#white oliphaunt

Celebrimbor has a circular piece of thick white twine twirled around his fingers, five large knots equally spaced along the string like knucklebones.

“Just a ritual,” he shrugs, as he does each time.

There’s no ritual that really surprises Annatar these days; he has tried most of them, from the first song to whatever they do these days in Lindon. Still, the way the twine wraps around the callouses compels him in a way that does truly surprise him. There’s a strange peace to Celebrimbor here that he has only seen when smithing or fucking, when he’s coiled tight. Usually molten, red-hot purpose rolls off of his shoulders in such thick waves that sometimes Annatar is surprised the elf can ever stand still at all. Fragile, he realises. Celebrimbor only looks like this when he’s holding something he perceives as fragile. Like a mithril-thin ring, or him.

The smith turns from him, begins the evening ritual. The cord unwinds like a hymn, pale and coarse, gleaming faintly with the memory of the fire which blessed it. He loops it around his waist, each turn a tether, lips moving soundlessly. The movements repeat, five times, one for each knucklebone. With the fifth, he passes the cord over his head, bends, brushes the floor with his fingers.

“A prayer, then?” whispers Annatar, when he is done, eyes blown wide, curious. “I have never seen prayer like this.”

“Fëanorian nonsense,” says the smith, his words so soft over the nonsense that it means the opposite, yet so casual with the Fëanorian as to be a deliberate shutting-out. A deliberate shutting out of Annatar.

They look at each other for a long moment, and each second Celebrimbor doesn’t tell him feels like a thin wire pressed into Annatar’s skin. A slit of moonlight peeks through the slats of the balcony, neatly slicing Annatar in two, from a divine thing into two small, envious little poltergeists. Celebrimbor’s jaw clenches.

“You cannot just know everything about my life before you and aside from you,” Celebrimbor says, shrugging. The air has a cold, rusty taste to it all of a sudden, Annatar thinks. “You know that, don’t you? You know me, you know all of me as relates to you. But the things about my life that you do know, I chose to tell you. This knowledge is not yours.”

“It was you who offered yourself to me,” there is a little petulance to the downturn of his lips. Celebrimbor savours it: it’s like smithing, sculpting, casting, his penchant for finding the gremlin within every god. He is Fëanor’s grandson through and through, he supposes, with another smirk that has Annatar’s cheeks flushing with rage at being excluded from.

“Yes. I offer what I offer,” Celebrimbor tucks the knotted string away into some sort of slight-of-hand Annatar cannot follow. Celebrimbor presses a kiss to his lips, like a consolation prize.

Annatar spends months trying to follow the string. Asks him about it, flushed and glistening from pleasure, asks him every day, asks him at last, in the final moments. The last few days, when each knows what the other is and will become, and tries so hard to forget it for just a little longer. He tries too, to follow it in other ways. In books, in whispers, asks around about the cultural practices of the Fëanorians. The way they lay their dead on tall, silent towers for carrion birds to peck at. The fiery, smoky incense they burn for their prayers to Iluvatar. And still, the knotted string remains just that. A thing that might die with Celebrimbor.

“You will not die!” Annatar roars, at the close of it all. He rounds on Celebrimbor like a warg, suddenly close, suddenly burning, wild-eyed, beautiful and furious. A finger held out in front of him as if to force the world into submission, to force Celebrimbor into living for him instead of dying despite him. “I will not lose you — it is out of the question. How dare you ask me — as if you had the right — as if you have the right to ask me to kill you, after you offered me your life — I refuse it! That is within my power, and I will exercise that power as I see fit. As I see fit — not you. You will not die.”

“I offered my life?” Celebrimbor laughs, even now. Somehow it is him who remains calm, not a single molten thing left within him. He shakes his head. “I offered what I offered. And it is not everything. It is not my life. You know that as well as I, that it is not everything, no?”

His waist is exposed, the knotted string looser than it has ever been. Annatar steps forward. Celebrimbor can feel his glowing eyes, heavy on him, like two more swords pinning him to the earth. He can smell his own sweat, the leather of Annatar’s gauntlets, the woodsmoke of Eregion. He smells like what his home was, what it has become now, the beautiful, furious monster it has shifted into. Annatar cannot look at Celebrimbor or he’ll lose control. He’ll claw at his face, kiss him, plunge his last knife between his ribs. Or worse – yes, worse – he’ll cry, soften, he’ll say let us leave. Yes, yes, anything. Yes. Don’t tell me. I don’t need to know. It’s all right. Let us leave, you and I.

Lesser beings allow themselves to be blinded by things. Anger or love or fury or shame. Higher beings are blind with things, chasing mindlessly, embracing unidirectional tunnel-vision. Annatar, personally, is blind with want. He wants Celebrimbor’s balcony, so open and bright and full of the two of them, full of nothing, the broad shoulders turned away from him. Celebrimbor doing his secret thing with the string, locking him out. The way he allows it, despite wanting to know. The way he is blinded by him.

The way Annatar waits patiently outside as he had never done before. The way he counted the seconds while the city walls shrunk little by little, the air thicker, more and more putrid every second, the door left unlocked, escape always possible, leaving Celebrimbor and the rings and the world and declaring himself. Annatar would have the whole world before him, but where would he go? Where else but here? Who else but him?

Túrin glances at the gloves, cast forlornly to the side. They are nearly black, though they were tawny doeskin when Cúthalion first gifted them. Now, they are dark, like his spirit. He can scarcely believe the original color was bone. Washing it in the laundry will hardly make a difference; they will never be light again, nor will he. 

At long last, Orodreth stands, dropping Túrin’s hands back into his lap. “You appear to be fine.”

“I am fine. I told you that.”

The King throws him a weary glance. “Well, I am not the one who was worried.” It is a lie, and Túrin is not sure Orodreth even knows that it is. 

