#fellowshipofthefics

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“Protection,” Bofur muttered to himself, flipping the visor down on the metal helmet with a clang that rattled his skull. He wished his lucky hat fit underneath, not just as his usual talisman, but as much-needed padding. “Can’t do the other things, but protecting is easy. Easy. Like a pickaxe through coal. Just keep him alive and don’t sweat to death yourself.”

The plate armor rattled and clanked like a rattly cart full of loose scrap metal, but Bofur knew the heavy - and hot - armor was a necessary component of his part in their plan. The Ur family’s plan (which was mostly Bombur’s plan, to be fair) only needed three days to prove their best three qualities to Bilbo and thus convince their favorite hobbit to join their family forever. So Bofur had encased himself in metal and loaded about sixty pounds of weapons on top of that, and the mere sight of him at Bilbo’s side should send any shady dwarves running.

Unsurprisingly, Bilbo heard him coming. No need to knock on the door, even, for a curly-haired head was already curiously sticking out into the hallway with a bemused expression. In answer, Bofur lifted up the metal visor and grinned, which only widened as Bilbo’s jaw dropped.

“Mornin’, Bilbo!” Bofur said cheerfully. “Ready to get goin’?”

“Bofur?” The hobbit gaped incredulously and looked Bofur up and down, taking in the shining silver plate mail etched with angular runes that covered Bofur very literally from head to toe. “What in Yavanna’s name are you wearing?”

Bofur laughed. “I know hobbits don’t go in for warfare much, but I thought you might recognize ‘armor’ by now!”

Bilbo fixed him with an exasperated look. “You know what I mean, you daft creature! I’ve seen you in actual battle with less armor than this. Is it… ceremonial for something?”

“Have you ever known me to stand on ceremony? ‘Course not! I said I’d escort you ‘round the Mountain today, and this is just the best protection possible.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo, brow furrowing. “Is it likely to be very dangerous to walk about today for some reason?”

“No, nothin’ like that,” Bofur said quickly. “Just, eh, no harm in bein’ prepared, right?”

“I believe I am found,” returned Celegorm, and he introduced himself. The sentry merely nodded out of respect and said his own name in return. He did not know the elven lord before him or of his reputation. It was a strange thing for even Celegorm to experience because, in another life, many an elf found cause to curse his name and the names of his kin. “Is lord Oromë here?”

The sentry smiled when thunderous cheers escaped the vast feasting hall, and a loud, booming laugh was heard. Celegorm fought in vain against the distress that clenched at his heart. Once, only he and he alone could make Oromë laugh in such a manner.

“They are all here, and many more besides,” the sentry explained. “Tis the last day of the harvest feast hunt, my lord.”

The hunt. Once, Celegorm partook in them all, always outdoing the rest save for his lord. They would ride into the forests under a starlit sky and return days later, their garments soiled and stained, and their hair utterly disheveled. Then they would all retire to the halls to refresh themselves before they gathered together once again and ate and sang and drank and indulged in every pleasure offered without shame. Celegorm, for his own part, always found himself on the raised dais, seated by his lord’s right in the place of high honor. Now he would consider himself fortunate if he was allowed a place deep within the shadows, far away from the meat and the mead, and far away from those better than him.

“I would like to join them, if their lord would have me,” he said. The sentry bowed and bid him to wait.

When the high, wide door was thrown open, Celegorm was offered a chance to peer inside. The feasting hall was exactly how he remembered it. Finely forged blades and the bones of fell beasts adorned its walls and beams, and small golden lamps, along with vivid golden buds that produced a glorious light of their own, adorned the branches of trees that grew within Oromë’s home. Smoke drifted around thick trunks and trestle tables and benches, carrying with it the faint redolence of honey and herbs and roasting meat. Then the door closed, and the vision he had been feasting on disappeared from view. Celegorm would have howled in frustration had he not remembered who he was and where he was in the first place.

