mairon doubts he’ll ever forget the look on the other Maia’s face when the secret of the dwarves was made public. “I meant no offense. You are one of Aulë’s most capable adherents.” 

The praise makes Curumo unbend a little. “Aiwendil wailed all night, and I needed some quiet.”

“That’s unusual; he’s usually such a cheery little fellow. What happened?” Technically, Aiwendil is older than the mountains of Middle Earth, but it’s hard to think of him as anything other than a child. He’s the youngest of the Maiar, and he still chooses to don a youthful fana. When Mairon asked why he continued the guise, Aiwendil answered that being small makes it easier to attend to his beloved birds and beasts. He doesn’t have to kneel. It’s useful, even if it does prompt everyone to coddle him. 

Before Curumo can answer, Aulë comes bounding into the forge with all of his usual energy. “We’re all wrong at home. Did Curumo tell you what happened?”

“I was just about to say,” Curumo interrupts pointedly. “Ungoliant’s disgusting spawn broke into Aiwendil’s nursery and made off with one of his hedgehogs. Ever since then, he’s been acting as if Illuin and Ormal themselves were cast down.”

Unable to help himself, Mairon shudders. It is whispered among the younger Ainur that Ungoliant is a Maiar, but he’s old enough to know that she crept out of the Void with Eru before the creation of Arda. The fact that she can reproduce at all indicates that she does not number among their kind. Even Melkor, who is terrifying in his own right, is afraid of her—little as he would like to admit it. “Aiwendil must be heartbroken.” 

“Indeed,” Aulë replies. “The poor lad is miserable with grief. Would you mind visiting him today?”

“Me?” Mairon blinks. “Why would he want to see me?” 

“All the little ones admire you. Aiwendul has never forgotten how you made that heat lamp for his hatchlings. He talks about it all the time.” Aulë fondly tweaks Mairon’s braid. “Besides, it will be good for you to visit. Yavanna and I have missed you terribly since you took quarters in the Halls. 

Behind him, Curumo visibly glowers, and Mairon tries to mitigate the backlash. “I’m sure that you don’t have time to miss me. You’re always talking about the wonders that Curumo crafts and how much of your time is spent studying his creations.” 

“Of course, we love having him with us, yet that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a special place in our hearts for you,” Aulë protests in concern. Ever since they talked out their differences, he has been conscious of trying to provide the security that Mairon lacked in his youth. 

Even now, a small part of Mairon wants to bask in contentment at the affirmation, but the rest of him is too busy trying to avoid setting off his moody sibling. “I would be happy to let Aiwendil cry on my shoulder for a while so that you and Curumo can get about the more important work. Would you like me to help get the fires started before I leave?”

Corporeal existence has its hindrances, and starting a forge is among them. It’s usually a three-person job. One must monitor air intake, another the flame, while the last adds kindling. Mairon takes the least-liked job of feeding the fires to help placate Curumo. Nothing seems out of the ordinary until Curumo expels the first blast of air. The action results in a cloud of debris all around them. Mairon splutters, “What in the name of Eru?”

Looking down at his clothing, Mairon sees that his entire form is covered in an unknown substance. He looks at Aulë in bafflement, rubbing his fingers together. “Dust? Iridescent dust?”

Just then, a handful of apprentices enter the workshop. A great, joyous, uncontrollable laugh rises to the ceiling. The Maiar titter in merriment. Aulë wraps his arms around his middle and giggles as if he were no older than Aiwendil. Try as he might, Mairon can’t help but be tickled, too. When the mirth dies down, someone asks, “How did it get into our bellows? It certainly wasn’t an accident.”

“That menace Olórin is behind this, I know it,” Curumo seethes as he fruitlessly swipes at his robes. He always hates it when his appearance is unnecessarily rumpled. “Father, I demand that you punish him.”

Wiping at his eyes, Aulë says, “We have no proof that it was Olórin. Besides, there was no real harm in it. Though I would like to ask him where he came by this material. I’ve never seen anything like it. Do you think he made it himself?”

One of the older apprentices adds, “Father Aulë, do you think he should be made one of your adepts? I know he has already changed Vala once, but this is so clever that it warrants him a place in these Halls. Just look at how this material reflects the light!”

Incensed, Curumo rages, “You want to reward him after he dared to meddle in this place and mock our noble arts?”

Touching Aulë’s arm, Mairon offers, “Olórin could get hurt if he wanders about these areas unsupervised. You really ought to talk to him.”

Finally noticing that Curumo is working himself into a state, Aulë soothes his ire, “I’ll have words with Estë. I’ve heard that becoming Olórin’s guardian has her at her wits' end. Can the rest of you handle the workshops for a time while Mairon and I are gone?”

Mairon taps Curumo’s arm to get his attention. “We all keep spare clothes for emergencies, but you are more than welcome to use my rooms and bathing suite if you want to get rid of the remnants of Olórin’s stunt.” 

Curumo blanches at the touch, and Mairon quickly withdraws. He is about to apologize when the Maia thanks him through gritted teeth. Knowing that Curumo’s pride has taken a blow, Mairon doesn’t remark on the uncharacteristic humility and instead nods lightly before taking his leave. 

After exiting the Halls, Aulë asks Mairon to accompany him to the Gardens, commenting, “I’d like to spend some time with my son, and I wasn’t being facetious about the young ones looking up to you. That includes Olórin. Aiwendil can wait for just a bit longer.” 

Touched, Mairon agrees, and together they head for Estë’s domain. Along the way, Mairon tentatively questions, “How is Curumo fairing?”

The Lord of the Forge gives a small sigh. “You mean since you left home to give him space? I’ll admit that he hasn’t been as argumentative and is less quick to get his hackles up, but I would have borne his temper to keep you with us. It’s just a phase. Eventually, he’ll come through the other side.”

“You know this because I was the same?” Mairon teases and pokes his father in the ribs with an elbow when Aulë gives him a sheepish grin. “What does mother think?”

“Yavanna is a little more concerned. She thinks that he feels insecure, yet I can see no signs of it. He isn’t…”, Aulë trails off hesitantly 

“He isn’t uniformly cruel to others the way that I used to be?” Mairon finishes without rancor. Much as he hates it, he cannot deny his own actions. Making amends had been a painful process, but the sheer relief he felt afterwards was worth his efforts. 

“You were angry and hurt. It made you snappish, but you weren’t truly cruel. Believe me, Melkor used to delight in tormenting me, and you were nothing like him.” Aulë frowns as he recalls his past. “Manwë was never really upset; he pitied Melkor too much to be hurt by his venom, but I’ll never forget. He used to say that Ilúvatar only created me to serve as an example of failure.” 

Heart-twisting, Mairon recalls that Melkor used to whisper similar things to him in the days when he was angry and so doubtful of his father’s love that he was willing to listen to the Vala. At the time, Melkor’s words seemed wise. ‘Look at how he squanders your talent. Would that I had been given charge of you, little flame.’

People often think that because Aulë is associated with fire, he must possess anger to match the flames of his forges, which is patently ridiculous. His father is stubborn, but nobody who works on long-term projects like building mountains—or who loves teaching so much—can afford a short temper. Yavanna is the one with a deep well of rage. Mairon hadn’t ever been on the receiving end of it, but he had certainly borne witness when she stumbled upon Melkor and Mairon together. 

Somehow, Mairon hadn’t realized that Melkor had gradually wormed his way so close. Or how often he would casually reach out to touch him. Though it certainly became apparent when Yavanna roared in fury at finding Melkor with her son pulled into his lap. At the time, Mairon hadn’t understood her strong reaction, but when he imagines the Vala doing the same thing to one of the younger Maiar like Aiwendil or even Curumo, it makes Mairon sick with revulsion. What might he have become if someone had not intervened on his behalf? If he had remained under Melkor’s sway and had the worst parts of himself nurtured?

Shaking off the recollection, Mairon says, “You always tell us that mistakes are a crafter’s greatest teacher and that what prevents a mistake from becoming an error is our ability to learn from them. Yes, you have failed on occasion, but so has every creator. It has been eons since Melkor has made anything except mockeries of true creation.” 

Aulë pauses mid-stride and cups Mairon’s chin in his hand fondly. “I’m so proud of the person you have become.” 

No matter how many times he hears the phrase, it always makes Mairon’s fana ripple in pleasure. “I had a good example.” 

As they enter Estë’s domain, Aulë remarks, “I appreciate you taking the time to give guidance to Curumo. Even if he doesn’t always follow it.”

Allowing himself a shrug, Mairon tries to dismiss the praise. He doubts that he is doing much good in that quarter, but doesn’t want to disparage Curumo behind his back. “He has strengths that I lacked at his age.” 

“Curumo really is good with the little ones. He’s always willing to advise them,” Aulë replies with all the pride of an anxious father, “and he is surprisingly patient when he is given a position of leadership.” 

Privately, Mairon thinks that Curumo would be much less understanding if the later generations Maiar were inclined to argue against his dictates. Most of them are content to follow orders without question. The independent types (like Olórin) tend to act without bothering to consult anyone. Mairon can’t picture Eönwë or Melian letting him get away with half the liberties that Curumo does. 

Before Mairon can formulate a reply, Estë approaches them with a wide smile. “This is a welcome meeting. Yavanna mentioned that she thought you were pushing yourselves too hard. Have you two come to take a rest among us?”

Pressing a kiss to the back of her palm, Aulë gives a hearty laugh. “Someday I will find the time to take you up on that offer. Nonetheless, I thank you for it. Today, we are here to speak to your young rascal.”

Crestfallen, Estë throws up her arms in exasperation. “What has he done now? If I didn’t have the highest opinion of Varda, I would think that she tricked me into accepting this mentorship. Three rotations ago, he snuck a large quantity of those bottom-feeder fish into my ponds. Admittedly, it ended up clearing the algae problem we were having, but it nearly scared the ëala from the other Maiar the first day they went wading.”

“Relax, no one was hurt, but Mairon pointed out that it would be prudent to give Olórin a lecture on forge safety.” 

Leading them further into the woods, Estë explains, “I tasked him with pruning our lilies.”

The path is strewn with lovely statues covered in flowering vines, creating a most pleasing effect. Upon reaching the end, they are greeted with a sea of color stretching out like a carpet beneath their feet. The blooms are truly lovely, but Mairon cannot spot any Maiar in the vicinity.

Peering into a few hidden alcoves and behind the larger growths, Estë grows increasingly fractious when she does not find Olórin. “Not again! How many times have I told him not to wander away from Almaren? He well knows that lands beyond this isle are not entirely safe.”

“Ungoliant’s offspring have been spotted nearby,” Aulë notes. Though he doesn’t mention it, the land beyond is also an area where Melkor sometimes wandered. Officially, the Vala was ordered to stay behind the Walls of the Night, but Melkor has never been one for following rules. “We had better try to find him.” 

After agreeing to meet at a pre-appointed time and place, the three split up and headed in opposite directions. Mairon sticks to the wilderness he knows Olórin favors, and after an indeterminate amount of walking, stumbles upon an odd sight. A fox is clawing at a hollowed-out tree trunk, making distressed sounds. When he gets closer, he notices a small pair of legs sticking out one end of the log. “What in the name of Ellbreths’s Stars are you doing?”

“What do you mean, ‘What am I doing’?" Olórin calls testily. "Are you asking what I am doing in this tree, what I am doing in this area of the forest, or do you wish to know my life’s purpose in general?" 

Casting his eyes skyward, Mairon silently calls on Eru for strength and presses the heels of his hands atop his closed eyelids. “Just the first two.” 

“I’ll answer both your questions with a single reply,” Olórin’s voice echoes strangely in his surroundings, making him sound much more aged than the years of his fana merit. “Someone needs help. Make yourself useful and pull on my ankles.”

Chuckling, Mairon wishes he had the time to sketch the tiny Maia with his body stuck and his legs forked out like a frog. He soothes the chittering animal with a quick song and obligingly tugs. Olórin wriggles free, clutching a fox kit, with moss sticking out of his hair. The poor creature is whimpering in obvious pain while its parent runs over to sniff at it.

Olórin holds out a squashed plant that had been stuffed in one of his pockets. “I think it ate one of these.” 

“Melkor’s mushrooms,” Mairon states grimly. Yavanna has been working to create strains that aren’t poisonous, but if the white foam cresting from the fox’s mouth is any indication, he doubts that this is one of hers.

“Let me see what I can do.” Mairon takes the animal into his arms. “Olórin, please comfort the mother so that I can work unimpeded.”

The Maia pets the creature and whispers into its ear for a moment. It pauses, staring deep into Olórin’s eyes before darting away. Mairon spares a single curious thought about its destination before he sets to work. With a song, he encourages the kit to purge its belly. Then he tries to slow its functions to a crawl to prevent the toxin from spreading any further. “I’ve done all that I can, but he’s far gone, and will need the aid of a Vala to survive.” 

Behind them, a voice rumbles in a low baritone, “Then it is fortuitous that the greatest of the Vala happened upon you.” 

Mairon feels a prickle up his spine. Olórin stiffens in terror but resolutely does not run. Trying to keep a calm countenance, Mairon takes a long breath before evenly offering a bald-faced lie, “Lord Melkor, you honor us with your presence.”

“Little flame,” Melkor greets with a smile devoid of warmth, “A great many years have passed since we last spoke. I was beginning to think that you had forgotten about me.” 

“My duties keep me very busy.” At least this claim is true; he honestly does spend most of his days in Aulë’s workshops and halls. “Indeed, I would be there today, but Olórin stumbled upon a little trouble. Please excuse us; we should get this poor animal some help before it is too late.” 

Shifting the kit to one arm, Mairon uses his newly freed hand to press firmly on Olórin’s back, guiding him away from this unforeseen danger. They barely manage a few steps before Melkor stops them by clasping Mairon around the shoulders and letting his fingers drift down to his waist. “Send him on alone. Two are not needed for that task. Stay and talk with me as you once did. I have missed our conversations.” 

Melkor caresses his hip with a thumb, and Mairon shivers despite himself. All he can do is pat Olórin and hope that it will be enough to encourage him to leave, but Olórin stubbornly resists. If only Mairon could think of some other pretext to leave, but his mind has gone blank with nerves. 

“Go along, child,” Melkor orders Olórin sternly. “Lest I become wrathful.”

It’s a testament to Mairon’s anxiety-ridden state of mind that he considers mentioning that Olórin isn’t truly a child. He just chooses to don the guise of one, like Aiwendil. Thankfully, he remembers to bite his tongue. The last thing this situation needs is for Melkor to become offended at being told what he already knows. 

Mairon is considering popping Olórin under his free arm and trying to flee when the mother-fox returns with Nienna following in its wake. He had forgotten that the Weeper spent much of her time outside of Almaren, saying it was important to try and heal the hurts in these wilder lands where Melkor’s wounds were more readily apparent.  

While Mairon loses the fight to keep his relief from showing, Olórin silently darts forward and buries his face in her side. Nienna examines the situation with keen eyes before taking Olórin’s hand in her own and subtly placing herself beside Mairon as she greets them. “I understand from Olórin’s messenger that the assistance of a Vala is required. Though perhaps Lord Melkor has already provided aid?” 

Mentally blessing Olórin’s foresight, Mairon promises himself he will craft him a grand gift of thanks. Mairon places the kit into her arms. “There was no time, my lady. He arrived just before you.” 

Melkor stares at Nienna intently, and Mairon is surprised to find none of the sneering hatred he has come to expect. It’s unusual for him to have such a peaceable reaction to one of his fellow Valar.

Using the utmost gentleness, Nienna runs a comforting hand down the fox’s back before allowing several of her tears to fall upon its form. Within moments, the kit stirs. Nienna kneels to place the newly healed kit next to its mother. Both creatures nuzzle against her hand in gratitude before running back into the wilderness. 

“Are you still wasting your attention on the undeserving, my clear-eyed one?” Melkor’s tone suggests that this is a topic they have broached many times before. Until now, Mairon had never considered the strange point of connection between the two. Nienna provides comfort and solace as a direct result of Morgoth’s actions. How different would her life be if Melkor had not marred Arda?

“Everyone deserves compassion,” she replies with such conviction that Mairon feels a warm surge of admiration. Nienna bears witness to all the griefs of the world and never crumbles under their weight. Mairon is reminded of the enormity of such a task as he stands in Melkor’s presence. 

A warm breeze makes her gray mantle ripple, and Melkor uses the opportunity to smooth it back behind her shoulder. He lets his fingers trace along her collarbone in a manner that would be sensuous if Nienna had invited it. As it is, Mairon feels his stomach drop. He has to grab Olórin by the back of the robes before he can launch himself at the Vala in outrage. “Are you lonely, my Nienna? You know that I would have you with me. I will welcome both you and Mairon.” 

Is that offer meant to make him feel anything other than nauseous and extremely tired? Mairon fervently wishes that he had been smart enough to keep clear of the Vala all those years ago.  At least Melkor is too caught up in his own reveries to require a reply. “You are both so beautiful. I would drape you in jewels.” 

