#roplaw

Another explosion. Another projectile smashing something in the city. They’ve all grown used to it by now, Mirdania and Annatar and the soldiers on the ramparts, they brace themselves as the ground shakes but otherwise, they barely flinch. But Lord Celebrimbor- Celebrimbor cringes like a slapped puppy, hands flying up to cover his ears, the fingers of his left hand curling to pull at his hair in a mark of distress she’s only ever seen once before-

And the look on his face. A mix of horror and surprise, wild casting about with his eyes as he straightens again, like this is all new, like the whole of this long siege is a fresh revelation to him-

He’s not well. He’s clearly not well. Beneath the soot, and the grime, and the blood; his filthy hands, although he’s as fastidious about rinsing himself off when leaving the forge as the healers are when preparing to look at an open wound. Beneath all that, his eyes are ringed with exhaustion; his cheeks sunken, his entire frame grown haggard. He’s not well. He’s in no position to be up here, on the front lines- even without the distraction he’s causing with  his rambling, wild accusations about Lord Annatar, who’s done nothing but care for Celebrimbor’s city, in Celebrimbor’s absence and incapacity- done nothing but care for , Celebrimbor himself-

If that’s Lord Annatar’s care, I’d hate to see his lack of it. 

Narvi’s voice. A- disagreement, between herself and Khazâd Delve-Master following the Lord of Gifts’ own disagreement- row, more honestly- over the latter’s decision to shift his focus from nothing but rings, to the Doors of Durin project. 

“He’s- passionate about the preservation of Middle Earth, Narvi, that’s all. He cares-”

“If that’s Lord Annatar’s care, I’d hate to see his lack of it. He might as well’ve struck Celebrimbor across the face, to speak to him so in his own Halls…”

“The wall,” Celebrimbor murmurs, blinking rapidly, for a moment almost seeming back to his old self. “The wall must be reinforced. I- there is- there are plans for this, why were they not followed- you!” his head jerks back up past Mirdania’s shoulder, a murderous glare rolling into his eyes like a stormfront-

“Let us look at it together, my lord!” Mirdania says. “We’ll go down, and we’ll look at the wall together, yes, and you can tell me your plan?”

She knows. She knows with sudden, horrible certainty that Celebrimbor must not be allowed to make a lunge for Annatar, must not be allowed to press his accusations, his orders that Annatar be seized. She has never been one for foresight but in this moment she knows, with a cold, prickling dread, that if he does go for the Maia’s throat…

It will finish him. He’ll be arrested himself, or cut down, and I don’t even know that Annatar- or the guards- would be wrong to do it- he’s not - something has gone so horribly wrong…

“The plan- yes, the wall. You’re right- Mirdania-” and he says her name like a desperate prayer, like he doesn’t trust that he’s got it right but he does, he does- “Wall first, deal with that-” a filthy look at Annatar- “-later-”

He pivots and makes for the stairs. Mirdania turns around, looks at Annatar, and smiles. He has such an air of concern, such a perfect blend of worry and hurt and righteous indignation and- and concern on his face. “I’ll take him back inside,” Mirdania says to him, offering him her half of the weary, it’s-hopeless-but-we’ll-stick-it-out-together smile of reassurance they’ve shared so often since Celebrimbor’s sickness first emerged. Since he first told her…

Death and Sulpher. 

What would Sauron look like, if he were to be seen how he really, truly was?

“...take him back inside, get him to rest. I’m so sorry to see him attack you thus, my Lord,” she finishes, and he returns her smile-

Does it meet his eyes? Difficult to tell, by the fires-light. He’s always been a little cold. Does the curve of his mouth seem a little cruel? Or is it her imagination, her exhaustion, her fear, reworking scraps in imitation of her favourite teacher’s own habits and quirks-

“Much as it pains me, to see this complete decline,” Annatar says quietly, throwing a look toward Celebrimbor’s hurriedly vanishing figure. “It might be better for everyone if you were to make sure that, once he is back in the forge, he cannot go wandering from it again.”

She has to work to keep her smile in place, to keep her expression otherwise placid. A flash- a hint of an image in her head- as their eyes meet, their locked gazes sympathetic- and at the same time she is certain that the thought originates with him, not her, and she thinks- oh Eru Ilúvatar , she thinks she’s going to be sick as she looks Sauron in the eye and asks, in her best expression of a timid little girl frantic for reassurance, for guidance- “Would you…would you have me bind him, my lord?”