Túrin casts his gaze behind him. Gwindor is, of course, lurking outside, eyes narrowed, but he’s not alone. A familiar golden head hovers just outside the door, blue eyes veiled, no hint of worry creeping across her petite, pale face. Finduilas is a good actress, of course; she is excellent at guarding her emotions. She must be, having been raised in a harsh court with her father’s cousins lurking. But Túrin knows her well enough by now, and he knows that Finduilas wouldn’t have come if she were not also worried.

“They have been waiting long to see you,” Orodreth unhelpfully supplies. Túrin tears his eyes from Finduilas to cast him an annoyed look.

“I shall not make them wait any longer, then.”

On his way out, he picks up his bloodied gloves and slides them back over his fingers. It feels as if his skin is settling back into place after being flayed.

*~* 

The King has blood on his cheek, smeared across a sharp cheekbone. It is not his own, and Túrin knows this, but his heartbeat still quickens, and he pulls Orodreth close, cupping his face lightly. His skin is warm, even through Túrin’s gloves.

“You are bleeding,” Túrin breathes. His fingers ghost along Orodreth’s cheek, and he shudders slightly yet he does not pull back.

“‘Tis not mine,” the King promises. He points to the trail of blood on the forest floor, ruby droplets and rivulets leading away from where they stand. The russet leaves gleam with pools of dark blood. It leads toward the Narog, and the King’s spear rests against the mighty trunk of an Oak. Túrin’s heart thumps rapidly.

“Orcs are hunting-”

“I wounded a stag, and you caused it to flee.” Orodreth laughs brightly as if losing his prey is no great inconvenience. He places his hand over Túrin’s, still pressed to his cheek. His touch is cool; his fine-boned hands are also flecked with blood. Túrin shudders. Red is a color that he has  seen often on Orodreth—a blush swept across his cheeks after too much wine, jewels on each finger, bright rubies at his throat—but this kind of red looks jarring on him. He does not wear it well.

Without thinking, he slowly drags his thumb  across the blood on his face, wiping it away. He hears Orodreth’s breath hitch, and a new war rages loudly around them, but Túrin pays it no mind. He does not notice anything save for the new bloodstain on his fingers; the redness wiped clean from the King’s face.

“There,” he says very softly. “It is gone.”

Orodreth stares at him. His gaze is—surprised, almost, anxiety evident in jadeite eyes. Under Túrin’s palms, his face grows warm.

“Thank you,” Orodreth says quietly before turning away to follow his prey once more. Túrin’s newly bloodied hands fall away from his face.

*~*

“Findi, is that blood on your clothes?”

Finduilas glances down at her dress. All she can see is a dull red handprint at her waist. 

“Whatever do you mean?” She bats her lashes in feigned ignorance. 

Gwindor frowns. He grabs Finduilas’ arm, pulling her closer; his gaze rakes over her form, and his mouth falls slightly open. “Did someone harm you?’

Finduilas places her palm against her stomach, and her fingers come away with flakes of dried blood. Damn. Thurin is stealthy and secretive in all things save for this. She sighs inwardly, and her heart beats dully for Gwindor. It is not his fault he has returned so changed. 

“Findi.” Gwindor’s tone is sharp. “Hold still.”

“Why?” She blurts out, anxious. Gwindor shakes his shaggy head furiously.

“Are you wounded? Who has hurt you?” His eyes are wild and frantic. 

“I can call for my father,” she tries. Gwindor shakes his head again.“Just tell me.”

She presses her palm against the stain again, and Gwindor almost gasps—not from her pain but from the warmth of her hand, his fingers splaying across her gown. The warmth disappears when Finduilas draws her hand back.

“It is nothing,” Finduilas explains. “We ran into one another in the hall.”

Her voice wavers, but Gwindor is not a fool; he hears it. He appears defeated and sighs at her stubbornness.

“Don’t go looking for trouble.”

“I won’t,” Finduilas insists, eyes blazing. The insistence in her voice makes Gwindor drop all arguments.

*~*

It is late, but the King’s eyes are still bright, warm, and limpid; any impartial mask he usually wears has slipped away, and he all but leans into Túrin’s touch. Túrin presses his bare hands against Orodreth’s face, his touch featherlight and caresses golden freckles. His gloves are by the hearth, cast aside.

“And what would the people have to say about the king spending time with a former outlaw?” He teases. His tone is light, but Túrin can sense the worry simmering beneath his words. Instead, he tangles his fingers in Orodreth’s pale hair, winding the silken strands around his fingers.

“They can talk, but it does not matter. You are the King. You can be with who you wish.” Túrin seldom gives good counsel, even if he believes his own words. 

Orodreth hums. His voice is like worn velvet, Túrin thinks. If sounds could elicit a visceral response. It is both the most beautiful and saddest sound he has ever heard. “And who do you wish to be with then?”

“You,” Túrin says, the word soft, trembling. “Only you.” That is also a lie. They do nothing but lie to one another. 

Orodreth laughs, but it is a little too sharp, too fey. “That is not what I have heard.”

“And I want you.” Túrin lets all the untruth ebb in that one word, but he knows the King hears it. He knows it in the way he lifts his gaze; unease is evident on his face. 

“And you mean that?”

“Yes,” Túrin says. “Truly.”

He watches a smile curve up on the King’s lips, something kind and genuine. It is beautiful and sad; he wants to press his lips against it. Orodreth is bolder, however, leaning forward and kissing his brow, his stubbled cheeks, lingering on his thin lips. Túrin loops his arms around Orodreth’s neck, pulling him closer.

He has been bathed in crimson his whole life, Túrin thinks, as Orodreth kisses him deeper, as the ocre on his lips smudges against Túrin’s skin. But not like this, hardly like this.