“What a coincidence. Less than a rotation ago, Lord Ulmo also told my lady how lovely she looked. He said she would be beautiful no matter what raiment she wore.” Olórin leans against Nienna’s leg and asks with an air of faux innocence, “Didn’t he offer you a crown of pearls?”

‘The little scamp!’ Mairon’s arm twitches with the aborted urge to drag his palm over his face in exasperation. What happened to all of Olórin’s fear? It must have been forgotten in the face of his anger on Nienna’s behalf.

Melkor bears his teeth in outrage. Mairon braces himself for a storm of fury, but Nienna forestalls it. She calmly takes the Vala’s hand in her own. Without removing her eyes from Melkor, she says, “Aulë and Estë are worried about you both. Mairon, please escort Olórin back to Almaren.” 

“But—”, Olórin begins. 

“I’ll join you shortly,” she assures them. 

Though Nienna loathes using her strength offensively, her passive nature does not mean that she is powerless. Melkor could not physically harm her without serious effort. That knowledge is enough to encourage Mairon to move, but his worry doesn’t entirely abate. Melkor’s greatest cruelties are often delivered without striking a blow. Obviously Olórin knows this too because it takes a great deal of nudging to get him to follow.

Once they are a safe distance away, Mairon wryly says, “You just had to goad him.”  

“He didn’t have the right to put his hands on her like that.” Olórin pauses, then corrects himself, “He shouldn’t have touched either of you.”

“No, he should not have, “ Mairon agrees. “Though you didn’t have to make the situation worse with that story about Ulmo. When did you even see that exchange? I doubt that Lord of Waters doles out those sorts of compliments in front of baby Maiar.” 

“It was when I was in Nienna’s house.” 

Making a suspicious sound, Mairon points an accusatory finger at him. “Did Nienna know that you were there?”

“Of course,” Olórin protests. “She always knows when I’m near.” 

“Did Estë know that you left again?”  

Huffing grumpily, Olórin mumbles something that sounds like a negative, positing, “I’m not a baby.” 

“I know, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t always remember that fact when you insist on donning such a fana,” Mairon replies fondly. “Why don’t you wear an adult form?” 

Olórin raises an eyebrow, like he’s surprised that Mairon hasn’t figured it out yet. He doesn’t deign to answer and instead grins. “I suppose that you and Aulë are here because Curumo threw a fit about the dust.”

“We’re here because we were worried that you don’t know enough about forge safety to go messing about with our equipment.” Mairon gives him an impish wink and then confides, “Just between the two of us, the sight of my brother screeching and covered in pink sparkles will live in my heart until the breaking of Arda.” 

A beat passes, and they both cackle. 

They’re still snorting when they reach the gardens, but the sight of Manwë, Aulë, and Estë gathered together stops them in their tracks. “What other mischief have you gotten into that I don’t know about? The High King of the Valar doesn’t get involved in petty squabbles between young Maiar.” 

Looking perturbed, Olórin protests, “Nothing, I swear!”

Lord Manwë notices their quiet debate and calls out to them, “Are you two well? I thought that I sensed my brother’s presence nearby.”

The topic of Melkor is an awkward one among the Valar. Technically, he hasn’t caused any trouble since the disruption of the song so long ago. Yet strange occurrences and unfortunate mishaps always seem to occur whenever Melkor deigns to come amongst them. Mairon thinks most of the Ainur are relieved that he spends so much time apart from them. 

The snapping of twigs heralds the approach of Nienna herself. “Your instincts prove true, my lord. Melkor has just informed me that he is going back beyond the Wall. Though I cannot be certain if the claim is true or not.” 

Not entirely satisfied with her reply, Manwë notes the dried tears on her cheeks and prompts her to tell them his brother’s words. Nienna waves off his concerns. “I’m well. Though surprised to see you. Is something wrong?”

“Actually, I’m here to speak to Olórin.”

Being the sudden focus of attention makes Olórin scuff his boots upon the ground. “I’m sorry that I made a mess in Lord Aulë’s forge.” 

Lips curving, Mairon notes that Olórin distinctly does not apologize for ruffling Curumo’s feathers.  

“Yes, I had heard of that, and I think it would be a very fitting lesson if you were to help clean the workshop in question. Without the use of song.” Manwë injects a bit of steel into the last part of the command. 

Olórin does not seem put out by the order. “That’s fair.” 

Nienna draws near and places a finger under his chin. “I think you should also apologize to Curumo.”

Sighing heavily, as if she were asking him to fight Tulkas in single combat, Olórin agrees. Nienna smiles and kisses him on the cheek. ”You’ll both feel better afterwards.”  

“Good, I’m glad to hear it,” Manwë intones. “Yet that was not the reason that I came to see you today.”

“If this is about Yavanna’s flower nursery, I promise that I only put ladybugs inside. They eat other bugs and wouldn't touch her roses.”

“That was you?” Aulë blurts. “We’ve been wondering why those blooms seemed so much healthier lately.” 

“Aiwendil thought that it would help, but he was too shy to suggest it to Yavanna.” 

“So you put them in without consulting her?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Stroking his beard, Aulë laughs and agrees that it was successful. “When you’re in my forge, I’ll teach you how to handle the bellows safely. In return, you can tell me how you made that clever dust.” 

“Don’t encourage him.” Manwë looks like he is on the verge of a headache that it should be impossible for him to develop. “I’m not here about Yavanna’s flowers either. I was summoned because you don’t seem very happy living with Estë.” 

For the first time since their arrival, Olórin is genuinely upset. “That isn’t true, Lady Estë is very kind.”

“My feelings aren’t hurt,” Estë promises. “I just want to make sure that you are placed in the situation that is best for you. Now tell me truthfully, do you think that you are a good fit among my Maiar?”

Without needing time to think it over, Olórin says, “I enjoy some of the duties, just as I liked parts of my old responsibilities for Varda, but I don’t think either Vala is right for me.”

“It’s alright to be uncertain,” Nienna assures him. “I’m sure that there is someone who will suit you. We just have to put some thought into it.” 

The High King is silent for several heartbeats before he lets his eyes drift over Olórin. Finally, he lifts his gaze skyward and addresses Ilúvatar himself. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”

“My lord?” Mairon questions hesitantly. “Do you think you have found a solution to Olórin’s problem?”

“Indeed, I do.” Manwë’s form straightens, and then he addresses Olórin. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“You had to figure it out for yourself,” Olórin tells him seriously. “I think that Eru wanted it to be that way.” 

“True. I’ve been blind to the pain of more than one person in this situation. The One is wise; He sends me reminders that despite my years and my position among the Valar, I must never become complacent.” 

Everyone stares at the two in utter bafflement while Olórin nods sagely. Finally, Nienna ventures, “If there is someone in need of comfort, I would gladly offer aid.” 

“That person stands before me now.” There is a marked difference between how Manwë clasps Nienna around the shoulders and the way Melkor had touched her earlier. Mairon can readily see it, even though the words he speaks are startlingly similar. “You’ve been lonely, Nienna. I would ease your grief and place Olórin in your charge.” 

Nienna reels back in shock, numbly stammering, “But my work is so…the others…they all left.”   

With great tenderness, Manwë replies, “I don’t think that Olórin is afraid. He wants to be with you. Are you willing to accept him?”

Nienna’s boundless strength gives out, and she collapses to the ground. Olórin immediately rushes into her lap. “Please let me stay with you, mother?” 

Watching the two together, Mairon suddenly realizes why Olórin has refused to change forms. He’s the perfect size for Nienna to hold as she weeps. “My son.”

Aulë makes a small gesture at Mairon and Manwë. Together, the three of them retreat. On the journey to visit Aiwendil, Mairon stops his father. “Why did Nienna cry when Olórin called her mother? She seemed happy, but she wept all the same. I don’t understand.” 

Pulling Mairon close to place a kiss onto his forehead, Aulë says, “Someday, I hope that you will.”

Confused, Mairon sets the question aside for later thought. Right now, he needs to focus on Aiwendil, who is just as miserable as Aulë intimated. Yavanna’s dress is half-soaked with tears, but she pays it little mind. Mairon doesn’t feel that he can offer much in this situation, but he is willing to listen. The little Maia seems to draw some comfort from that and regales him with tales about how sweet and clever his hedgehog had been. 

The lamps dim and Curumo returns home. He’s wearing new robes, but occasionally, when the light of the hearth hits him in a particular way, a fleck of pink gleams upon his skin. He approaches Aiwendil and places a small bronze sculpture into his hands.   

Aiwendil gasps. “It’s a perfect likeness. You even made the smooth patch near his tail.” 

Pleased with himself, Curumo states, “I’m good at observing such details. Now that you have this, you won’t be sad.”

No replica can ever replace a living thing, but Mairon can tell this is not the right moment to share that fact. Instead, he inspects the statue with a craftsman's eye and says, “This is beautiful.” 

To Mairon’s shock, Curumo blushes to the roots of his hair. For a heartbeat, his face is soft and open. Then his eyes shutter, and he snarls, “I don’t need you to tell me the value of my own work.”

Both Aulë and Yavanna splutter in offense, but before they can speak, a knock sounds at the entry. Eager for a distraction, Mairon opens the door to find Olórin standing before him. There is a gossamer-like substance clinging to his clothing and dirt smudged on every inch of his skin. “Isn’t it a bit soon for you to already have gotten into trouble again? What will Nienna say?”

“For your information, I am in precisely the amount of trouble that I ought to be,” Olórin adjusts something in a large satchel hanging at his side. “Besides, I don't move to my mother's halls until the morrow.”

“I would ask if you were trying to get in one last adventure before your relocation, but I doubt that being in the custody of a different Vala will change your wayward ways.” Mairon ruffles his hair. Taking a step backwards, he allows Olórin to enter and hears the Maia grumble something about the members of Aulë’s house being know-it-alls. 

“Are you here for your lesson on forge safety, young one?” Aulë curiously takes in the sight of Olórin’s bedraggled appearance. “I had not thought to speak on it until after you had settled into Nienna’s house. My family is in distress at the moment, but if you return in a few rotations—”

Before he can continue, Olórin walks to Aiwendil and says without a hint of condescension, “I heard of your loss and was very sorry for you.” 

Standing at Aulë’s side, Curumo rolls his eyes. To his credit, he makes no sound to indicate his contempt. He has enough feeling to recognize that while a single animal’s death may be of little import to himself, it clearly means a great deal to his brother.    

The expression of sympathy makes Aiwendil cry again. He clutches the bronze figure to his chest and tries to thank Olórin between sobs. Yavanna wraps one arm around his shoulder and gives their visitor a look of gratitude that makes Curumo glare daggers. He hates to see others receive her praise, even as he claims to be above her mothering. 

One of the things Mairon likes most about Olórin is that, despite his sometimes gruff facade, he always responds to others' pain with compassion. Manwë was correct. In retrospect, it should have been obvious that he was meant to dwell with Nienna. Yet the confusion is understandable. Olórin tends to take a more assertive approach to his kindness. 

Without fanfare, he reaches into his satchel and gently pulls out a quivering, but blessedly living hedgehog. Momentarily stunned, Aiwendil’s arms fall, and his gift drops to the bench he’s sitting on with a slight ringing noise. Upon recovering, he surges forward and delightedly exclaims, “Sebastian!” 

Jaw hanging in a mix of consternation and admiration, Aulë stares down at Olórin. “Don’t tell me that you went crawling through spider-laden forests to rescue a single animal on naught but a fool's hope. Do you have any idea what could have happened if something had gone wrong?” 

Yavanna clearly has no qualms about the act. Anyone who displays such bravery on behalf of the flora and fauna she loves so well (not to mention her beloved child) would receive her approval. “I think it was well done.” 

While Aulë and Yavanna fondly bicker, and Aiwendil is distracted by checking over his newly returned animal, Olórin slips away. Undoubtedly, in search of another lost cause or dangerous undertaking. Technically speaking, good fortune doesn’t exist. There are merely rises and falls in the great song. All the same, Mairon fervently wishes Nienna the best of luck. She’s going to need it. 

Curumo has been relegated to a corner amidst the confusion. His face is a mask of hurt. Picking up the sculpture, Mairon cautiously approaches the younger Maia and places it into his hands. “The piece is no less beautiful for the subject still being numbered among the living, and the gesture was kind. Once his excitement ebbed, Aiwendil will remember what you did for him and thank you for it.”

For a heartbeat, Curumo looks as if he is going to weep. Mairon foolishly hopes that this gulf between them can finally be bridged, but the emotion is smothered by indignation. Curumo storms away without acknowledging him. 

Later, Mairon would find the smashed remains of that beautiful sculpture in a scrap heap.

___________________

Mairon pads into the room that once held House Harrêdul’s spare forge equipment on silent feet. Using a combination of logic and cajoling, he managed to convince his current owner that it would be the perfect place to house Elven slaves. He whispered into the master’s ear at night that the head secretary would not live forever, but that an ageless child could be trained to take over the accounts. Such a skilled servant would be a perpetual boon to their House and ensure its continuing wealth and glory. 

Those words burned bitterly on his tongue. He once hoped to help father and daughter escape, as he had in the past with other thralls. But the lord’s eye was too firmly fixed upon them. His interest in Celeborn matched his dismissiveness of Celebrían, whom he initially viewed as naught but a pricey method of keeping his new slave compliant. This master never savored a struggle. Mairon forced himself not to think of how much Sauron enjoyed his struggles.

To see his daughter sold, or eventually forced into concubinage, would break Celeborn’s spirit. So Mairon offered what little he could. Guiltily, he planted the seed of an idea. Turning Celebrían from flesh into a useful abacus. The master relished the thought of seeing a return on his investment. “Are you sure the child is capable? She’s so quiet that I thought she might be witless.” 

Concealing his disgust, Mairon lightly offered, “She is smart for her age, but isn’t very talkative.”

“If you say so,” the lord shrugged off the topic for later perusal—it would be years before the girl could be put to work—and gave ‘Halbrand’ a sharp look. “Why are you so interested? Has our Sindion caught your eye?” 

Sensing danger, Mairon adopted a contrite expression. “I admit that my motives are self-serving.”

Snorting in derision, the master tartly noted, “Anyone who claims to be driven by pure altruism is a liar. Everyone wants something. What do you get from this generosity? Out with it.”

“It isn’t Sindion. Or rather, I do enjoy his company. He’s pleasant, and it’s nice to be around one of my own people again.” For all that everyone falsely assumes that Halbrand is some strange sort of Elf, the admission is not exactly a lie. Mairon was created by the One, just as the First Born. In that sense, they are all Eru’s offspring. “If I am being honest, it’s Alacénima that tugs at my heart. I had siblings before I came here.” 

Just as he anticipated, his answer blunted the edge of the master’s jealousy. Caring for Alacénima was permissible and useful. It’s yet another collar to keep Halbrand tied to the house. Mairon hated himself in that moment because the lord wasn’t entirely wrong. The friends he made among his fellow thralls eventually withered and died, taking little pieces of himself along with them. To have companions who would not leave him was a tempting thought. 

Ultimately, Celeborn and Celebrían were ordered to join him above the forge. The master condescended to be magnanimous and allowed Halbrand to play the role of big brother, or even father, if he had a mind for it. 

Despite his continual self-reproach, Mairon cannot bring himself to regret his action. Not as he watches Celebrían softly breathe in her sleep. Crouching down on the floor, he takes a moment to smile at the sight of her tiny body curled up on the pallet. Celeborn had been called away, and she never slept well out of his sight. Last night, Mairon sang to her for approaching two hours before she finally settled into a fretful doze. He wishes that he could give her some additional time to rest, but he doesn’t want her to miss the first meal. They won’t be allotted more food until well past noon. She mustn’t go so long without eating. 

Keeping his voice low and soothing, he says, “Good morning, rabbit.” 

Over the months, he has learned not to touch Celebrían until after she wakes. She needs to see that the people around her are not a threat before she can be comfortable. Otherwise, she retreats into frightened silence that can last for hours. 

One day, Celeborn explained, “In the mines the guards grew weary of her noise. They came into the barracks when she was crying in her sleep. One of them grabbed her, and I pushed him away. They punished me for that. She saw it happen even though I begged them to take her out of the room. Some part of her remembers that moment. Now Celebrían doesn’t make a sound, not when she is afraid, or starving, not even—” his voice cracked with grief-stricken shame “—when she is lonely.” 

“You did the best that you could.” Mairon resisted the urge to take his friend into an embrace. Even if it was platonically driven, the last thing Celeborn needed in that moment was to endure Mairon’s pathetic desire for intimacy. Instead, he settled for holding the Elda’s hand until his tears passed. “We’ll just have to ensure that she isn’t alone.”  

Hard as it had been, the discussion was fruitful. Now they have developed a routine for the times when Celeborn cannot be with them. Mairon will care for Celebrían in the night and wake her in the mornings. After breaking their fast (due to the demanding nature of metal-crafting, they are scheduled for the first meal rotation), they go to the smithy together, and he begins his work. Celeborn will labor in the gardens during the coolest hours of the day and evening. He usually takes charge of his daughter during the brutal heat of the afternoons when all he can do is cover the plants with cloth tarps. Together, the two catch up on much-needed sleep. 