She is not imagining the smug satisfaction that twists his handsome, kindly face for the briefest of moments. “If you think it best,” he replies, the very cast-mould of concern. “I wish…but I fear mere locks will do very little, against the skill of Curufinwë’s heir.”

He doesn’t mean Fëanor, she thinks, as a ripple of unease spreads amongst- not all the soldiers, but the ones Mirdania knows are older. Ones who remember the first age. Ones who might once have dwelt at Nargothrond, or Doriath. Like the one who steps forward and says, “Perhaps some of us ought to come with you, my lady-”

“I will be fine,” she says, and before anyone can object further, she hastens after Celebrimbor. Mostly for his sake. But also- 

She thinks, if she has to keep smiling at Sauron, her legs might give way. 

And on the bright side, apparently Celebrimbor has siege plans in place. It might have been helpful if he’d mentioned that before there was a siege, and he was taken ill, or made ill, and Sauron overtook the city, but still. She finds him at the foot of the shuddering wall, directing a group of soldiers, and citizens, speaking of using rubble for the barricades, and…barrels of pickled rope in the watchtower cellars?

“-rolled up, arranged like nets- through them over the barricades, all along the walls- if they get through, one fire arrow will set the whole segment ablaze, they’ve been soaking in Dwarvish brandy since Ost-in-Edhil was built- don’t just stand there gawping at me do it!”

“Do as he says.”

Her voice lends authority to his. It shouldn’t. As the people around them finally scatter to obey the Lord of Eregion’s directions, he turns to her, suddenly seeming to crumple in on himself. He stands there, small and trembling and his exhaustion-lined face becomes uncertain and a little frightened. “I am not mad,” he says to her softly, but with an edge of defiant certainty. “I am- I am not mad. He is-”

Mirdania interrupts him.

:listening. Not here, she spells out in delve-sign -  and thanks Aulë  that Celebrimbor insisted on his apprentices learning the basics of it before being permitting them on field trips to the forges in Khazad-dûm. :I know - oh, but she’s out of practice, she’d had such good intentions- if they get through this, she’s going to apply herself to relearning but for now she has to make do with a clumsy :I know you right. 

Celebrimbor’s gaze focuses, sharpens. He nods, and then sweeps off back in the direction of the forge. Mirdania hurries to keep up with him. The moment she’s reasonably sure that they’re out of a Maia’s earshot she says- “What is happening?”

She sounds more frightened then she means to be. But then, her heart is pounding, her mouth dry, and her world is falling to pieces about her both metaphorically and literally. There are more explosions. Again, Celebrimbor reacts like the sound is unexpected, like there hasn’t been days of this. Ahead of them, something glints in the rubble. Something- “Is that Fëanor’s hammer!?”

“What- oh, yes, I threw it at his head and he dodged. It broke the window, and the illusion-”

“Illusion?” Mirdania cuts ahead of him, picking the precious relic out of the broken debris it lies amongst and turning back to hand it to it’s rightful owner. Celebrimbor stares at is, even lifts his hand slightly as though meaning to take it- and then lets his hand fall again with a sigh. “I have been foolish,” he says bleakly. “So very foolish, Mirdania, but- there is time- I hope there is time…he wants the rings. Rings for men- for what purpose I don’t- control, I suppose- they’re not finished- but- he will not give us long,” he glances fearfully back towards the battlements. “Mirdania, I need to ask something of you I- I wish I didn’t. What did Sauron say, when I left- before you followed me?”

“He,” Mirdania blushes. “He insinuated- your father. Your grandfather. I am sorry. He implied you should be taken to the forge and- and bound.”

Beneath the coating of dirt, Celebrimbor grows ashen. “Very well. Then that is what you must do.”