A cooling rain started to fall, and the scent of damp earth mingled with the scents of new leaves and flowers in full bloom. The elf breathed in every scent there was to be found and tilted his head toward the rain, sighing when it dampened his face.

It is a pity that the water cannot wash away my sins. And his sins had been many. Celegorm did not need to be told what they were; the memories of them all were enough. And it shamed him to think he cast a great future aside and damned himself all for the sake of an oath that was nigh impossible to fulfill.

Did he ever think of me? Celegorm thought to himself. Did Oromë ever think of forsaking his own vows and finding his way to my side?

I have, and more times than I could care to count.

Celegorm turned when he heard his lord’s voice in his thoughts as clear as a bell, then fell to his knees and lowered his head. “My lord,” he whispered reverently.

If Oromë was insulted or displeased by his presence, he did not give word to it. “Go and join the festivities,” he told the sentry, who stood at a pace behind him. “This elven lord and I have much to discuss.”

Nothing could be heard but the gentle patter of raindrops against tiles and wood and leaves. Oromë was studying him with those sharp, green-to-the-center eyes of his, and Celegorm was certain of it. Still, he did not say another word. He considered himself unworthy of doing so.

“So the prodigal elf returns,” Oromë declared at last, his voice just as rich and potent as Celegorm remembered. “You ask if I have ever thought of you. Tell me, prince Turcafinwë, did you think of me when you defiled the soil of this land with the blood of your kin? Did you think of me when you let your kinsman ride toward certain death? Did you think of me when you let go of every notion of honor I taught you and committed foul deeds during the remaining years of your life on Middle Earth? Ah, you did not!”

Every word cut through him like finely forged blades, and Celegorm, for the first time since before his own demise, did not resort to hasty words. He remained silent, ashamed of his own conduct, and then Oromë spoke again.

“You offer no protests,” he observed kindly. “No crudely spoken oaths. Has your soul’s cleansing changed you to such a degree?”

“Perhaps it has, my lord,” Celegorm replied, and he said nothing else.

“Perhaps,” the Vala repeated. “And why, pray tell, are you here?”

“I craved for nothing more than to return and offer myself to you, if you are still willing to have me,” answered Celegorm.  

Oromë was silent, as was Celegorm. He knew he was very much in the place of the errant supplicant, and it was in Oromë’s power to invite him or send him away. And he kept still, not even lifting his head, while the rain still fell down on them both, drenching them to their skin.

“Do you have another home to go to?” Oromë asked softly.

“I do.” A large, supple hand reached out to caress his cheek, and Celegorm shivered when he felt the warmth of it. When a thumb glided over his lips, he closed his eyes and went on to add, “But this is my true home, my lord. I wish to be by your side. It is where I belong.”

The sigh that followed was as gentle as the wind that blew around them both. “My savage,” Oromë began. “My beautiful, golden savage. Have you eaten yet?”

"No, my lord.”

The hand that kept brushing against his cheek reached for his own. “Then come,” Oromë said, and he lifted the elf to his feet. “And eat with me.”

The elves and other Ainur present stopped their eating and drinking and turned as one when the lord who hosted them returned, holding another elf’s hand in his. Those who knew little about Celegorm’s dark past looked on with eager curiosity, while those who witnessed the horrors that followed the darkening of Valinor were less than pleased with his presence in their midst. Still, they said nothing and returned to feasting as soon as Oromë took his customary place, with Celegorm seated to his right.

The others will not take kindly to my sitting in the place of high honor, Celegorm remarked wordlessly.

Let them think as they wish, Oromë responded. For it is not for them to decide who I have beside me, and who I do not.

It was said simply, not boastfully or out of anger. Oromë ruled these lofty halls and the great forests that encircled them. Custom allowed him to take in whomever he wished, whenever he wished.

Now eat, Oromë turned to face Celegorm when he dithered over his meal. You must be hungry.