If they are particularly lucky, Celeborn will not be needed for extra duties, leaving them free to spend the dinner hours in conversation and laughter as they try to amuse Celebrían. Mairon lives for those moments. He’s not truly a member of their family, but he can pretend. Surely that is not so terrible a sin? Not if he keeps the fantasy to himself. 

Celebrían stirs and pulls Mairon out of his thoughts. As is her wont, she cautiously peeks out from behind partially open eyelids. When she recognizes him, she breaks into a grin that shows her first teeth. Rolling onto her back, she holds her arms up in a wordless request to be held. 

Happy to oblige her, Mairon picks her up and indulges in a few minutes of cuddling before taking her to the woven mat on the floor where Celeborn keeps all of her spare linen. 

Before beginning the often arduous process of changing her swaddling, he hands her a metal block with small cutouts of shapes. Those same shapes rattle around in the center of the toy. Mairon made it for Eönwë’s little girl decades ago. It had been hard for the secretary to part with the momento, but the old man insisted, telling him that he would need the distraction if he didn’t want to waste hours trying to get a baby to stay still long enough to clean. “At least let me do this for you. I’m in your debt for finding a way to get my daughter out. Had you not learned of the lord’s plans in advance and planned accordingly, she would have been lost to me forever.” 

In many ways, Eönwë’s child has still been lost to him, but at least he can take comfort in knowing that his daughter is free. Mairon struck up a respectful relationship with the clerk. He’s an endless fount of advice in caring for Celebrían, and the irony of meeting another Eönwë is not lost upon him. The memory of his ancient friendship with Manwë’s herald doesn’t sting as badly anymore. 

Shaking the block in her fist, Celebrían determinedly maneuvers it and pulls out the circles, squares, and triangles. She’s so very clever! Only the star shapes give her trouble, and he suspects that will not last for much longer. 

He can’t give her a proper bath when water is so precious in Rhûn; usually, slaves are lucky to sponge off every few days, but once she is clean and dry, he uses a little to smooth out the silver cowlicks that always seem to develop in her sleep. He flicks a few drops on her forehead and is delighted when she giggles. Mairon playfully asks, “Is it going to be a talking day?”

No matter what people think, Celebrían can speak when she feels safe. It always makes his heart turn over when she offers him that trust. It’s hard-won, and Mairon appreciates it all the more for that fact. So far, she can only utter a handful of spoken words, but she knows dozens of signs.   

Pondering his question, Celebrían scrunches her nose in thought and then inquires, “Ada?”

“He’ll be home soon,” Mairon promises. His resentment of the master burns through him. He’d long forgotten how to be angry on his own behalf, but it kindles for Celeborn, who doesn’t deserve to endure these nights. For Celebrían, who should have her father to greet her every morning. 

Pleased with his answer, or maybe just soothed by his tone, Celebrían repeats in an echoing manner typical for babies, “Ada-da-da-da.”

“Shall we continue our Quenya lessons?” Mairon slips a fresh tunic over her head and pretends to be confused about where her arms have gone until he pulls them through the sleeves. His exaggerated surprise always makes her smile. “The word for ‘father’ is ‘atar,’ but you can also say ‘atto’ or ‘atya’.”

“Ada-da-da,” she chants.

“You’re right, I think Celeborn prefers it when you call him Ada.” As he rambles, Celebrían touches his face. She particularly likes tracing the rounded curves of his ears before reaching up to brush the rest of his face. When she reaches the stubble on his chin, he rubs his prickles against her skin and gets another laugh as a reward. 

It’s such a relief to note the increased pudginess in her fingers (and throughout the rest of her form). When the Harrêdul first bought them, Celebrían was frighteningly thin. Frail and hollow-boned as a bird. She hadn’t been weaned when they were captured. Left with no alternative in the mines, Celeborn used the scant hours when he wasn’t laboring to painstakingly dip a rag in milk and squeeze its contents into her mouth drop by drop. 

Unlike the incompetent and inexperienced guards in the mines, the women owned by the Harrêdul were better versed in caring for motherless babes. They showed Celeborn how to fill a perforated cow horn with milk and tie a small piece of soft leather over the end to nourish his daughter until she could learn to feed herself.

Speaking of appetites, Celebrían holds out her hand and makes a fist twice in quick succession. One of the hand-signs that Adar taught him so long ago. He likes to think that the Uruk would be pleased to know that his secret language is helping this little one to find her voice. Picking her up in his arms, Mairon carefully walks down the forge’s stairs. He grabs her cup and leisurely makes his way towards the kitchen of the main house. “Yes, it’s time to eat. Can you say ‘milk’?”

“Mmmm…” 

“Very close,” Mairon replies. “If we were speaking in Quenya, we would say ‘ilin,’ or if we were just referring to the morning meal in general, it would be ‘arinwat’.”

More interested in her surroundings than the lesson, Celebrían points up and holds her first two fingers straight before flicking her hand back and forth. 

Pausing to look towards the pre-dawn light, Mairon nods. “The sky is purple right now.”

She drags her first finger down her top lip, prompting him to answer the unspoken question. “The sun will begin to emerge at any moment, and then we’ll see red.” 

Briefly, he wonders if Celebrían simply wants to practice colors. Before he can ask, she bumps the knuckle of her thumb against her forehead twice, and her meaning becomes clear. Heart bursting with pride, he praises, “My smart little rabbit. Your Ada returns at sunrise. I suppose that ‘soon’ wasn’t a good enough answer for you.”

It’s extremely petty, but Mairon feels a sudden urge to parade her before the master and ask if his spoiled firstborn can reason half so well. Of course, he won’t actually do such a thing, but the image pleases him. 

The kitchen is a bustle of activity. Their meal is only the first of several rotations that the servants must perform for the house. The cooks would never be able to feed every thrall if they descended upon them at once. To say nothing of the demands made by the master and his family. By the time breakfast is over, they must begin preparing for midday meals and so on until dinner hour. The fair is rather boring, but most of the kitchen staff try their best. Alagiel greets them kindly. “Good morrow, Halbrand. How is our ghost this morning?”

Celebrían buries her face in Mairon’s shoulder but offers a shy wave of greeting. Unperturbed by the silence, Alagiel takes the cup from him and fills it with milk before screwing the lid on tightly. 

“It’s such a clever invention,” she compliments. “Half the parents I know want to beat down your door for one. My dam would have sacrificed a finger to possess something like it. Six babies make for a great many messes to clean.”

Alagiel doesn’t mention that her mother was only allowed to keep three past their childhoods. Mairon had been able to help two, but the last was lost to the shifting tide of slavery. He couldn’t look her in the face for months. Not even when she thanked him for aiding her two youngest. Especially not then. In the back of his mind, he could hear Morgoth’s whisper, ‘Choose, my flame. Who will receive mercy? Only you can grant this boon, and it will not be bestowed upon all. Will you not thank me? Am I not merciful?’ 

Shivering, he clutches Celebrían tightly and allows the weight of her small body to anchor him in the present. The memory recedes, but doesn’t completely fade. To distract himself, he says, “I cannot claim credit for the idea, only the execution. It was listening to the difficulties of the women in this house that led me to create a spouted valve for a cup that would only allow liquid to flow when a child sucks on it. Truthfully, I’m ashamed that I didn’t come up with a solution until I witnessed the messes that this little one was making.”

Shifting Celebrían to a hip, he uses his free hand to give her the cup. Once he is sure that she has a firm hold upon it, he takes the plate of griddle cakes that Alagiel holds out to him. “I’m using every spare scrap of material that I can find to make more, but it’s slow going. If I had my way, all parents would be given one. I tried convincing the master that it would save him money in the long run. My argument was that there would be less waste. He wasn’t interested.” 

Lowering her voice, Alagiel confides, “Are you really surprised? The man wouldn’t recognize a wise notion if it came up and bit him.” 

They indulge in conspiratorial laughter before Mairon walks to the stone tables that are designated for the servants. He exchanges pleasantries with a few people, places Celebrían in his lap, and digs in. Once he is sure her cup is empty, he breaks one of his cakes into small pieces and hands them to her bit by bit. Most of it ends up on her face or crumbles down her front, but at least some of the food makes it into her mouth. A bell rings, announcing the upcoming change in meal rotation. Mairon hurriedly downs the remains of his meal before returning to the forge with his charge. 

Another round of clean-up precedes his work. Then he places Celebrían in a corner cleared of anything dangerous and sternly reminds her to stay put. It breaks his heart to be so forceful, but there is too much in the smithy that could hurt her. He’d nearly expired with anxiety when she learned to crawl, and later on, to take her first hesitant steps. After experiencing a mild burn, Celebrían seemed to learn the lesson and stayed away from the areas he indicated were off-limits. Mairon himself panicked far more than Celeborn, who looked at the slightly tender skin of his child’s finger with a smile and promised that he wasn’t upset.

Merrily, he sings Aulë’s Hammerstrike. Another one of Mairon’s growing list of rituals that he performs when they are together in the mornings. It’s a song his father made up to help the new apprentices learn how to breathe properly for the laborious nature of their work. Truthfully, smithing is not so frenetic as people believe. Most of it is slow and meticulous. However, in the words of Aulë himself, ‘Sometimes you just want to hit something with a hammer. As hard and fast as you possibly can.’ The oddity of embodiment and suddenly possessing lungs was difficult for many a young Maia. They had to learn to go fast enough to keep up with the activity while not getting lightheaded. 

The tune is not as special to Celebrían as their lullaby (which she treats with great solemnity), but she adores the rapid rhythm. Before long, she is using a wall for balance and rocking her body up and down to the beat. It’s the closest that a baby who still wobbles on her feet can get to dancing. By the end of the third chorus, the door at the forge entrance opens, and Celeborn enters. He looks pained and weary, but all of that vanishes at the sound of his daughter’s voice. “Ada!”

Like a little crab, Celebrían lifts her hands above her shoulders to steady herself and bowleggedly toddles over to her father. She trips near the end of the journey, but Celeborn is waiting with open arms to catch her. He spends a very long time simply sitting on the ground and pressing her close. Mairon tries to give him as much privacy as the area can afford and busies himself with his work. 

Eventually, Celeborn clears his throat. “It would seem that this is a talking day.” 

Taking the question as an invitation to join them, Mairon sits across from Celeborn, but makes sure to give him a good measure of space. “You are correct. She’s not quite there yet, but I think Celebrían is close to saying the word ‘milk’.” 

“That’s wonderful.” Celeborn smiles and bounces her on one of his crossed legs to emphasize his pleasure. The girl makes a cooing sound and slips to the floor. She excitedly crawls back and forth between them, delighted at having the undivided attention of her two favorite people.

Above her head, Celeborn and Marion continue their discussion. “Before breakfast, she managed to figure out and communicate that you would return after dawn. True, it was all in signs, but the knowledge is there.” 

“Aren’t you observant?” Celeborn teases Celebrían with a light tap on the nose. Then the warmth in his voice gives way to something more serious, and he looks up at Mairon. “I can’t imagine what we would have done without you. You never complain, but I’m sure that we are a great imposition.” 

“Never! I’m happy to have you with me.” Mairon refuses to let Celeborn continue in the same vein and switches topics with nervous desperation. “We didn’t cover much Quenya. I only managed to get through ‘arinwat’, ‘ilin’, and ‘atar’ before we ate.”

“A-a-ah”, Celebrían interjects, causing them both to stare down at her. 

“That’s right, your Ada is here,” Mairon confirms as she uses Celeborn’s leg to rise first to her knees and then to her feet. 

“Yah.” With her small face etched in determination, Celebrían walks towards Mairon. There is no danger of her taking a tumble. He’s well within reach should she lose her footing. Complacently, he holds out his arm and allows her to use it as a balance point at her leisure. 

“Ah-yah.” 

She reaches him, drops to a crawl, and clambers into his lap. Something important has happened that they haven’t caught onto yet. He hasn’t heard her make so much noise before. Helping her turn to face him more comfortably, he asks in confusion, “What is it, little one?” 

Frustrated, Celebrían taps her forehead twice with her knuckle and repeats, “A-ya.” 

All three of them know what that sign means. The connection flashes through Mairon’s mind in quick succession: Adar-Ada-Atar-Atto-Atya.

“Aya.”

Father.

Caught in a nexus of pride, joy, and dread, Mairon is frozen. She’s so clever. He explained it to her only once, and yet she put the pieces together with ease. Celebrían called him father. She used one of her precious spoken words to give him that title. Unable to meet Celeborn’s gaze, he thinks of Curumo’s simmering flame of resentment. Of how it was fanned into a terrifying inferno by Morgoth. The simple fear of abandonment turned monstrous and cruel. 

No, Celeborn wouldn’t do that. He’s too kind. Too good. Mairon can’t bear to think of losing them! Not even to the relatively short distance of the barracks. But what other recourse is there? He knows what will follow. Love always demands that a choice be made. 

“Please—I didn’t mean to do it. I could never take your place in her heart—I’ll go…the master won’t care. Celebrían has already suffered so much tumult in her life—she shouldn’t be made to endure more disruption because of my foolishness. Don’t force her to pick. I’ve been ruined by making choices. Just let me leave.” 

“Mairon,” Celeborn calls. It sounds like he has been trying to gain his attention for several minutes. “Breathe. Hear my voice. Feel the ground beneath your body. Can you smell the burning of the forge?” 

Gradually, Mairon comes back to himself. He tries to speak, but no sound comes out of his throat.

Holding his palms up in a placating gesture, Celeborn speaks gently, “You don’t have to talk. Just listen. Can you do that for me? Hold Celebrían if it will bring you comfort.” 

Looking down, Mairon sees her tensing in anxiety. He scoops her into a hug and plants kisses on her soft hair. The action serves to reassure them both and steadies him enough to look Celeborn in the face. Instead of the hurt he expected, Mairon finds only understanding. 

“There doesn’t have to be a choice.” Celeborn reaches out and places his hand on his daughter's back. In the action, three are made one, with Celebrían acting as the connective link between them. Sensing her father’s touch, she hums in contentment and burrows into Mairon’s side. “Do you see? She needs us both. I’m her adar. Nothing can ever change that. You’re her atya, and I would entrust the responsibility to no other person. Not even if Manwë himself were to swoop down from the heavens and declare that he would like the job.” 

Those words pry something loose in Mairon. It’s akin to drawing poison from a wound. Messy and painful, but cleansing. This child in his arms is the most precious thing in Celeborn’s life. Yet, as broken Mairon has become, Celeborn would still share her. An astounding notion dawns upon him. Perhaps he is not as tainted as he once believed. Celeborn would not allow his daughter to be raised by someone who was corrupted beyond repair. Not if he could help it. 

Without intending it, Mairon bursts into tears. 

Celebrían squirms in his grasp and places her palms over her eyes, bringing them down along her cheeks. 

“No, I’m not sad,” he tells her as he sobs.

At the edges of his consciousness, Mairon feels the feather-light brush of her mind. Though it’s been an age since he last let his walls down, he willingly reaches out and shows his thoughts. How individually, they are small and insignificant notes in the great song of the One, but when entwined, they create a melody in their own right. Celebrían is young, but she understands it: these two people are her everything, and she is the same to them. Together, they are a world unto themselves. The simplicity is breathtaking. 

With the utmost reverence, he touches her face and whispers to himself in wonder, “I’m a father.” 

___________________

It’s rare to talk to Sedril about anything other than healing. True, he saw her often enough whenever he became plagued by a headache, but they had never met outside the bounds of her role as an artificer. 

With a painful wrench, Erenion remembers that Elrond had been the one to nag him into speaking Sedril. He delayed going for so long because he was certain he would receive the same answer he had the first time he visited a healer for the problem. It was before he became High King of the Noldor, and long before the twins were left in his care. Back when Healer Namindo was still in charge of the wards. He told Gil-Galad that Elves were impervious to such ailments and insinuated that he was imagining the problem. 

After years of pestering, Erenion finally agreed to visit. If only to silence his herald on the subject. Sedril asked some questions about his symptoms and pinched her lips when he mentioned Namindor’s diagnosis, saying, “You have muscles, do you not? Sometimes they become tense. If we are also taking into account all the jaw-clenching you do, it is no wonder that your head aches.” 

She prescribed an herbal mixture and showed him how to massage certain pressure points. The pain diminished. When he asked if there was a way to be rid of it entirely, Sedril raised an eyebrow and sardonically advised, “Find a different profession.” 

Even without a cure, it had been a decided relief. His herald was insufferably smug about it for years. Elros was the more relentless of the two, but Elrond’s capacity to dig in his heels is boundless with the right incentive. 

No, not is—was. Elrond’s stubbornness was boundless. Grief rises in Gil-Galad like an animal clawing at his insides, and he ruthlessly smothers it with long-honed skill.  

As a boy, Erenion closed himself off from the world and wept alone for days when his adar was killed. Fingon—the father whom he sometimes believed forgot all about him. Gil-Galad couldn’t stand to be called Artanáro afterwards.

