50 Prompts: AU Silmarillion by Urloth

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Prompt: Care (Celegorm, Original Character)

(Urgh this turned out way to long but I couldn't bring myself to toss is out)

A sequel of sorts to Prompt: Explosion. This wont make sense without that. Though you can skip this one. It's OC centric which I know is not to everyone's cup of tea.

Summary: Celegorm is put in charge of the Living Silmaril

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There was something the maids back home always said when they wanted in their future spouses: that those afore mentioned spouses be good with children and animals.

Celegorm is wonderful with children and animals. He was number one preferred babysitter despite most assuming that role would have gone to Maedhros.

He just hates adults.

Greedy, self-absorbed, far too complicated, feeble minded, and boring adults.

And it’s not because children and animals aren’t greedy either. Children and animals are horribly greedy creatures. But they’re honestly greedy. They want something. They want to have it. They don’t try and justify that want, or explain away that want.

But back to the topic at hand: Celegorm is good with children and animals but not adults. That is why he is currently in charge of the young person that is either a servant of Morgoth sent to trick them all, or an Eru-sent hero.

They could have sent the stranger away. They could have put them in the care of a lord, or a trusted man-at-arms, or even just left them in the infirmary tent.

Their father would not hear about it, insisting that the stranger remain constantly under the watchful eye of his sons, when not under his own.

Celegorm is sure his blood pressure has never been so high.

Because there are days when he feels like he is staring into the face of the most ancient being in Arda.

And there are days when he prays to Eru for patience like he has never done before because it is like dealing with some sort of hellish mashup of Caranthir, Curufin and the twins. From when they were at that awkward stage where they weren’t sure if they liked girls, their voices and skin would not co-operate, they were more limb than torso, and yet desperate, despite all of this, to prove they were adults through random acts of rebellion.

But most of the time it is like dealing with a mixture of excited, eager toddler and excited, eager school-child, because their strange rescuer of the Silmarilli has managed to forget everything related to living life itself.

They’re perfectly capable of listing the components of light. But they had no idea of what to do with shoes when first presented with them (and continue to not understand why they have to wear shoes.)

(Or clothes.)

-

Celegorm wakes up, as he does every morning now, and immediately looks for his companion.

For once the unnamed stranger has not migrated into Huan’s basket, something his hound is probably profoundly grateful for.  Instead they are curled up where they should be, sound asleep on the bedding beside Celegorm’s, barely visible beneath a mound of blankets.

“Good morning,” Celegorm addresses the lump, “it is time to wake up.” He strains his ears to check no one is too close to his tent and in a lower voice adds, “time to wake up Mírë,” gently nudging the ball of blankets until it groans but willingly unfolds itself and sits up.

Yes he’s named the stranger. Well no one else was going to, odd because usually in this situation someone would have surely come up with an epessë, until the amnesiac victim recalled their own. But in this case no one has, because no one dares.

So when Celegorm is alone and sure he won’t be heard, he calls the stranger Mírë; Jewel.

Why?

Because he might not be an overwhelming genius like his father and brothers, but he’s not stupid.

He has a theory.

He’s noticed the changes; the ones in his father. How his father is no longer insane.

And if anybody wants to deny the High King was anything other than completely sane since Formenos, they are liars.

Their father was so driven to finding the Silmarilli. His father always knew where the Silmarilli were because of the pieces of himself he had placed inside the jewels (and that was knowledge that terrified Celegorm; that their father had managed to sunder pieces of himself and trap them separate from the whole.)

With two returned shouldn’t Fëanor have pressed his advantage given the chaos in Angband and set forth to claim the third? No instead he had his men pull back, citing the oncoming bad weather and chill season. Had them settle at the edge of this lake and bunker down.

Of course the third silmaril might just be destroyed. That could be possible. Mírë said so themselves, with the little vocabulary they either remembered or merely knew.

Here was where Celegorm’s theory truly became insane, which was why he was not going to tell anybody, ever.

Sometimes strange things happened in forges…

When the temperature of the forge was wrong, or the wrong component was added…

Usually it resulted in a highly dangerous situation and a ruined project. But occasionally something new would come out of the completely random, one-of-a-kind situation and be useful.

What if…

Say the third silmaril exploded…

And all that light…

Well all that light and whatever part of Fëanor was inside it had to have gone somewhere.

He is never, ever going to mention this theory to anybody.

But as an addendum, if Laurelin was female and Teleperion was female, that means both would go into the creation of such a creature.

No one save their father, his brothers and the healers who looked after Mírë know about this,

But sometimes Mírë does…

And sometimes does not…

And…

Well…

It would explain it.

He is NEVER mentioning this theory to anyone.

Everyone else has settled into thinking of their little hero as male, but Celegorm, having helped them get changed so often, is no longer in the position to comfortably do so, and clings to neutral pronouns.

It is easier than figuring out what is going on under Mírë’s clothes at any one moment.

There is muttering as Mírë staggers over to the waterjug and washbowl, dragging a blanket about them, scrubbing at their face, shoulders, armpit and hands as Celegorm has taught them. Then they go rushing back under the covers of their bedding.

Celegorm bothers to take note of the temperature, and realises that the air is quite cool, even inside the insulated tent. There is a distinct… icy smell to the air outside when he sticks his head out for a moment.

He returns to the warm haven of his own bed and, as usual, he now asks Mírë one very careful question.

“What did father dream about last night?”

Their stranger tilts their head. Their hair is finally growing back from where it was burnt off, in little tufts of silver and gold. Celegorm reaches for the soft bristled brush kept with his own and works out the tiny mats and tangles.