He was indeed hungry, and he found the dish that had been placed before him to be a favorite of his: roasted aurochs with herbs. Even the drinking horn that was pressed into his hand held a favorite of his: light, golden mead. Celegorm ate and drank his fill, then widened his eyes when an attendant served him a dish of berries in thick cream and honey. He stole a glance at his lord, admiring the magnificent ivory antlers that sprouted amidst his dark hair, and pondered if his presence had been expected. Oromë said not a word. He simply reached out, took Celegorm’s hand into his, and gave it a gentle squeeze. The elf shivered once again when all-too-familiar fingers knitted around his own. He dared to steal a second glance. This time, the great hunter caught his gaze, and his lips curled up briefly at the corners. Celegorm flushed and looked away.

Later, when the feasting had ended and the dishes had been taken away, the others retired to chambers given to them for their own use. Celegorm sat where he was, thinking where he would be asked to sleep and rest.

“Come,” Oromë said, rising. He took Celegorm’s hand into his own and pulled him up after him. “And share my featherbed. The other chambers are all quite occupied.”

The elf followed, his cheeks burning when more than one pair of eyes followed his every move. There would be much gossip after this, he was certain, about him calling on the lord he once served. The dark tales of his past life would be passed on to those who did not know, and many would wonder what Oromë himself planned to do to him once they were alone.

His skin prickled when he considered that last notion, for Oromë directed him through a dark passageway leading straight to the chambers they once shared together. It was there, in those dimly lit rooms, that their spirits cleaved to each other even as they became one in the flesh.

And now he brings me here again, thought Celegorm. The elf that turned his back on him and destroyed everything that was good and sacred between us both.

“I am not worthy of sharing your featherbed, my lord.” He stopped just by the doors to Oromë’s rooms. There were too many memories of them here: sharing pleasures, sharing secrets, and exchanging half-whispered vows. And Celegorm tainted them all by walking down a path his lord could never truly follow. “If it would please you, I will find someplace else to rest my head.”

Oromë turned to face him, his countenance softening as he came near, and he framed the elf’s face with his hands.

“It would please me to have you share my chambers like you once did,” he countered, his lips but a hair’s breadth over Celegorm’s own. “And it would please me to have you as you once were.”

“Which was?”

“The Turcafinwë I once called my own heart. Bold. Fearless. As wild and as nigh untamable as the forests you freely rode in.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I am no longer the Turcafinwë you once knew.”

“Aye. I can hear it in your speech, and I can see it in your altered nature. But perhaps there is a chance yet for that part of you to still return. For now, allow me to have this.”

Celegorm closed his eyes and twined his arms around broad shoulders when his lord leaned down, and they kissed. Oromë drew him even closer, clinching his arms around his waist and almost crushing him to his chest when he made a low noise at the back of his throat. Then Celegorm shivered, though this time it was from the cold in his rain-soaked garments.

“Let me,” Oromë offered, and soon he laid them both bare with his quick, skillful hands. Then he renewed his kiss after he loosened Celegorm’s braid and let his golden hair spill free.

Do you forgive me, my lord? He was welcomed into his lord’s halls and then his chambers, and finally, he was welcomed into his embrace. Still, Celegorm desired to know if this was indeed a new beginning for them both and that all was not lost.

Oromë’s reply was swift. You do not have to ask such a question, my own heart, for you already know the answer.

Celegorm laughed softly this time as hope slowly stole its way into his heart. His feeling was returned when a richer laugh followed his own. When Oromë led him to his bed and tumbled him onto the pelts, he sighed with gratitude and welcomed his lord’s warmth with open arms.

“Will you leave my side again?” The Vala asked as he joined him. There was to be no coupling this time. Oromë simply tucked his companion against his chest, burying his face in thick, damp hair and entwining his limbs around Celegorm’s own.

“No and never, my lord,” the elf vowed. Celegorm, determined to prove himself worthy of his lord’s forgiveness and the second chance he had just been given, was resolute in his desire to honor this promise. “What happened before will never happen again.”

“Good. Now rest, dearest,” Oromë replied. “We will talk more later.”