Maedhros came to him not long after. The death of his husband rendered him unrecognizable. The visit was short; he hadn’t been very coherent for the majority of it, but right before he left, he’d done something. Fighting tooth and nail to cling to his sanity, he cupped his son’s cheek. “Círdan mentioned that you’ve been avoiding him. Don’t isolate yourself. Fingon wouldn’t want you to be in pain and alone. Neither do I.” 

Then he happened to see the boy was wearing the small Fëanorian star he had given to Gil-Galad on his last name day. In horror, Maedhros ripped the necklace off and flung it far away. Like he were afraid that the symbol would burn him. The ravaged look on his face spoke volumes as he said, “It’s poison. Forget about me and forget that you have any connection to my house. I would not see you devoured like the rest of us.”

Afterwards, when he was sure Maedhros had gone, Gil-Galad retrieved the necklace and locked it away in a chest. 

From that point forward, Ereinion began to grieve in advance for his Atar. Even at the age of ten, he recognized no one could sorrow that deeply or hate themselves with such fervor, and remain among the living. Gil-Galad lost Maedhros long before he cast himself into flames, but when that death finally came, he still shed tears over it. Not publicly. Yet in the privacy of his chamber, he clutched at the pendant and let them fall. He wondered what his father had been thinking in his last moments and if he thought about Ereinion before embracing his death.  

When Elros died, Galadriel pressed Aeglos into his hands and ordered him into the wilderness. Ereinion struck at a stone over and over again until he’d finally let himself weep.

What is wrong with him that he can mourn one son and not the other? 

A familiar feeling manifests—like a tight band twisting itself around his head—and he welcomes the pain as a distraction. Gil-Galad hasn’t taken Sedril’s remedies since the Battle of Eregion. He’ll need to be careful if he doesn’t want her to discover it. 

Trying not to wince at the direct sunlight that is illuminating the halls of healing, he asks for directions to Sedril’s private offices. He’s never seen them before, and doubts that she spends much time there. She’s usually too busy in the wards to sequester herself away from the people who need her. 

Cautiously, he stands at the threshold and calls out to her. Sedril answers from the adjoining room and entreats him to enter. The inner chamber turns out to host floor-to-ceiling shelves on the walls. Every single one is stuffed with books. There is a table with a tea service and a few chairs standing in the center of it all. 

Medical texts and treatises are kept in Lindon’s library. What is the purpose of these tomes? Perhaps she keeps copies for her personal use? Erenion very deliberately pushes away countless memories of Elrond curled up with his beloved scrolls. 

One thing that he always appreciates about Sedril is the way that she gets to the point and doesn’t mince words. He conveniently forgot that the price of candor is brutal honesty without preamble. “You’ve stopped your treatments.” 

Gil-Galad doesn’t bother to deny it. She’ll be insulted if he lies to her. “I’ve been busy.” 

“Too busy to care for your health?”

“We’re in the middle of a war, the world is on fire, and my people are relying on me to see them through it,” he evades. It’s the truth, but not the reason why he isn’t taking his medicines. He suspects Sedril is already aware of this and is immediately proved correct. 

“Following that logic, wouldn’t it be prudent to be at your best instead of nearly crippled by pain?” There is no anger in her tone. It would be much easier if there were, because he could hide behind a politician’s mask. Instead, she is circumspect. After a few minutes of observation, she says, “Sit down before you collapse.”

While he takes a chair, Sedril closes all the curtains in the room and lights a lantern. He is both relieved and upset when the throbbing in his head lessens. She pours the contents of the kettle into a cup and hands it to him. A familiar aroma drifts to his nose. They’re the herbs he’s been avoiding.

Erenion contemplates the brew. 

He doesn’t want to drink it. 

Rather than confront him about it, Sedril gestures to the books and comments, “I’ve been going through my archive recently.” 

“It seems extensive.” Thanks to the glow of the flame, he can see that the books are in various conditions. Some are almost new, and others are falling apart with only twine and hope keeping them together. “Did you write them yourself?”

“Not many. Whenever I find someone with even a modicum of interest in healing, I give them an empty notebook and ask them to write down anything helpful that they learn. Eventually, the knowledge finds its way back to me. All of my students had one at some time. When I last saw him, Elrond was still working on his own.”

A knife-twist of agony radiates across his head. He’s tensing his jaw again. Gil-Galad looks at the whorls in the wooden table and does not let himself think.

“There is a lot to discover about a person from their books,” she continues. Her body is relaxed, and her tone is conversational. “For example, there was a dwarf who sometimes visited Naragathrond and was obsessed with mushrooms. He wrote about the poisons and remedies that could be made with them. There are whole sections that revolve around their hallucinogenic properties.” 

“Dwarves contributed to your library?” Erenion grips the edge of the table as Durin’s words return to him with all their fury. He grits his teeth more tightly and feels a satisfying ache blot them out. 

“Yes. Eldar, Edain, and Dwarves have all added to my shelves. Wisdom is wisdom. It matters not where it comes from.” Standing, she walks to a shelf and pulls a tome that has seen better days. It looks as if it was exposed to rain on multiple occasions. “I thought that this one might be of particular interest to you.” 

It can’t have belonged to Elrond. Sedril said that he hadn’t returned his to her, and his herald would have been absolutely scandalized at the thought of letting a book fall into such a state. The knowledge gives him the confidence to ask, “Why?”

“Because Fingon wrote it. He returned it to me before he died. It would have been lost if I hadn’t been recruited to provide healing to Turgon’s forces at the Nirnaeth.” 

Blinking in shock, Erenion stares at the cracked leather and curling pages with new eyes. He’s torn between desperation and something that resembles fear. Sensing his uncertainty, Sedril gently inquires, “I originally gave it to him after Maedhros passed his title to Fingolfin. Would you like me to tell you a little bit about it?”

Wordlessly, Ereinion nods. 

Placing it on the table and within his reach, she begins, “He was particularly focused on treating maladies of the spirit. It’s not an easy undertaking. Bodily pains can be identified and treated, but wounds upon the mind do not leave marks.” Sedril doesn’t mention why he was so interested in the subject. Nor does she need to do so. Gil-Glalad never once doubted that his parents loved each other. 

“I think a lot of his personality is marked here,” Sedril tells him as she lifts the cover. “He would write almost obsessively and in bursts. The longest that I can discern is over fifty pages.” 

Did Fingon act as Ereinion often did? Burning out the candles at his desk and watching as his staff, one by one, succumbed to sleep. It’s always so tempting to finish a project. To be able to tell yourself that it is done.  

“He used the strangest things as place markers.” She holds up a small scrap of parchment wedged between two pages, “This is a receipt from someone named Iúldor for the sale of new harp strings. There’s more than one leaf in here that seems to have no other purpose but to allow him to find where he left off.” 

How often had Elrond bemoaned the organized chaos that was the High King’s study? Shaken, he realizes that this is the first instance he’s been able to remember Elrond without pain. Gil-Galad isn’t sure that he should be allowed such comfort. 

Flipping towards the middle of the book, Sedril points out something golden which is folded up at both ends. “I believe this is one of his hair ties.” 

“It is,” Gil-Galad confirms. They are the first words he has spoken since she mentioned the author’s name. He has a dim recollection of being very small and reaching for that glittering gold braided into pitch-black hair. Fingon laughed, let Artanáro tug upon them, and didn’t complain about the discomfort. 

“I’m still in the process of copying out the contents, but when I’m done, I would be happy to give you the original. As it stands, you are welcome to read it now.” Sedril reaches out and places her hand upon his shoulder. When was the last time someone touched him kindly? Most of the Noldor kept a respectful distance.

If he is being honest, Erenion still isn’t sure if he wants to pour over the contents of this tome, but he knows he will do it regardless. “Please.” 

“Feel free to stay here as long as you would like. There are extra candles in the box on top of the far bookshelf.” Sedril gives his arm one last squeeze and adds, “I would only ask one thing of you: look at all the pages before you leave today. Even if you think the entries have stopped.” 

With that, she departs, closing the door behind her. It’s tempting to flip to the back as Sedril mentioned, but he wants to do this properly and start at the beginning. 

Over the course of seven hours, he combs through the pages. Between the lines of research are annotations. Most of them aren’t of consequence. Fingon hadn’t forgotten that the book would ultimately pass on to relative strangers. Yet there are glimmers of the person who held the pen in such excerpts: 

‘Came across an Edain village today. It dwells under a wicked-looking set of cliffs. Though they are not nearly as bad as Thangorodrim. The people claim that at the top of the highest peak is a yellow flower that induces the most exquisite calm and tranquility when ingested. The veracity of this is dubious, and it seems more like a tall tale than anything. A group of local youth has made climbing those rocks some sort of proof of manhood. Each strives to reach higher than their peers. Oh, the folly of children! The ringleader of said group has insinuated that I’m not brave enough to attempt it.’

This was followed by a hastily scrawled observation two days later: 

‘Success! I have retrieved the blossom. It does naught but make one’s tongue slightly numb. I had to ask Turukáno to stitch up the gash in my hairline. He was most annoyed. I would have preferred Írissë, but she was too busy laughing at me to hold the needle steady.’   

What surprises Erenion is the sketches. He’d no idea that he was an artist. It’s never been brought up in the stories of various dignitaries who like to use Fingon’s memory to ingratiate themselves with their king. Beautiful images of flowers and landscapes are included at the end of his entries. The margins are crammed with doodles, including a very unflattering caricature of a terrified Sauron (the single eye gave it away) being chased by a large hound.

There is an extremely long period of silence following Fingolfin’s death. Eventually, the passages pick up. Gil-Galad can sense a growing frustration with kingship. He feels a sympathetic pang to match the throbbing behind his eyes when he sees references to various migraine remedies. 

One page contains a pretty horizontal drawing of a lake surrounded by low-hanging trees. Ereinion has no idea where this place is located. It has probably been lost to the waves. Beneath it is a single sentence. ‘Someday, I want to bring him here.’

Fingon could have been referring to Maedhros, his brother, or anyone really. Still, Gil-Galad’s heart twists with longing. Afterwards, the entries peter out to a few random observations before finally going blank.

Hands trembling, he turns to the back and is met with the image of his own face drawn over and over again. Artanáro as a baby, smiling and reaching for something beyond his grasp. As a toddler, playing with a toy spear. A boy studying a tide-pool with interest. He hadn’t noticed at the time, but Fingon must have made a new sketch during every visit. Each line is rendered in loving detail. There are dozens of them. Fingon carried Gil-Galad’s image until almost the day that he died. 

Just as he had once done as a child, Gil-Galad realizes that his hand is wrapped tightly around the hair ribbon. He closes the book very carefully—Sedril will return it to him when she is done transcribing it—but somehow he can’t make his fingers let go of that scrap of gold. Hot tears burn his eyes, and he fights them back ferociously. It’s selfish to cry for himself when he hasn’t been able to shed them for his son.

‘Don’t isolate yourself.’ 

These are the words of Maedhros, but they are not spoken in his voice. It’s Elrond that he hears: Elrond—his Atto’s last gift. Erenion cannot bear it. Even though the throbbing in his head is a crescendo of agony, it’s not enough to keep the real pain at bay.

Swiftly, Gil-Galad leaves the Healer’s Wing and walks to the junction in the hallway. He should turn right and go to his private study. There is work that he needs to get done. Correspondence that must be drafted. Decisions that only he can make. It’s the middle of the night, but that has never stopped him from doing his duty. 

‘Fingon wouldn’t want you to be in pain and alone,’ Elrond whispers earnestly in his ear. 

Despite all the tragedy that beset his life, Elrond never tried to grow armor over his softness or blunt his gentle nature. It used to terrify Gil-Galad. How could he protect someone who insisted on walking about with such vulnerabilities on glaring display?

Of course, the answer is that Ereinion couldn’t protect him. What good is a king who cannot protect his people? What good is a father who cannot shield his child from the evils of the world? Fingon sent his child away to save him. Gil-Galad sent his son to his death.

Another twist of pain rips through his form. He can’t tell if it’s his head or grief—the full moon above him does not burn with enough intensity to make him certain that it is the former. Despite himself, he takes the left corridor and finds himself outside. His feet follow the familiar path down to the harbor. There is a single candle burning in the window of the workshop.

Ereinion slips inside and watches Círdan as he shapes the wood beneath his hands with confidence and ease. The familiar sight makes him feel like a boy again. Many of his sleepless nights had been spent watching his foster-father work. 

Wordlessly, Círdan makes an inviting gesture at the open spot on his bench. Gil-Galad takes the indicated seat and looks down at his interlaced fingers with the ribbon still clutched in them. Even though he can feel the weight of Círdan’s gaze upon him, he can’t bear to look him in the eyes. 

Feeling an arm wrap comfortingly around his shoulder, Ereinion relaxes into that small embrace by degrees.

‘Don’t isolate yourself.’ 

His body hitches.

‘Fingon wouldn’t want you to be in pain and alone.’

Just as he did when he was a boy, Gil-Galad places his head against Círdan’s chest. 

‘Neither do I,’ Elrond says with such heartbreaking sincerity that it shreds the last of Ereinion’s resistance. He is so very tired of being strong. Responsibilities have picked him clean like carrion birds.

“My son,” Ereinion whispers raggedly. It’s all he can manage before he releases a sound, not a scream but a deep primeval wail that holds all the grief of every bereft parent since the breaking of the first silence. So must have Melian and Morwen wailed upon the death of their children. Had Galadriel shrieked thus when she discovered the smoking ruins of her daughter’s supposedly safe haven?

Círdan strokes his hair, but does not attempt to stem his grief. He’s old enough to recognize that a storm must take its course. Gil-Galad is completely wrung out by the time the worst of it has passed. He presses his cheek to the warm wood of the crafting table and listens to the sounds of the Shipwright rising and rattling about the workshop. Within a few moments, a cup of tea is placed in front of his face. Its steam carries the scent of his remedy. 

“How did you know?” Ereinion hadn’t mentioned the headaches to Círdan. Much less their treatment. After placing his father’s hair ornament in his cloak, he holds the cup and feels the warmth seep into his palms. 

“Elrond told me the morning he left for Eregion.” Círdan feels no hesitance in saying the names of the dead. They deserve better than to be buried in silence. “He was worried that you would ignore your pain when he wasn’t there to pester you to take care of yourself.”

Unable to help himself, Gil-Galad utters something between a laugh and a sob. “Of course, he did.”

After imbibing nearly half the contents, Ereinion heads back to the palace. The entire court is set ablaze with rumors when the High King returns, acting as if he never left. He immediately commissions a portrait of Lord Elrond. 

___________________

The word ‘heartbreak’ is a favorite among singers of both Sindar and Noldor persuasions. Even Maglor used it in his compositions back when the light of the trees still graced them, but he stopped after the crossing. 

Though she previously enjoyed listening to his songs, Galadriel was too distracted by her anger to notice. She even took a swing at him at their first meeting in Losgar. (He didn’t try to dodge. Indeed, he looked so miserable that the blow hadn’t given her much satisfaction.) It was Finrod, a composer in his own right, who recognized the change and asked about it. Maglor gave a strange, unhappy grin and replied, “I wish it were otherwise, but it’s not so easy to break one’s heart.”  

Artanis, who still managed to cling to some modicum of innocence, even after the Helcaraxë, hadn’t understood. Why would anyone wish for such a thing to be easily done? She dismissed it as Fëanorian melodrama. Time and grief made Galadriel understand his meaning all too well. To break an object is to render it nonfunctional. Would that a heart could be so obliging. 

The death of her beloved brother hadn’t been enough to teach her that lesson, for Celeborn had been there as her family perished one by one. He was a refuge, even when the haven of Doriath’s protection vanished. Despite the pain, Galadriel was still grateful for her heart when they were together, and even more so when their silver queen was born. Her beautiful Celebrían. Who refused to sleep at night until her mother was there to make her feel safe and who curled comfortingly against her whenever Galadriel’s losses threatened to leave her unmoored. 

“Tell me about your Celeborn and Celebrían,” Sauron demands unexpectedly. Galadriel is unsurprised at the jealousy in his tone. How did he find out about them? She never mentioned it to Hrothgar. Not even after the battle in the Southlands—when she had been most vulnerable around him—had she been able to bring herself to speak of her greatest failure.

Fingers digging into the bedspread, she imagines clawing at his face for daring to sully those names with his foul tongue. The only thing that keeps her in check is the knowledge that the punishment for her actions will fall upon others. “It was a long time ago.”

He toys with a lock of her hair. “But not forgotten, my Artanis.”

She doesn’t want to share this with Sauron. He doesn’t deserve to know them, even through the medium of her imperfect memory. “They were my responsibility.” 

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t fly into a rage. Perhaps thinking that she viewed her family as a duty has pacified him? Galadriel hates herself for reducing her beloved husband and precious daughter to burdens, but she loathes herself for so many things that it makes little difference.  “How did they die?”

“Does it matter, my lord?”

Sauron brushes a thumb along her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. She feels him scraping at the door in her mind, demanding entrance. “I wish to hear it.” 

“Ost-in-Edhil had no walls or defenses yet. It was naught more than a collection of shelters held together by a dream.” As is always the case, Sauron stiffens at the mention of Eregion. His grip becomes bruisingly tight, but he doesn’t interrupt. “With the war still raging, I wanted to send them somewhere safe. I misjudged.” 