“No! My Lord-”

“Yes, you must. And you must go to him and tell him that I begged to speak with him and I- I will buy you as much time as I can. Empty the city.” he starts to head up the steps to the forge. Mirdania shakes herself and follows after him as he continues : “There is a passage, it will take you all most of the way to the Doors of Durin. Prince Durin, I am sure, will grant you aid but if- if the King makes difficulties, tell him that Celebrimbor of Hollin, maker of the Seven Rings, begs refuge for his people on his knees and will be at the disposal of Durin the Third as soon as the threat to Eregion is dealt with. Make sure you take the hammer with you when you leave here, it’s as good a seal of my authority as any. ”

Mirdania does not know why Celebrimbor fears the King under the Mountain would be difficult. Strain, fatigue, the realisation that Annatar was not what he seemed making him mistrustful of all former allies, as such, but the deal those words imply… “You are- certain- there are not other- that there’s not more precise wording-”

“No, Mirdania. If it must be bartered for at all, then it follows King Durin’s protection will come at the highest of prices.There’s enough vagueness in what I’ve said that the King may grasp for less, but if it is the payment he decides he wants…”

If he decided that centuries of friendship between Eregion and Kazad-dûm was not enough reason to grant Eregion’s people shelter, the prospect of Eregion’s Lord- the greatest smith alive- indentured to the dwarves for as long as King Durin III lived…

Yes. That would probably do it. 

Mirdania’s stomach churns. 

The state of the forge, as they enter through the doors, does not help. Bile scorches her throat- tears sting her eyes- with effort, she forces them both back.  

“Bindings, was it?” Celebrimbor asks, turning to her with a look of forced cheerfulness. “Well, and if your poor old Lord had gone mad, and needed to be kept from wandering off, where would you put him, Mirdania?”

“Don’t,” she chokes. “Celebrimbor, don’t-”

His expression falters- her composure breaks-

She is weeping in his arms before she even realises that he’s embraced her- or realised that she’s burst into tears. “I cannot just leave you to him,” she says. “I have- oh, Valar. Did you even order us to stay away from the forges? Have we all already abandoned you to- I’m sorry. Celebrimbor, I’m sorry!”

“Hush, child, all will come right.” he strokes her hair, rests his chin on the top of her head and holds her tight, as though she were a lost elfling all over again. “It will be well.” his voice is trembling. “I will make it all well. But we must- we must ensure there is time for you all to flee. And-” he swallows. She can feel the unsteadiness of his throat. “I am asking much of you, I know. I must ask one thing more- two thing mores, for I ought to ask your forgiveness for all of this.”

She has no words. She squeezes him tight, gripping the back of his robe with the fist not carrying Fëanor’s Hammer, unwilling to ever, ever let go of the older elf. “Word must reach Gil-galad. It must reach the Lady Galadriel. I- Elrond is close with Prince Durin, that ought to make it easier- there is probably a line of communication already in place between them. 

“I will survive,” he adds, finally pulling back. She resists the urge to cling. He is trusting her to be responsible for his people- for their people, and so she makes herself step back, and dry her tears, and meet his gaze bravely. He smiles wryly down at her. “I intend to survive, at any rate. Uncle Matimo managed thirty years- I do hope Galadriel and the High King will come up with something sooner than that. And I am sorry I’ve brought this down upon us.” he shoots a glance toward his workbench, where the rings sit- almost finished, but not quite. “And now…” he sighs, and briefly closes his eyes. “Before he comes here of his own accord...” 

“I’ll get the winch-ropes we keep in reserve,” Mirdania says resignedly. “And if I wrap your wrists with  polishing rags first, they shouldn’t chafe at your skin too badly. You’d better find somewhere comfortable to sit.”

@ropladies

Epilogue: Mirdania got to Khazad-Dum and instantly went: Need to borrow your army. And Durin went: ??? and Mirdania went: Annatar's Sauron, need to borrow your army. And Durin went: "Oh that Fucker!". And Princess Disa went unto the King and distracted him while Durin and Narvi mobilised the dwarven troops. And Elrond appeared in the midst of these preparations and went: "...well that was eas- I'm sorry SAURON is WHO and HAS BEEN DOING WHAT?"

And outside Ost-in-Edhil, verily were the Uruks confused that all resistance to the seige had suddenly vanished. And then the order came from Lord Adar to withdraw, for Elrond had spoken with Adar and explained the situation. And Adar and Elrond and the Lady Galadriel hurried around to the city's main gates just in time to see that Sauron be yeeted from the Forge balcony by Mirdania and Narvi and set upon by the waiting dwarves. And Adar and Elrond and the Lady Galadriel shouldered their way through the crowd and, Saruon looked at the crown in Adar's hand and went: "Oh come on-" But said nothing more, for Adar passed the crown to Lady Galadriel, and the Lady Galadriel used it and the power of Nenya to destroy Sauron's form unto goo for another thousand thousand years.