Galadriel never told anyone about the way the smoke coated her nose and throat. The only partially recognizable body had been their recently acquired wet-nurse. Galadriel looked at all those charred figures, realized that her family numbered among them, and her mind collapsed into black oblivion. She returned to her senses with a hoarse voice and ripped off fingernails—as if she had clawed at something—yet she continued to live. 

It made Galadriel think of Maglor’s words. Her histrionic cousin had the right of it after all. She heard wild laughter and realized it was her own. That was how the reinforcement party found her. At least Gil-Galad hadn’t offered platitudes as he took in the spectacle of carnage and surmised what happened to her family. Instead, he quietly asked, “What do you need from me?”  

“There’s no help for it. Hearts are traitorously resilient things,” she replied between fits of hysterical mirth that carried through the burned-out village. Everyone stirred with discomfort. No one had ever seen the Lady Galadriel laugh. To do so at such a time appeared callous. Only the High King remained unperturbed. 

Mercifully, Sauron drops the subject. Enough time passes that Galadriel dares to hope he’s forgotten it altogether. She doesn’t think to be anything but relieved when he announces that he will be going on a three-month sojourn and endures his farewell embraces with impatience. Of course, she worries about the destruction that he is undoubtedly wreaking upon the world, but tries to focus on solid things. She and Elrond do what they can to redistribute the bounty of the kitchens to the poorer members of the village. Finrod tries to get Celebrimbor to leave his bed at least every other day. 

Those weeks fly by with the speed of Manwë’s eagles. One morning, Adar whispers to her that Sauron returned in the middle of the night, acting more secretive than usual. Stomach tightening, Galadriel prepares to confront whatever new misery he has devised. 

“I come bringing gifts, my queen.” The already tense mood at breakfast becomes taut. Everyone stills with anticipatory dread. “Our husband and daughter are alive. I brought them home to you.” 

"My lord, please. Please. You know I love you, please don't…"

Sauron beams in delight and leaves his place at the table to take her in his arms. He strokes her hair. 

"My love, my queen - I assure you, they are real. I had thought to bring you corpses so you could see the burdens forced upon you were finally gone, but no, my love, you would never wrong me so - you bought me two gifts - a husband and my daughter."

Celebrimbor actually claps his hands over his mouth in shock. Elrond accidentally sends his fork crashing down to his plate. Under the table, her brother squeezes her fingers. All eyes are on Galadriel, but she barely notices as her emotions threaten to drown her: joy, horror, longing, shame, elation, grief, love, anger. It’s like her body cannot decide what to choose, so it decides to feel everything all at once. The result leaves her stricken and immobile.

Elrond, ever the diplomat, delicately inquires about their new guests. Sauron speaks of Rhûn and suffering, his eyes never leaving Galadriel as he observes, “You are silent, Artanis. Will you not thank me?”

A part of Galadriel wants to snarl that she owes him nothing. Wants to open his throat with a carving knife for daring to claim her husband and child as his own. But the phrase ‘they have suffered’ echoes in her head. Her wishes cannot take precedence now. She will do whatever is necessary, suffer any degradation, act as complacently as he wants. Anything that will let her see them. “You have been more than generous, my lord. Pardon me, I am overwhelmed. May we visit them together and exalt that our family is reunited?”

“Celeborn is grievously hurt, and the journey was not easy on him. He must not be disturbed for at least a fortnight, but I promise you that those who dared to lay hands upon him died screaming.” 

Her heart aches at the thought of anyone harming her kind and gentle husband. Why didn’t she try to seek them out? What have they endured while she pursued pride and folly? Steeling herself, she asks after her daughter. Galadriel hasn’t spoken Celebrían’s name aloud in nearly an age. The syllables feel clumsy on her tongue.  

After studying her face intently, Sauron eventually answers, “Her recovery shall be smoother. We can see her, but she might not remember speaking to you. My healing songs leave her dazed.”

“I will be content.” How many hours had she spent simply watching her child breathe? Who comforted her when she was lonely? Galadriel’s agitation is so great that she is suddenly irrationally worried about her daughter’s eating habits. Celebrían was always so picky. They went through six potential wet-nurses before finally finding one that met her exacting standards for (an intended) few weeks of separation. 

On the way to the southern wing, she absentmindedly acknowledges Sauron’s prattling about making Celebrían better accommodations when she is well. Galadriel’s hands are shaking and her pulse thunders in her ears as she is led to a set of previously unoccupied suites. Eventually, they enter a room where she finds Adar speaking in concerned whispers with a man that she doesn’t know. A figure lies on the bed without stirring.

Confused, she tries to find evidence of a cradle. Sauron said that he would let her see her baby. Will he require some further proof of her devotion before he allows them to be reunited? 

The man’s jaw drops, and he whispers in awe, “Are you Galadriel?”

“You will not address my family,” Sauron snaps. The stranger flinches but dutifully lowers his eyes to the floor. Distantly, Galadriel feels a stab of pity for him, but most of her attention is focused on locating her daughter. Sliding his arm around her waist, the Dark Lord leads her to the bed. “Our daughter is so sweet in slumber. ” 

At that, everything comes to a violent halt as she stares at the figure sleeping so quietly before her. The nîs is silver-haired. Celeborn laughed when he saw the fuzz on Celebrían’s head and joked about how Thingol would have been overjoyed. Though her face is relaxed, Finwë’s dimples (the same Celebrimbor inherited) are waiting to appear at a twitch of her lips. Galadriel sees that stubborn jawline in her mirror every day.  

Unbidden, tears swim in her eyes. Galadriel hadn’t recognized her own child. The child whom she loved more than her own life. She missed every moment: her first word, her first steps, her milestones. She hadn’t been there to comfort her when she was frightened or teach her how to make paper sailboats to place upon the water. What right does Galadriel have to be in her presence now? 

Looking like a doting father, Sauron reaches to caress Celebrían’s cheek. Galadriel is preparing to swat the offending hand away when the Edain begs, “Please—”

In the blink of an eye, Sauron cuts off the protest by crossing the room and backhanding him so viciously that the poor man is sent sprawling. “Know thy place, Mairon! I tolerate thee for the sake of Melkor, but do not think to tell me how to act with mine daughter.”

Usually, Sauron slips between extremes in his uses of thee/thou. He reserves it for the heights of affection and depths of loathing. In either case, its use signals danger. Caution forces her to swallow her protests as Sauron clutches her like a doll he is desperate to prevent Mairon from possessing. “Trust him not. This is no man. As shameful as it is to admit, he numbers among my brethren.” 

Disregarding the violence, Mairon dares to fire back, “You know that you don’t have to make this so disorienting for Celebrían. If you insist on using song, then take the pain into yourself instead of forcing her body to accelerate and distress its own processes. It would only weaken you a little. I’ve done it for her before, and I can show you how.” 

This time, Sauron doesn’t bother with words. Instead, he lifts Mairon off the ground by his throat. His every word is an outpouring of long-held rage. “Thou should have gathered the little dignity in thine possession and allowed thy spirit to scatter after the war. Always you seek to take what is mine. My loves were made for me. Thou wilt not have them.”

Opening his hand, he drops the Maia to the floor in a heap. As Mairon coughs and gasps, Curumo sneeringly asks, “How long did it take for you to whore yourself to the Lords of the Harrêdul? Even knowing your ways, I am surprised at the depths to which you fall. To allow others to possess you after Melkor. Yet what else should I expect? Filth craves filth.”

Galadriel inhales sharply. There were rumors about a captive held in the depths of Angband. Excepting Celebrimbor, she had little discourse with her Fëanorian kin in Belariand, but she can recall Maedhros commenting on it once. Hadn’t Lord Eönwë tried to find him when Angband fell? If Mairon were a willing consort of Morgoth, it’s doubtful Manwë’s herald would have been so desperate.

She is distracted from her musings when Celebrían stirs and stares at her bandaged hands in confusion. Adar, who is closest, kneels at her side. Galadriel instinctively rushes to her, but halts with the realization that she doesn’t know how to comfort her daughter anymore. 

“What happened? I don’t—they’ll be so angry…I can’t earn my keep.” Inspecting Adar’s face and the unfamiliar surroundings, Celebrían’s body goes rigid with fear. “Have I been sold? Where are my parents? Am I far from House Harrêdul?”

Mairon shifts like he wants to offer comfort. Instead, he locks gazes with Galadriel and subtly motions her forward. In the interim, Adar soothes, “You are no longer in Rhûn, but your fathers and mother are here with you.”

“I don’t have a mother.” In her confusion, Celebrían states it like a simple fact, in the same way one would claim ‘Arien is bright’. Regardless of the intent, Galadriel’s chest spasms with hurt that is quickly followed by overwhelming shame. For a moment, she breathes deeply and tries to will her heart to stop beating. 

“My sweet little queen.” Sauron approaches and carefully clasps her shoulders. “I know that you were worried about Celeborn and had no way of knowing that I would protect him, but you must not harm yourself again.”

“Overseer Hrothgar? You were there in the counting house when…I can’t remember.” Celebrían looks like she is having difficulty focusing as she repeats, “What happened? Where are my parents?”

“Things will be clearer soon.” Sauron gently presses her to the mattress before turning to Adar to give instructions. “Escort them out. Keep the whore away from my queen.” 

Galadriel is sick at the notion of leaving her child with Sauron, and she is not alone; Adar immediately offers to stay and nurse her. “You need not burden yourself with the drudgery of the sickbed.” 

Moved by the suggestion (and completely missing that it was made to protect Celebrían rather than give him a respite from his nonexistent hardships), Sauron takes Adar’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply. The Uruk goes blank-faced at his touch, but Curumo doesn’t notice. “I did well to name you Neidragh, for you are precious to me. Tis no hindrance to care for my child. Now go, my sweet. It would not do to send all of you into slumber. Artanis may return when the song is done to bid our daughter fair dreams. It will be pleasing to witness such a scene.”

Adar holds out his arm to Galadriel, and she reluctantly allows herself to be led away. The closing of the door leaves her with a horrible feeling of distance. She wants to bundle Celebrían to safety. Yet she had tried to do so once before and failed. What success could she hope to have now? Even if it were possible, her daughter has no reason to trust her anymore.

“Forgive me,” Adar whispers, and squeezes her hand sympathetically. He intimately knows the agony of being separated from his children. How can he stand to offer her comfort after all that she has done to his offspring? “I should not have introduced you like that when she was so bewildered.” 

“Don’t apologize. Celebrían isn’t wrong. I’ve not been a mother to her. Perhaps it was better that way. I have dealt out so much death that I am not fit to touch her.” Galadriel wilts to the floor, her breath hitching as her vision narrows. The Doom of Mandos echoes in her head. “Tears unnumbered ye shall shed. For blood ye shall render blood…It is only just that she whose hands have murdered your children should be severed from her own child.” 

“I do not name it that,” Adar tells her gently, “and we have both committed sins. I’m not so arrogant that I claim to define justice, but I know what it is not. Anything that makes innocent children suffer for the trespasses of their parents can never be called thus.” 

Calloused fingers hesitantly brush against the back of her palm. Galadriel looks up to see Mairon. It’s strange to think that he helped sing the world into existence, for there is nothing unfathomable in him, nothing to strike either awe or fear. His green eyes hold untold suffering but also great kindness. 

“When Celebrían was seven, I made an offhand remark about the intricacy of Noldorin braids, and she begged to be taught how to replicate them. Her father didn’t know much about it, but I learned a little from captives in Angband. They told me that Finarfin’s house favored five-stranded techniques. I was never certain if it was an exact match, but Celeborn promised her that it was a good replica of the styles you favored in the early days of Beleriand. Whenever her hair was long enough, Celebrían wore that style. She did it every chance she had until we were brought here. Simply because it made her feel close to you.”     

The squeeze upon her lungs eases fractionally. Celebrían cared enough to try and honor some of her mother’s heritage. Galadriel doesn’t deserve that comfort, but she is grateful for it all the same. “You know my daughter.” 

It’s a statement, not a question. She had never been as rigid with Noldorin customs as her kin. Galadriel usually preferred to find a middle ground between Noldor and Sindar practices. She and Celeborn spoke of what rituals they wanted to pass on to their child when she conceived. Galadriel was not so stiff-necked that she wouldn’t allow people to touch Celebrían’s hair at all, but braiding was a different matter. Celeborn would never allow a stranger that intimacy if he could help it. He must have counted Mairon as family.         

“We met in Rhûn,” Mairon offers shyly. “When she was a baby, Celebrían and her father were purchased by the same household that owned me. We lived together above the smithy.” 

“Purchased,” she repeats flatly. Sauron mentioned thralldom, but she hadn’t truly heard it until this moment. Galadriel remembers the Dark Lord’s crass comments to Mairon and feels bile creep up her throat.  

“Celebrían practiced accounting, inventory, and record-keeping,” he rushes to reassure her. “They didn’t—it wasn’t pleasant—but those were her only duties.”

Galadriel covers her eyes with a hand, hiccupping a relieved sob. Without intending it, she buries her burning face into his chest. She feels Mairon stiffen and curses herself for not asking permission first. Then his tension eases, and he gives her a tentative pat on the back. Sitting across from them, Adar makes a noise to remind them both of his presence. They break apart and find tears on each other’s faces. The Uruk helps Mairon to his feet. “We should get you out of here before he returns. I’ll bring word on how Celebrían fares in a few hours.”

“Thank you, my friend.” The two indulge in a heartfelt embrace that suggests they share a long history. It’s unsurprising, given that they both spent many years in Angband. Galadriel’s curiosity is whetted. This Maia is intimately connected to many people in her life, and it gives them a strange sort of bond.   

Before he leaves, Mairon nervously bites his lip. “I can’t imagine how anxious you must be feeling. I want to assist, but I also don’t wish to overstep…”

Half of Galadriel does want to snap and territorially snarl over her daughter. The other half wants to bless him for the devotion he clearly showers on her. He risked the wrath of Morgoth’s most feared lieutenant to provide a better recovery for Celebrían. “I would welcome your help.”

Mairon gives her a small smile of thanks. “Celebrían tends to be cautious, though Eru knows there is a streak of impulsiveness buried under her pragmatism.” His expression is one of affectionate exasperation before it turns serious again. “All she has ever wanted is to know you. There is no need to offer grand gestures. Just be there for her, and you will find your way back to each other.” 

His advice rings through her head as Sauron leads her back into the chamber. She sits at the side of her daughter's bed and ignores the grasping hands at her shoulders. Celebrían stares up at her in a daze, though she doesn’t seem afraid. Galadriel asks, “May I sit with you?”

Celebrían frowns as her sluggish mind tries to puzzle out the request through a fog of sorcery. She gives Galadriel a long once-over before nestling against the pillows. As she drifts back to sleep, she murmurs, “You can stay. I don’t know why, but you make me feel safe.”

Maglor was right. Hearts are not easy to break. For the first time in nearly an age, it makes Galadriel rejoice. 

___________________

Gil-Galad has faced many trials over the course of his life. These include, but are not limited to, the sinking of a continent and the tantrums of two renegade Ainur who decided to (both jointly and separately) style themselves as the Dark Lords of Middle Earth. 

Tinweriel cries mournfully, and Ereinion thinks that all his experience has left him distinctly ill-prepared. With no small amount of desperation, he checks her swaddling. Upon finding it dry, he offers up a skin of milk, which is firmly rejected for another piercing scream. 

“Is that the battle alarm that I hear?” Gil-Galad turns to find Celebrían leaning against the doorframe. Crossing her arms across her chest, she grins in amusement. “No, it’s just the High King of the Noldor suffering defeat at the hands of a six-month-old.” 

Nerves already frayed, Ereinion doesn’t bother to hide his glare. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? The Blue Mountains, mayhaps? If not, I will settle for something that will keep your tongue in check.”

Confronting Tinweriel’s bellowing with a breezy confidence that he secretly envies, she offers him a salacious grin and waggles her eyebrows. “Unfortunately for you, my husband is unable to oblige. He’s working with Sedril tonight.” 

“Must you?” Ereinion complains, and while the revulsion is not feigned, much of his ire drains. Celebrían utters the words ‘my husband’ with awe. Like the knowledge makes her dizzy. Elrond always sounds the same. She makes him incandescently happy. Whenever they are together, Gil-Galad can see the shadows lift from his eyes. 

Ignoring him, Celebrían approaches the crib and tries all the methods of placation he’s already attempted. “Where are Míriel and Elendil?”

“Taking a much-needed night for themselves.” Donning his sternest expression, the one that he uses on unruly courtiers and renegade Maiar, he authoritatively states, “You are not to disturb their evening. I told them I would take care of their daughter, and I will.” 

Giving a deeply unimpressed look at his airs and graces, she waves a bemused hand at his golden raiment. “This is what you wear to mind a baby?” 

“I did come prepared,” he replies with no small amount of pique. “For your information, these are my least favorite robes.”

“Don’t tell me that you kept an outfit with a loose thread? Or even—” she clutches her hand to her chest in scandal “—a ragged hem?”

As a matter of fact, he had consigned this particular ensemble to the discard pile after noticing that the edges were beginning to run thin. Glaring, he reminds himself not to clench his jaw. The last thing he needs in the midst of this situation is a migraine. “Are you here to help or merely to prove your status as a nuisance? If it’s the latter, you could have saved yourself a walk. You’ve been a brat since birth.”

“As opposed to the years you spent learning how to be a ponce?” Celebrían reaches down to pick the baby up and rub soothing circles into her back. The action does nothing to abate Tinweriel’s misery. If anything, her screams become louder. “Poor thing! I would cry too if my Ada and Naneth left me all alone with such a foolish peacock.” 

He’s unsure if he should be more upset at her disparaging his intellect or his love for finery. “I don’t see you having any success in quieting her either, o wise one.”

“Because you haven’t asked nicely.” 

Tinweriel’s cries indicate increasing distress. It makes him reconsider his initial impulse to ask Celebrían to leap off the Falls of Lindon. Sighing in defeat, Gil-Galad bites out, “Most gracious lady. I humbly request that you deign to end this poor child’s suffering.” 

“Very well.” After giving him a sarcastic half-curtsey, she deftly places the baby into his unsuspecting arms. Almost immediately, Tinweriel makes herself comfortable and goes quiet. While he stands in stunned silence, Celebrían picks up the milk and holds it to Tinweriel’s lips. The baby placidly drinks, and Gil-Galad is too relieved to take umbrage at the smug superiority written across Celebrían’s features. “She wanted to be held, idiot.” 

Ereinion blinks down at the baby in his arms. Satisfied with her meal, Tinweriel pushes the bottle away and occupies herself by playing with the ends of his hair. “You were holding her not a moment ago. Why should she prefer me?”

Without warning, Celebrían reaches out and flicks his nose. 

Evidently finding this hilarious, Tinweriel indulges in a full-bodied giggle. For just a moment, Gil-Galad could swear that she raises her arm to imitate the action. It’s no wonder that Freyja kicked him in the shin at their first meeting after growing up with Celebrían as an example. He instinctively moves his face out of range just to be safe. 

“It’s a good thing that the title of High King is doled out by primogeniture instead of wisdom.” Celebrían indulges herself with an eyeroll and coos down at the child, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure that you didn’t inherit your Atto’s dimwittedness.” 

Gil-Galad is so stunned by Celebrían’s words that he stammers out, “Atto?”

“You’re married to her parents.” 

“Yes, but—”

“You’re helping to raise her.” 

“Yes, but—”

Relentless, Celebrían states with devastating simplicity, “You love her.” 

“I can’t,” he says desperately. From the cradle of his arms, Tinweriel stares up at him in utter trust. What else can children do when they are this small and helpless? They are left no other recourse but to place themselves in the hands of others. Blissfully unaware of the danger.

In the midst of his panic, Ereinion feels a soft squeeze on his arm. That, more than anything, startles him enough to inject a modicum of calm into the situation. 

Of course, Celebrían possesses a tender side. He’s seen how she interacts with Elrond and her parents. Yet that has never been the way that she and Gil-Galad communicate. Instead, they tell each other hard truths couched in acerbic humor. They commiserate over having hot tempers and bond over the misery of circumstances that consistently force them to swallow their rage. Occasionally, they let one another glimpse the thorny things they keep hidden from the world. 

Softness isn’t usually part of their rapport. 

“I understand. Family can be the greatest of comforts, but it is also a vulnerability. There is a reason why the most lucrative slavers prefer to take whole families captive. I think I was three years old when the overseer started to refer to me as the w-wh-”, she grimaces in frustration as she gets stuck. 

Sedril has theorized that there are certain phrases associated with trauma which cause speech to become blocked. For the most part, Celebrían cleverly avoids using words that plague her, but it’s not always possible. In those instances, she switches to signing. Ereinion doesn’t completely understand this secret language, so Celebrían has to repeat the motions a few times, but eventually he deciphers what she’s trying to say.   

Nauseated, he instinctively pulls Tinweriel closer. Someone looked at Celebrían when she was not much older than the child currently nestled in his arms and called her ‘The Whore’s Shackle.’ Small wonder she expresses naught but indifference for her thrall name when this was the alternative. Carefully covering the baby’s ears, Gil-Galad flatly says in Westeron, “I am not paid enough, nor am I qualified, to deal with that level of fucked up.”

Grinning, she replies as if her linguistic stumble never occurred, “You get paid?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” he snorts. “However, as High King, I do have access to a great many soldiers. If you would like an escort to Rhûn to spit on his grave, I am more than happy to oblige.” 

“Too late. The day after he died, I switched his ashes for dirt and sprinkled his remains in the chamberpots of the slave barracks.” 

“Remind me never to make you angry.” 

“Don’t worry, you’re safe.” She gives him a smug smile of satisfaction as she recalls her actions. “You do not insult the people that I love.” 

It’s concerning that at some time in her life, she decided it was perfectly fine to be verbally degraded as long as the abuse didn’t spread to include her family. Elrond would probably hold her and tell her how much she didn’t deserve it until the message gets through her thick skull. But Gil-Galad is not Elrond. If he tried to do something like that, Celebrían would plant her boot somewhere decidedly uncomfortable. 

Instead, he comments, “Safe? Tell that to my favorite set of robes. I know it was you who told Freyja to hide that kitten in my closet. It clawed right through the fabric and left its fur everywhere. You somehow manage to enchant every child you meet. Probably because you never grew up. You’re still that spoiled baby who used to smack me with her rattle.”

“Not all of us emerge from the womb as curmudgeonly old ellons.” Using her forefinger, she playfully pokes at the baby’s belly. “Would you like a rattle, Tinweriel? I bet we could convince Aratto Celebrimbor to craft you a pretty one made out of some very dense metal.”  

“Will you stop corrupting the youth if I concede defeat for the day?”

“Very well. I suppose there ought to be at least two children from this new generation who behave properly. Shutha is capable of managing Freyja on her own, but I think she would like assistance on occasion.” 

Tinweriel distracts them from their conversation with a stream of happy babble. Celebrían traces her cheek fondly before very quietly adding, “I said that I understood your fears, and I truly do. All the same, there is this old Rhûnic proverb that sometimes gets stuck in my head. ‘Three things that are worse than sorrow: to wait to die and die not, to try to please and please not, to wait for someone who comes not.’”

At her words, a vivid memory springs to life behind his eyes. Of trying to hold back tears as he asked why his Ada and Atto never wanted to see him. Círdan told him that his fathers loved him too much to put him in danger, but Artanáro always secretly wondered if there was something wrong with him that made them keep their distance. “They weren’t wrong.” 

Unable to meet his gaze, Celebrían focuses on the child. “Tinweriel won’t have an easy path in life. You know the gossip-mongering in the court better than anyone. Ereinion, promise me you won’t let her grow up doubting your love.”

With the benefit of hindsight, Gil-Galad can say that his parents did love him. However, this revelation is very recent. He struggled with his doubts for untold years, and to his great shame, he allowed Elrond and Elros to live with those same uncertainties. As he looks at Tinweriel, Gil-Galad knows that he has to do better. 

“I promise.”

No child of the House of Finwë swears an oath lightly. 

 ___________________

Aging isn’t exactly a graceful process. Astrid’s joints ache, and her back likes to remind her that she has given birth when she bends down. It takes much longer for her to recover from injuries that she wouldn’t have noticed in her youth. Yet her mind is as sharp as ever. No hint of dotage confuses her wits (something she always feared), and she rather likes the look of her hair gone completely silver. In their conversations, she enjoys teasing Celebrían that they truly look like siblings now. 

There is the matter of her anger. It is Astrid’s constant companion. She will never forget the white-hot rage that engulfed her as she endured watching others be punished for her so-called transgressions. 

Perhaps she should lament her lack of forgiveness…but she does not. In all likelihood, anger is the price of her clear memory, and she finds the cost is not so steep. Let better people and kinder hearts debate the qualities of mercy. Astrid is content to carry her feelings to Eru and whatever fate He determines for her when she leaves this life.

Astrid knows that departure approaches on steady feet. She can sense it in the way her heart slows and then suddenly skips a beat at random intervals. At least in this there is no bodily pain, and nothing (thank the One) that a healer could try to cut out of her. It’s just a gradual, lengthening languidness.

A consequence of her increasing years is that she needs to sleep more often. One afternoon, she closes her eyes and hears his call. 

‘Come to me.’ 

The words are both an entreaty and an order. Astrid knows she is dreaming. It does not detract from the reality of the situation. 

Sauron stands before her, looking exactly as he had the last time she saw him: ageless, terrifying, and beautiful. In comparison, Astrid cannot be considered youthful. She carries a handsome maturity now and does not regret that time and experience have left their marks. Sauron is astonished at the sight of her. Amused, Astrid takes a moment to savor rendering the Dark Lord speechless.

Unflinchingly, Astrid observes, “I have grown old.”

He reaches out his hand to caress her cheek. Astrid does not want to feel it. She doesn’t ever want his hands on her again. Not the fatherly embraces, the infantilizing pats to her head, or the yanking as he pulled her hair into the painful styles that always made her head ache. 

Then the strangest thing happens. His movement stops.

Mairon’s advice comes rushing back to her. ‘In dreams, the worst that Sauron can do is create confusion and fear. Though he may attempt to convince you otherwise, he cannot take control unless you let him.’

Sauron stiffens as his advance halts. Astrid grins, feeling a malicious anticipation creep up her spine. As she expects, he immediately resorts to words. They’re the only weapons that he has in this place. “I came when you called. I will always answer your prayers, my daughter.”

Schooling her features, Astrid replies, “I think I do want you here.”

Something like wild elation ripples through the Dark Lord’s face and form. “I can put it right. Reverse the effects of time. Restore the glory of your beauty and keep you at my side for time immemorial. All you have to do is come to me—”    

With quiet aplomb, she flatly tells him, “No.” 

Whatever monologue he had been winding up to deliver is cut off as he blinks at her in shock. His mouth actually opens and closes a few times like a gaping fish. Astrid doesn’t hold back her laughter this time, which only perplexes him further. Eventually, he stammers, “What?”

“I said ‘no’. Which should be a complete sentence in its own right, but let me elaborate: No, I do not want to join you or take you up on an offer to practice some obscene version of necromancy on me. I certainly don’t want to spend any time in your company, much less all of eternity. Honestly, I almost pity the wraiths who must endure your presence. It’s a bed of their own making, but what a miserable bargain.”

“You let me in,” Sauron scrambles for a way to soothe himself. “You said that you wanted me here.” 

“True,” Astrid replies. She braces her foot the same way her son does when he practices training with spears. They would place one leg behind them to put extra strength behind their blows. “I wanted you here so that I could tell you that when I die, I will join my creator. In doing so, I place myself permanently out of your reach.” 

The veins around his eyes turn pitch-black as Sauron hisses, “How dare you speak to your father in this manner?” 

Pointing her finger at the imperious expression on his face, Astrid savagely cries, “You still can’t see it!”

A ripple of disquiet goes through him as her vehemence gives him pause. 

“After all these years, I cannot claim to have a perfect handle on my temper, but I was a rougher thing in my youth,” Astrid continues. “I would have been tempted if you offered me power. Back then, I was desperate to have a modicum of control over my own life. An offer to make me one of your riders might have bound us together. Instead, you decided to turn me into a helpless little doll and ensured my loathing forever. You are painfully lacking in insight for the Great Foe’s highest-ranking servant. I hate you to the pit of all things.”   

Crossing her arms over her chest in a moment of shame, Astrid gives a bitter laugh. “The irony is that I’d have made a very successful warlord.” 

“What have they done?” Sauron speaks in genuine concern, though the undercurrent of threat remains. “This isn’t you, Astrid. Please come home. I can fix it if you’ll only return to me.”

“On the contrary, this is exactly who I am,” Astrid spits.  

His worry calcifies into something a little more calculating. Even after years of living safe and free from his control, Astrid can still recognize what is coming, and she immediately heads it off, “Don’t bother with threatening others. There is no one left for you to use against me.”   

“My husband will follow me in the Gift of Men.” 

In their last conversation, Isildur told her she had been the grace of his life. Astrid fondly teased that at her age, it felt slightly embarrassing that phrases like that could still make her weak in the knees. 

“My son is dead.”

This is a bald-faced lie. Sauron has no way of knowing that her beloved Valandil is thriving in Imladris. 

“My remaining loved ones are safely ensconced in Elven realms where you are barred entry.”

As is Astrid herself. 

“In truth, I pity Celebrían and the rest who must wait for your downfall to be safe. It is the only thing which dims my joy at rejoining the One.”

“How can you value an uncertain fate over eternity by my side?”

Indulging herself in an eyeroll, Astrid flatly retorts, “I value almost everyone in the world over you. Even if I were to be met with oblivion upon my death, it would still be a paradise compared to the alternative you offer.”

Around them, the landscape within her dream turns to a barren wasteland of ice and bleak snow. It’s everything that she hated about her birthplace. In the distance, Astrid can just discern a pack of wolves tearing someone apart. The animals never killed a living person to her knowledge, but the dead were another matter. The ground in the north was usually frozen and stony, making burial rites impossible. No slave or indentured person ever received a true funeral, but until Magnus’s time they could at least have the dignity of a pyre. The former chieftain declared that slaves with unsatisfactory service would be left out like carrion. It gave her nightmares as a child.         

Naturally, Sauron would call upon such imagery as an intimidation tactic. Heart lodged in her throat, Astrid forces her breathing to remain steady. As is always the case, rage follows the heels of her fear. Its heat chases away the shivers running down her spine. 

“You will come to me!” he screams, as a gale of wind carrying a thousand tiny crystals of ice strikes her. Though she thinks she feels her skin sting and bleed, she knows that the true attack is actually on her mind. 

Closing her eyes, Astrid determinedly remembers her weaving room in Minas Ithil. The way warm sunlight shone through the colored glass cast shadows on the floor. The smell of clean cloth. The feel of thread between her fingers.

A warm breeze tickles comfortingly over her skin. In the blink of an eye, the miserable scenery of the north is swiftly replaced by the comfort of her old sanctuary. In a reverie, Astrid walks to her loom and sits. She warps and wefts with the deftness of an action performed countless times. Upon closer inspection, she realizes her skin is unlined, and a glance downward reveals that her hair is dark again with no hint of silver to stand as testament to her years. 

Like all dreams, her visions shift to accommodate the impulses of her whimsy. The strands lengthen and spread to encompass the entire room. They’re so fine she can only spy them when the light hits them in a certain way. 

More than anything, Astrid feels as if she were a spider at the center of a large web connected to each gossamer line. The comparison does not displease her. She rather likes the notion of being akin to something that made Morgoth himself quake in terror. 

With the utmost care, familiar hands embrace her shoulders and slip down to fondly rub her arms. “You never can resist a large project. The more complicated the better.”

Astrid leans back against Isildur’s form. “One of us has to demonstrate a little follow-through or our kingdom will descend into chaos.” 

“There is nothing more important than dedication to order,” Isildur whispers into her ear. 

Dread makes her skin turn clammy. She rigidly turns and stares at a phantom. Isildur looks the same as he had the day they met, and it’s utterly wrong. This is the husband of her youth, not the one who has aged beside her (albeit more slowly). 

Outraged, she hisses, “You’re not him.”

“No,” Sauron admits with a small smile. He doesn’t appear to be angry at being found out. Rather, he’s almost proud. It’s vile to see Sauron wearing that beloved face. “Yet I can return him to his former state. He will stand beside you whole and ageless.” 

Curling her lips into a sneer, Astrid says, “Still the fool. Isildur and I grew together. I dearly love the man that he became. To reject that aspect of him is to spit on my marriage. Do you really think that I would consent to his torment? I scorn your monstrous offer.”

The wraith’s face contorts hideously. It’s less of a grin and more an exposure of teeth. “Yet, I do not think you are as content with the Doom of Men as you profess. Can you really stand to leave nothing behind as proof of your existence?"

Summoning the threads at her fingers, Astrid feels them vibrate in readiness to do her bidding. At her command, the strands wind about his body, making Sauron cry out in shock as he is forced to his knees.   

“Relinquish the form,” she commands. When he delays, she tightens the webs and watches in satisfaction as black blood oozes from the cuts that spring from his flesh. 

Gradually, his hair fades into the ruby tresses she remembers, his brown eyes brighten to an electric blue, and his skin pales with an unhealthy pallor. “Astrid, please. I will not let you disappear. Stay with me.” 

“As you wish.” Astrid approaches and yanks on a handful of his hair, forcing him to look up at her. “These words shall be your chains. They will entangle you forever. When your end comes, it will be my curse echoing in your head and my lines which are your undoing. Until that day…I will never let you go.”

She leaves him behind with his pleas still echoing in her ears and a smile on her lips. She is more his daughter than he imagined. 

For once, Astrid finds the thought satisfying.   

___________________

Planning for the birth of one’s grandchildren is a strange experience. 

In Beleriand, Galadriel had no mother to catch her babe as she slipped from her body, no brothers to raise songs of greeting, no proud great-grandfather to welcome this newest scion in his line. Her few remaining loved ones did their best. Celebrimbor forged her daughter jewels worthy of Noldorin royalty, Gil-Galad sang over her cradle, and Celeborn planted trees in the traditions of Doriath. It meant a great deal to Galadriel, but it wasn’t the same as having her immediate family present.  

When Celebrían told her family that she was with child, Galadriel gloried at the thought of giving her daughter all that she herself had lacked. It was an unexpected announcement. She hadn’t been sure whether Celebrían would choose to have children at all. 

Every time she recalls their first discussion on the matter, Galadriel feels a complex rush of happiness and self-loathing. As Mairon predicted, mother and daughter reconnected over the years, but nothing could return that lost time to them. It led to a certain level of vigilance between them which neither quite knew how to overcome. Celebrían never calls her fathers ‘Adar’ or ‘Atar’. Instead, she uses the diminutives ‘Ada’ and ‘Atya’. Galadriel is perpetually addressed with a formal ‘Naneth’ that burrows under her skin like a splinter. 

Her happiness came not from seeing Celebrían upset, but rather from her seeking Galadriel’s comfort before all others. Likewise, her guilt festered from the knowledge that no good mother should feel pleased at the sight of their child’s tears.    

Celebrían rushed into her chambers in Lothlórien one evening. She had travelled without sleeping to reach their realm. Burying her face in her mother’s skirts, she sobbed miserably. In her defense, Galadriel’s immediate instinct was not so selfish. Rather, it was to hunt down whoever had made her daughter cry and stick a blade into them. “Kemen and his husband came to visit us in Imladris.”

The statement made Galadriel pause. Usually Celebrían and Kemen got along very well. She couldn’t imagine them having a disagreement that would provoke this kind of response in her daughter. “Did something happen? An accident of some sort? Or has someone with a grudge against Pharazôn acted against him?”

“No, they’re fine.” It took her a long moment to smother her sobs to a manageable level. Galadriel used the opportunity to maneuver them both to a nearby couch. The moment she settled, Celebrían immediately replaced her head on her mother’s knee. “They’ve adopted a little girl.”

Running her fingers through Celebrían’s hair, she gently prodded, “That seems like a reason for celebration.” 

“Yes,” her daughter drew the word out with anguish. 

Realizing that she needed to use a cautious reproach to get an explanation, Galadriel started with a benign question, “Kemen kept the news very quiet. I didn’t even know that they were considering taking in a child. It must have been quite a challenge to silence a gossip like Isildur on the subject.”

Despite herself, Celebrían gave a watery chuckle. “Astrid threatened to make him sleep on the floor for six months if he let anything slip. Kemen said they wanted a little breathing room to bond with their daughter before everyone started passing judgment. Some people still blame him for his father’s misdeeds. A smaller collective dislikes his spouse’s gender; certain factions in Númenor disapprove of such unions. Both groups have opinions on his suitability to raise a child.” 

At that, Galadriel released an impatient noise. “I wish I could say that the Eldar are better, but when I think of all the prejudice Celebrimbor endured after Nargathrond, it makes the argument very flimsy. In any case, where did the girl come from?” 

It was clear that Galadriel’s strategy to ease into the discussion bore fruit because Celebrían’s breathing slowed. “She is a foundling left at the Houses of Healing in Minas Ithil.” 

“Is the child healthy?”

“Part of the reason for their visit was that they wanted Sedril to confirm that she is hale. Merenel is as thriving as any parent could wish. She’s just begun to walk.”

Humming, Galadriel stated, “I remember when Freyja learned. She was into everything. We had a merry chase on several occasions.” 

“It’s the same with Merenel. Somehow she found her way into Maglor’s rooms and got her hands on his psaltery. Naturally, he was delighted and gifted it to her, saying he wanted to encourage a young musician in the making. She adored it. Later I found Elrond teaching her how to pluck the strings, and I thought…”, her sentence trailed off as her distress grew palpable.

Galadriel rubbed small, comforting circles into her daughter's scalp. “What did you think?”

“I thought that he would be such a good father,” Celebrían’s voice cracked. Galadriel felt tears soak into the light fabric of her sleeping shift but paid it no heed. “I could picture those children so clearly in my mind’s eye. Only Elrond would want me to be their mother.” 

“Given that you are married, that would seem a natural conclusion,” Galadriel said in a conversational tone. “I take it that you hadn’t considered this before now?”

Shaking her head, Celebrían curled in on herself as much as the cushions allowed. “Nanneth, I’m afraid.”

If Celebrían never shared the exact nature of her fears with Galadriel, she didn’t open up to Celeborn or Mairon either. Possibly the only person she confided in was Elrond, who showed up a few hours later looking deeply concerned. In any other situation, Galadriel would have scolded them both for travelling when the threat of Sauron’s reemergence was growing. As it stood, her daughter’s unhappiness was so keen that she held her tongue. 

The matter was seemingly forgotten until she and her husbands received an invitation to dwell in Imladris for the length of their daughter’s pregnancy. The whole realm was giddy at the thought of new children to dote upon, but sometimes Galadriel thought that she could see the shadow of doubt in her daughter’s eyes. 

They’re picnicking near a secluded waterfall in one of Rivendell’s valleys when Adar brings them the news that Celebrían’s trials have begun. Aghast, she gathers up her things. “This wasn’t supposed to happen yet.” Galadriel’s own delivery had been long overdue. They were meant to have more time.

“Babies don’t consult calendars,” Adar remarks in bemusement, then his expression turns serious. “Celebrían didn’t want to worry you unduly, but in the last half hour she began to ask for you.”

Galadriel picks up her skirts and runs for the house and the Healer’s Wing where she can hear her daughter's cries echoing. Adar must have kept pace with her because he stops her before she can burst through the door. “Galadriel, I will not lie to you. Things are not going apace. Celebrían is fighting this birth, and it’s exhausting her. I don’t think she’s in danger yet, but she needs to start working with her body instead of against it.”

Blood turning to ice, Galadriel feels Míriel þerindë’s fate looming like a specter. Beyond the wooden door, she hears Celebrían beg, “Please—get my mother…I want my mother.” 

Inside, her daughter is sitting sweat-soaked on the floor, propped against the side of a bed as Elrond breathes words of comfort into her ear. When Celebrían spots Galadriel, she weeps in relief. Sedril, who is administering to her, looks between mother and daughter keenly and says, “Adar, please take Elrond on a walk. Do not return for at least a quarter of an hour.” 

Though he is loath to leave his wife, Elrond also understands that Celebrían needs this time with her mother. He extracts promises from the healer that she will inform him of any change and reluctantly allows himself to be led away. Once they are gone, Galadriel clutches her child, “I’m here.”

A contraction wracks her daughter’s form. Adar was correct; she isn’t pushing hard enough. She isn’t pushing at all. When the fit passes, Celebrían whimpers a single word that slips between Galadriel’s ribs, “Nana.”

Tears springing to her eyes, Galadriel makes comforting noises as her daughter groans through another convulsion. Once she catches her breath, she raggedly says, “I’m afraid. I thought that I was past this—Elrond and I talked about it—but now I don’t want them to come out.”

“Why, my heart?” 

“He will want to s-st,” Celebrían releases a scream of frustration. Her fingers sign ‘steal them’ before forming claws that grip the nearby bedpost. “You know that he will. They’ll be used against me, the way that I was against you, Ada, and Atya. Even if it is not the Dark Lord, countless others would seize them if given an opportunity.” 

“Never,” Galadriel’s voice is as cold as the ice upon the Helcaraxë.

“You can’t know that. Nobody can be sure of such a thing.” 

“Listen to me.” Galadriel brings their faces together until their foreheads touch. “For I swear it in the name of Eru Ilúvatar: I will never let anyone take your children from you.”

Momentarily distracted from her bodily pain. Celebrían gapes at her mother in desperate hope and horror. “Nana…”

“Do you believe me?”

That her mother should make such an Oath for her sake after living through the horrors of the First Age steals the breath from Celebrían’s lungs. “How can I not?”

“Why can’t the House of Finwë talk out their issues like normal people? Everything has to be an extreme,” Sedril complains. Holding her hand out to Celebrían, she raises a single brow. “These children cannot be safely born unless you put your will behind it.”

Marshalling her courage, Celebrían nods and lets the healer guide her onto her hands and knees. “You’ll stay, mother?”

“I won’t leave you.”        

“Then I’m ready,” Celebrían says between gritted teeth as she bears another wave of pain. “Can someone fetch Elrond?” 

Within the hour, Galadriel guides her first grandchild into the world with her own hands and stares down at him in reverence as her daughter labors with his sibling. Holding him close, she muses aloud, “Far more precious than a Silmaril.” 

All of Imladris rejoices at the announcement of Elladan and Elrohir’s safe arrival. The Uruks gleefully light celebratory bonfires in their corner of the realm. Celebrimbor carves two cradles with the most delicate and intricate engravings, cheerfully commenting, “I never had the chance to practice my mother’s craft. Woodworking made me feel very close to her. I’m happy to have done it. The gold and silver on the sides was provided to me long ago by King Durin and Queen Disa. They wanted to give Elrond one last gift before they passed.”

Celeborn plants two identical trees and trains the branches low so that the whole family can pick their fruit together. Mairon sings the songs of the Ainur into their ears and proudly boasts of being a grandfather to anyone who gets close enough to listen. Their Númenorian kin make mobiles out of seashells. They hang tapestries woven by Astrid (before her passing) on the walls of the nursery. 

“Surprise, it’s twins!” Celebrían says when she brings the children to Gil-Galad’s memorial. She carefully dips each of her babies' hands in ink and presses them against the commemorative monument. Celebrían sews blankets from his golden robes to keep her boys warm. Gil-Galad and Astrid are gone, but they will always be a part of their lives.  

Somewhere in Mordor, a shadow is growing, but Galadriel deliberately casts aside all thoughts of Sauron. He has no place in these revels or in this family. She doesn’t consider her Oath to be a burden. Invoking Eru requires nothing from her that she wouldn’t already do for her loved ones. 

No life can be without regrets, but her promise to her daughter will never be one of them.   

___________________

Thranduil does not make it a habit to meddle in Noldor affairs. (Mordor was a one-off.) At least, that was what he told himself when Mithrandir bounded into his realm, as bold as brass, and demanded that he aid in rescuing the Lady of Imladris from the clutches of the Dark Lord. 

The problem was that Thranduil hadn’t counted on the children. Twin boys, barely into their adolescence, who should have never been able to travel to Eryn Galen on their own, much less make their way inside his supposedly impregnable stronghold. 

Neither child understood the significance of the court being dressed in lilac. Or the dried and whithered crown of branches perched atop Thranduil’s head. How could they recognize these signs of mourning when Elwing was severed from her people at such a young age? Her sons did not have the chance to discover those customs for themselves before they were taken to live among the Noldor. 

The boys fiercely claim that they will rescue their mother on their own if none will accompany them. Yet behind the bluster is a vulnerability that Thranduil has seen in his own son. 

Not that he has had much company with Legolas recently. Ever since Calendis died, Thranduil could not bear to look upon their child and see the reflection of his failures and losses. Better to give him over to the care of Lithon (the steward, a relic of Oropher’s court). At times, he isn’t certain that he wants to stay anchored in his own body. He still does not feel a call to the sea, but the temptation to join his wife is strong. Surely, Legolas would be better off without a father who could not even keep his family safe?      

Perhaps that’s why the twins tug on Thranduil’s conscience. That and their connection to Doriath. They are the scions of Lúthien herself. When they were first brought before him, he looked for marks of that lineage. Though he had been a child at the time, he could still remember the striking nature of the Princess. Elladan and Elrohir have the dark hair and grey eyes common in Melian’s descendants, but what they truly inherited from Lúthien was her temper. Not that Thingol ever let himself see that aspect of his daughter’s nature. 

Celebrían is also Thranduil’s kin. Though only through marriage on her father’s side. He met her once, though she likely didn’t remember it. They were never properly introduced in the final days of the Last Alliance. Things were extremely tense. Everyone could sense that an end was approaching. Then Celebrían arrived at their encampment in Mordor. Hearing her family’s protests, she responded with a single sentence, “Everyone that I love is here.” 

The passionate embrace she shared with her husband silenced the rumors that Celebrían wed Elrond out of pity. There were immediate rumblings about her lack of shame, but Thranduil silently admired her unapologetic devotion. It made him yearn for Calendis. 

Part of the reason his father brought his only heir along on such a dangerous campaign was that he hoped time and distance would sever Thranduil’s growing bond with Calendis. Oropher considered an elleth born in Sirion of a minor courtier from Doriath and a Gondolin refugee to be beneath the hand of his son. 

Nothing could have made Thranduil cast aside Calendis. Nor had he regretted his choice until he lost her. Then he wondered if anything was worth the hideous pain that savaged him every moment. 

Would he really condemn another person to live with such agony if he were able to prevent it? He remembered the way that Elrond looked at Celebrían, as if his entire world hinged on her. In the end, his pleas were what finally convinced her to return to Lindon. Could he sentence these frightened, angry boys to the same motherless fate that Legolas must face?

In the end, he agreed to offer assistance. He isn’t sure how Mithrandir managed to convince the twins to remain in Eryn Galen, but he is grateful that they are not present to see her at Dol Goldur. While the Istari wove spells to distract Sauron, Thranduil and his guards raided the fortress. Eventually, they discovered Celebrían locked in a luxurious room. Rigid and unmoving. The sight smote Thranduil’s heart and froze his limbs. They were too late. 

Is this how Calendis looked at the end? Try as they might, they were never able to discover her body. The only indication of her passing had been the void where their marriage bond once existed. 

Thranduil’s artificer rushes forward and immediately begins to examine the unnaturally pale form. After several tense moments, he says, “She lives, my king.”

“How?” Thranduil asks doubtfully. “Her eyes are closed. She doesn’t even look as if she is breathing.” 

Pulling out a small silver knife, the healer holds it close to Celebrían’s lips and then pulls it away. The blade is lightly fogged. “The thread of life is thin, but I promise you that it is there. I will have to examine her more closely in the palace, but if I had to guess, I would say that Sauron has been experimenting with spider venom. It’s possible he combined it with dark magic."

Unable to help himself, Thranduil rears back in disgust. Everyone who lived through the Second Age heard the rumors that Sauron named Celebrían and a handful of Edain as his children. How could anyone dare to call themselves a father while practicing such unholy arts upon their own daughter? 

A merciless part of his mind suggests, ‘The sort of father who would foist their son into the care of others so that he can grieve alone?’

Thrusting the thought away, Thranduil orders, “Be as gentle as circumstances allow. We’ll carry her out.”

They spend nearly three hours dodging Sauron’s guards and backtracking their steps. (Thranduil is almost certain that the Dark Lord has placed enchantments about his stronghold to hinder escape.) The second they get Celebrían past the threshold, a resounding scream echoes throughout the forest.

Is it a spell to track any unauthorized exits? Or something more specific to Celebrían? There isn’t much time to contemplate the specifics as they make a mad dash for their mounts and ride away. After an indeterminate amount of time, Mithrandir joins them and urges them to go faster, grimly noting, “He has lost her once before. Sauron will not spare anyone he catches. Radagast and I have done all that we can to attach our signatures to this act of theft. If we are lucky, he’ll never know of your involvement.” 

Elladan and Elrohir rush out to greet them before the party can dismount from their horses. They cry out at the sight of Celebrían as still as death, but Mithrandir soothes them in the gruff manner that is his want. “Your mother is as hard-headed as one would expect of a relation of Finwë and Thingol. Let the healers and I have some time with her and do not interrupt until you are summoned. In the meantime, try not to cause too much mischief in a realm that is not your own. I’m not above informing your mother about any bad behavior.” 

One of the twins is calmed enough by Mithrandir’s words to retort. “Who tells Valinor about all of your mischief? We ought to send reports with the eagles.”

“Manwë’s messengers are not to be used frivolously.” 

“How convenient," the boy teases before releasing a yelp as the old man whacks his shin with his staff.

“Off with you, Elrohir,” Mithrandir cries, though the light of humor in his eyes takes the sting out of the order. Pitching his voice low, the wizard continues, “See to your brother, who I perceive is more uneasy than yourself at these events.” 

Elrohir’s face turns serious, and he slings an arm about his twin’s shoulders. Watching the two together, Thranduil wonders if Legolas has been lonely without the companionship of his mother.

Over the next few days, the Woodland soldiers are on high alert, but there is no retaliatory strike. When Celebrían finally wakes, it takes her a long time to be truly convinced that it isn’t another one of Sauron’s illusions. Afterwards, she insists on spending an hour sequestered with her children before discussing her capture. Thranduil uses the extra time to send letters to the rest of her family informing them that she is safe.

When they are properly introduced, Celebrían raises a single brow at him and notes with a small smirk, “People never shut up about my family’s hair. How in the name of Varda have you managed to dodge having ballads composed about those pretty locks of yours?”  

Bemused despite himself, he remembers how often Lúthien would make faces at him across the dining table in Doriath whenever Daeron started waxing poetic about her hair. As a boy, Thranduil caught quite the scolding because he burst into open laughter when he discovered that she used her tresses as a means of escape from her confinement. “Just exile the first person who tries, and you’ll nip it in the bud.”

Celebrían snorts. “A true genius. What do you do when the songs have already been sung? My mother tried shearing hers to the chin once, and all she got was laments in place of ballads.”

“I’m afraid that you are beyond help,” Thranduil replies archly. “One must be a tyrant about such matters from the beginning.” 

“Alas, I can’t even look forward to starting fresh in Aman. I doubt the Valar or the Noldorin population would appreciate the panic that a second round of exiling would cause.” 

Taking a seat at the foot of her bed, Thranduil considers her carefully. “There is more of the Umanyar about you than I imagined.” 

“Given that you were dealing with Morgoth’s lackeys for so many years without aid, I’ll consider that a compliment.”

“If you’re both quite through coming to the realization that you should have made friends back in the Second Age,” Mithrandir interrupts. “I would like to talk to Celebrían about her experiences in Dol Goldur.”

Releasing a small shiver, Celebrían pulls the bedding closely around her. “Saruman can no longer claim that the Necromancer defiling these woods is a mortal sorcerer. It was Sauron. Even donning a different form, I recognized him, and he certainly knew me in turn.” 

“Tell me everything.”    

“This trap was probably designed for Adar. We received a message supposedly from Uruks in Mordor asking us to provide refuge for their children. Since Adar was in the Gray Havens with Círdan and Glorfindel was busy dealing with a troll problem on our borders, I decided to canvass the area a week early and accidentally stumbled upon the ambush party in the Redhorn Pass. My guards were killed, and I was knocked unconscious.” Celebrían pauses as if she were expecting a rebuke. 

Heaving a weary sigh, the wizard tells her, “I will not chide you for showing compassion.”

From there her narrative goes apace. 

Some of what she shares is bizarre: 

“There is something distinctly wrong about his smell. Nothing alive should carry that scent. I’m not exaggerating when I say that he reeks worse than grave soil. Being in the same room with him is like stumbling upon a rotting corpse.”

Other things make Mithrandir’s eyes gleam with interest: 

“I think Celebrimbor was right when he theorized that Sauron might have damaged his memories when he mutilated his spirit. The bastard was going on and on wishing he could have drawn out his enemy’s death during the Last Alliance, but he couldn’t remember Gil-Galad’s name. I had to remind him several times, and afterwards, he was still conflating him with Fingon. The Dark Lord was absolutely convinced that Gil-Galad cut the ring from his finger. I had more sense than to disabuse him of the notion. Ereinion would have found it hilarious. Anyway, Sauron forced that foul concoction into my veins and my memory went black afterward.” 

A commotion in the hallway distracts them from their discussion. Before anyone can inquire, the twins come bounding in with Lithon trailing behind, citing dictates about ‘behavior ill-fit for a prince’. Thranduil forgot what a drip the old ellon could be. Obviously unperturbed by the protests, Elrohir states, “Legolas wanted to talk to our mother, and we do not need to consult you about it.” 

“You do when you take the prince away from his studies,” Lithon fires back hotly. 

Legolas peeks out from behind Elladan, looking nervous. When Celebrían gives him a welcoming smile, some of his hesitance fades and he falls back on the manners that royal children learn early. “Good day to you, my lady. I am Prince Legolas of Eryn Galen”. 

The words have a distinctive lisp which indicates he has recently lost another tooth. The sound makes Thranduil’s gut clench with pain. In the past, Legolas couldn’t wait to share such monumental milestones with his father. For the first time, it dawns upon Thranduil that his son’s growing will not stop despite the world-destroying loss of Calendis.   

Celebrían presses her hand to her chest and gives as formal a bow as her convalescence allows. Legolas reciprocates the gesture. Alongside the grief, Thranduil feels immense pride in his son. 

“Please call me by my name,” Celebrían says, moving over on the mattress to make room. “Would you like to sit next to me?” 

Legolas inspects her, and apparently she passes muster, for he scrambles onto the bed. “You’re very pretty, but not as pretty as Nana.” 

Lithon looks nearly apoplectic, but Celebrían responds with great solemnity, “I’m sure that no one in Arda is lovelier than your mother.” 

Very pleased that she agrees with his assessment, Legolas snuggles into her side. Thranduil cannot bear the sight. A thousand memories of his wife swamp him. She had been so fiercely protective of their son, snarling at anyone who treated him as a future king instead of a child. 

Lost in his memories, Thranduil doesn’t hear the early part of their conversation, but Legolas draws him out of his musings with a shocking statement, “A few days ago, I heard the guards talking about how you might be dead, and I hoped it was true.”

Everyone stares at the elfling. Lithon turns purple, looking close to fading on the spot. Thranduil can only stare at his son in numb shock. Had his mother’s death altered Legolas so much? 

Unperturbed, Celebrían gently prods, “Can you tell me what ‘dead’ means?”

Proud to be able to explain, Legolas tells her, “It’s when someone goes across the sea. I thought if you were dead that you might have seen my nana. Does she know how much longer she has to stay there? I miss her.” 

Ever since Legolas appeared, Thranduil has been keeping a dubious hold on his emotions. Now they are battering at the gates like an invading army. Had no one taken the time to give his son more than a preliminary explanation of his own loss? Shame courses through his form. What sort of father neglects that duty?    

Celebrían sucks in a breath and locks gazes with Thranduil. Though he deserves it, there is no judgement in her expression. Instead, he sees an unasked question. 

He has no idea how to explain this to his son. Sensing his dilemma, Celebrían wraps an arm around Legolas and silently waves everyone but Thranduil out of the room. Once they are gone, she begins, “This will be very hard to hear, but I want you to know that whatever you feel after you are told will not be wrong: when Elves die, they don’t come back to Middle Earth.”

Legolas’s face crumples. “Naneth isn’t coming back? Ever?”

“I’m so sorry, sweet boy.” 

There are exceptions to the rule. Finrod and Glorfindel returned, but those were unusual circumstances. Celebrían wisely does not try to confuse him. Instead, she just lets him weep. Legolas’ cries feel like physical blows against Thranduil’s body. Celebrían makes soft comforting noises as the boy presses his face against her shoulder and sobs. 

Eventually the shock and all the weeping prove too much for his lungs, and Legolas is reduced to hiccuping gasps. She takes his hands in her own scarred ones and guides him through a few breathing exercises. Being able to focus on something physical appears to steady the child. Once he isn’t in danger of passing out or becoming sick, Celebrían asks, “Would you like to talk about your mother?”

Almost hesitantly, Legolas begins to talk about Calendis; he keeps sending nervous glances at his father until his memories distract him. Then the words become faster-paced, stuck together end-on-end as if he is afraid he’ll be stopped. It hurts Thranduil to hear these recollections, yet there is a strange relief in it too. He has been so focused on his wife’s death that he forgot all the things he loved about her. 

Celebrían is trying to get Legolas to engage with his emotions. She keeps asking how certain memories make him feel, and it begins to dawn on Thranduil that even though his son hadn’t really understood the nature of death, the absence of his mother and the way that his father had withdrawn into grief had hurt and confused him. “Why does everyone have to leave?”

“Your mother loves you very much. That will not stop just because she is in Mandos.” At that, she gives Thranduil a significant stare. “Indeed, you are beloved by both of your parents.” 

Two paths lay at Thranduil’s feet: the first is the most tempting. It leads him away from this life. The second would mean moving forward without Calendis at his side. 

In the days after the death of his wife, the most unbearable thing had been the times when he would instinctively reach for her and be met with a void. Times when his body forgot, even when his mind resounded with the knowledge. Something instinctively tells Thranduil that if he chooses the first path, he will be barring a door against his son. This time the action would be deliberate. 

He touches the golden hair that Calendis passed on to Legolas. That action is all the encouragement that the boy needs. He launches forward and clutches his father fiercely. “Please, don’t go away,” that is all he can get out, his voice small and scared as he looks up at Thranduil. 

For a beat, Thranduil is immobile except for the shaking of his hands and the heave of his chest. Then he relaxes and wraps his arms around the only thing left in his life that has any meaning. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

___________________

The dreams begin after the end of the Third Age. It takes a long time for Adar to tell Círdan about them. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his husband, but rather that it feels like blasphemy to even think that he might be experiencing sea-longing. The idea of actually saying the words aloud is vaguely terrifying. 

Yet the visions continue, increasing in their number and intensity as the days crawl forward. The idea of migrating to the Gray Havens for several months (as has been their wont for years) is an actual torment. He’s not certain what he will do with the ocean in proximity. One night, a few weeks before their scheduled departure, Adar finally confesses the secret that has been plaguing him. 

“I thought that might be the case.” Lying together in the dark, Círdan gathers Adar in his arms and says, “I was waiting for you to feel safe enough to mention it.” 

“You knew?” Pressing close to his husband, he savors the smell of the ocean that always seems to emanate from him, even when he is hundreds of miles away from his docks. While the scent is always pleasant, it’s been driving Adar to distraction when compounded with the sea-longing.  

“Not completely, but I have spent the better part of two ages building the ships that take my people to Aman.” Círdan shifts to place a kiss on Adar’s temple and pulls the sheets up a little higher to ward off the night breeze that drifts in through a nearby window. “After so long, I’ve learned how to spot the call of Valinor.” 

“Have you felt it too?” They’re both so old that it’s not unusual to discover new facets of each other even after centuries of marriage. Still, Adar feels a sting of guilt for never broaching the subject. Truthfully, he had been afraid of the answer. 

“Since before the Doom was lifted,” Círdan admits softly. 

“So long,” Adar exclaims in sad wonder. How could he bear being close to the Sundering Seas and never actually making the journey? “I’m sorry that we haven’t discussed it. If I knew how badly you were hurting, I would have brought it up.” 

“Don’t be,” Círdan comforts him. “At this point, it’s more like a bruise than anything. It usually doesn’t ache unless I’m pressing upon it, and I decided to stay long before we ever met. I couldn’t conscience leaving Middle Earth behind when a threat still lingered in the lands.” 

Wrapping his free arm around Círdan’s torso, Adar whispers, “But Sauron has been gone for decades now.” 

For the first time since this conversation began, a thread of hurt laces Círdan’s tone. “Do you really think that I would leave you behind?” 

“It’s…Valinor,” he replies dumbly. Adar knows that he cannot compare when stacked against the call of Aman. 

Círdan's embrace tightens. In the moonlight, Adar sees tears glinting in his husband’s eyes. “It hurts that you still think so little of your own worth. You mean more to me than the Blessed Lands.” 

Something flutters in Adar’s chest. Despite their years together, he still doesn’t always know how to accept being loved. It’s strange how difficult honest words of emotion are when he considers how effortlessly lies came to his lips with Sauron. Adar tries to convey his feelings to Círdan in a kiss which slowly turns into the intertwining of their bodies. Afterwards, they lie together in silence for some while until Círdan says, “Sometimes people speak of their dreams showing them more than just images of the ocean.”

It's an invitation, not a demand. One of the things he loves most about Círdan is that he understands there are some things which Adar isn't ready to share. Sometimes the luxury of privacy staggers him. It's so different from Sauron, who constantly demanded to know every thought in his head. The fact that his husband gives him this space makes Adar feel more comfortable sharing than he ever had with the Dark Lord. “I think I saw Nienna. She was standing on the shore with her arms held out in welcome. There was such beauty in her face, but it was more than just the physical trappings. It was—I know not how to describe it—a spiritual beauty so profound that it left me stricken.”

“She did not travel with the host during the War of Wrath. From what I understand, she thought her place was to help the fallen, but everyone who knew her speaks of her with great reverence. Mithrandir has almost no memories of his past, but he still weeps for her sorrow,” Círdan notes.

“Once, I saw her holding the hand of my first daughter,” Adar whispers. Foolish as it is, he fears that if he says it too loudly, it will be revealed as naught but his wishful thinking. “Betimes, it is the other Moriondor. They beckon to me, as if they need my help. It’s foolish, isn’t it? The idea that I could render aid that the Lady of Sorrow could not provide.” 

“Not at all,” Círdan argues. “Who better to help them than someone who knows exactly what they went through if some of them truly are coming close to reembodiment?” 

“They couldn’t wish for my assistance.” Adar feels the urge to pick at his scars and clutches Círdan’s hand instead. “It would be the height of hypocrisy when I survived, and they did not.” 

“How often did you tell Mairon and the rest that it is no sin to survive?” Círdan rubs his bearded cheek against the top of Adar’s head. “My love, do not condemn yourself for what you dismiss in others. If Nienna believes your presence would offer comfort, then do not doubt her.”  

Sighing, Adar supposes that he couldn’t avoid the problem forever. “It isn’t just that. I don’t know if I can bring myself to make the journey.”

“Do you fear your reception in Valinor?”

Adar releases a huff of laughter. “I’m not so naive as to think that bigotry doesn’t exist in Aman. Our loved ones have already sailed. They will welcome me, even if all else shun me. I will learn to live with it.” 

“You shouldn’t have to,” Círdan reminds him as he caresses his thumb back and forth across Adar’s bicep. “Still, I do not think that is what drives your reluctance. Are you afraid to leave your children?” 

As is usually the case, Círdan has his finger on the pulse of Adar’s true anxieties. “I know King Elessar has promised peace, and he will keep to his word, but I can’t help fearing what will happen if I am not there to guide them.” 

“Do you think they can stand on their own?”

Biting his lip, Adar admits, “I don’t know.” 

“Have you asked them their thoughts about it?”

“They believe that they are ready.” Adar heaves a heavy sigh and rolls onto his back. “These days, I don’t do much more than act in an advisory role. It’s been a long time since they needed my counsel on anything serious, but…”

“You worry,” Círdan finishes for him. “I cannot claim to have carried the kind of responsibilities that you were forced to shoulder, but I do know what it’s like to fear for a child you love. There were many times when I wished that Erenion could have chosen a different path in life.” 

Círdan isn’t exactly closed off. He doesn’t keep people at arm’s length. Instead, he welcomes people in with a kindness that doesn’t quite reveal the complexity of the person beneath the guise of unflappable ancient wisdom. In many ways, Gil-Galad inherited that quality from him. Nobody but Adar knows just how intensely his husband grieved the loss of Ereinion, just as Adar was the only person Círdan wanted on hand when he set the mourning lanterns upon the sea. 

“How did you know that he was ready?”

Círdan gives a helpless shrug. “I didn’t know. Truthfully, I don’t think anyone is completely prepared to face every challenge that life throws at them. You do your best to help them stand, and gradually they learn to walk without your support.”

“Does the worry ever cease?”

“It eases a little, but never truly goes away.”

“A beloved burden,” Adar concludes. 

“I prefer to think of it as a sacred trust. My son died,” Círdan's voice chokes lightly, and he stares into the distance like he is trying to find Gil-Galad there.”Yet I loved the person he became, and despite the pain, I do not regret that he found the strength to protect others. Even when it came at great personal cost. He could not have fully grown into himself if I forced him to become a sailor—which I admit, I was sorely tempted to do.”

“I feel as if I haven’t done enough. I failed them so often,” Adar says contemplatively. If he goes, he’ll never stop being concerned for the children he leaves behind. Does he have the right to hinder their growth by staying? Those preparing to leave Mandos will need every support they can be afforded.

“You did your best and loved them entirely. In the end, that’s all a parent can do.” 

___________________ 

The End

General Notes: 

Squeezing your hand into a fist twice is ASL for ‘milk’. 

Holding your first two fingers in a ‘V shape’ before flicking your hand back and forth is ASL for ‘purple’. 

Dragging your index finger down your top lip in a bisecting motion is ASL for ‘red’. 

Bumping the knuckle of your thumb against your forehead twice is slightly modified ASL for ‘father’. It’s supposed to be bumping the top of your thumb against your forehead with the rest of your fingers sticking up, but I thought Adar would want a slightly more discreet sign for ‘father’ since the topic was probably a loaded one for both Curumo and Melkor. 

Placing your palms over your eyes, bringing them down along your cheeks like tears, is ASL for ‘sad’. 

I set up the first Galadriel section to be smooshed in the middle of this part in Lost Flames.

You heard it here first, kids. Mairon invented the sippy cup! Historically speaking, the safest thing for babies whose mothers couldn’t nurse them was to find the baby a wet-nurse. However, if people couldn’t afford it, or didn’t know a woman who could nurse for free, they would often use hollowed-out cow horns with leather tied at the end as makeshift bottles.  

Mr. Tolkien would probably be rolling over in his grave about it, but I like to think that Hammerstrike is similar to the 2Cellos cover of Thunderstruck. If you get the chance, watch the music video here because it's a really fun experience (give it about a minute to really get going). Of the Valar, it's GOING to be Aule who is a AC/DC fan. Please enjoy the mental image of Charlie Vickers in a forge while that cover plays in the background. With an adorable bonus of toddler Celebrian bopping to the beat.

Naturally, Curumo thinks the song is terribly uncouth.