“Ships,” starts Mírë, “fire. Little boy. Red hair – “

“Sentences,” Celegorm reminds them. Mírë has relearnt enough vocabulary and grammar now that it’s stunted speech is more laziness than actual lack of knowledge.

“Of ships on fire,” restarts Mírë, “and of a little boy that owned red hair.”

“Possessed perhaps, instead of owned,” Celegorm suggests.

“That possessed red hair?”

“That sounds better.”

“Of ships,” restarts Mírë, “and of a little boy that possessed red hair. And of fire. And of a father/mother/creator. And red which was on blue which was on white.”

Celegorm frowns, fishing about for the hat to cover Mírë’s still downy head.

“He cries,” Mírë adds.

Celegorm swallows.

He should tell his father that their stranger can read Fëanor’s dreams. It is vital and personal information that Mírë gains from them that they have no business in knowing.

As Feanor’s son, at the very least, he should tell his father.

But he will not.

Because he is scared of what might happen to Mírë who truly, and honestly, does not understand half of what they see in their sleep.

“It seems like we will have to dress extra warmly,” he says instead.

Mírë wrinkles their nose immediately.

Having found the hat he waves it at Mírë. It has soft rabbit fur on the inside and has flaps he can pull over Mírë’s ears which are prone to frostbite.

It took him longer than expected to catch enough rabbits to make it. The animals here are far faster and far smarter than in Aman.

“Remember how your arms and legs went blue, and you developed a cough?” He reminds, “You have to wear clothes or you will freeze… and you will have to go back to the infirmary tent for a while.”

There is a grumbling, and a defiant glare from eyes that shine brighter than any of their host; sometimes with silver, sometimes with gold, and sometimes with a mingling far too much like the two gemstones locked in an iron casket of their father’s design.

“Do you understand?” he adds in Quenya. Sometimes you have to check. Sometimes the language seems to fly straight out of Mírë’s mind.

“La Tyelkormo” they reply.

“And can you say that in Sindarin?” Celegorm coaxes.

“Yes Kelegom…” Mírë’s eyes immediately widen then narrow, realising their mistake.

“Ah you’ve figured out you’ve said it wrong, that is okay, work out what you said wrong,” Celegom smiles encouragingly.

“Ke..le…go..mm…go…mm” Mírë taps their fingers together, frowning in concentration, “G..o..rrrm..ah! Celegorm! Yes Celegorm!”

Celegorm nods, pleased with this and gestures with the tunic, “good, well now the diversion is over, in you go.”

Mírë watches him resentfully but pulls the tunic on, and manages to get their leggings on without too much of a struggle. Celegorm does not have to intervene to tie the laces for the first time.

He celebrates the little advancement and then hands over the least favourite item of clothing.

It is a style of winter wear the local avari wear that some of their men (Celegorm amongst them, because fuck looking civilised when his nipples felt like they were going to freeze off beneath three tunics and a fur lined jerkin) have adopted. Celegorm has found it is the best at keeping their little hero warm.

It is essentially a quilt with sleeves.

Mírë gives it a disgusted look but pulls the brightly patterned jacket on.  It’s not the colours that annoy it, it was utterly delighted when Celegorm first sourced it from the quarter-master, who had traded for several of the jackets. The disgust is born from the fact that it has to wear it.

“Why don’t we go to the archery field after lunch when I am free,” he proposes.

“Oh. Yes! Bow!”

“Sentences,” Celegorm reminds.

“Yes please Celegorm. I like… archery.” Mírë gives him a pleased look at remembering the correct word.

“Good,” Celegorm agrees, “I like archery too. Perhaps this time we can hit the targets and not the mess tent.”

-

The next hurdle to overcome is breakfast. But Celegorm has mastered this.

“If you slip Huan any of your food, I will put you over my knee,” he keeps an eagle eye on the bowl of porridge and Mírë’s spoon.

The spoon edges away from where it is slightly off centre from the bowl and winds up in Mírë’s mouth.

Huan gives him a betrayed look.

“Do not start,” he tells the aggrieved hound, “you’re getting fat.”

Huan refuses to look at him for the rest of the morning.

-

He does not look after Mírë all the time. He would likely go mad.

But they daren’t let this mirror of their father, recast in the form of a youth on the doorway between childhood and adulthood, out of their sight.

Maedhros sometimes take Mírë during the day, and returns them with a head full of political theory and philosophy. Maglor will take a turn from time to time, but Maglor is usually looking out for Amrod.

Curufin is to be kept away from Mírë at all costs. There is a palpable aura of hatred around his brother when Mírë is mentioned.  He is the first to bring up the possibility that Mírë is one of those twisted by Morgoth, and sent back to cause dissention, and the first to point out Mírë’s unnaturalness to back this up.

He seems to hate even the air Mírë breathes.

Amrod is just not interested with anything anymore.

Caranthir’s tent is usually where Mírë spends their days. Caranthir will give them a quick lesson in reading, writing or numbers, and then set Mírë to working out a problem whilst Caranthir takes care of his own concerns.

High efficient, that’s Caranthir for you.

He leaves Mírë sitting meekly before Caranthir’s desk, looking thoroughly bemused by the abacus Caranthir has presented them with.

-

They hit the targets this time.

-

Finally, a full turning of Laurelin’s light they reckon by the use of sand, and water clocks, Mírë is put to bed.

This remains easy; any excuse to get naked will have Mírë obediently shucking clothes, washing in the copper tub and getting into bed.

What happens later is what is difficult to deal with. Celegorm goes to sleep wondering if he’ll sleep the allocated time completely or awaken to find Mírë in the middle of a night terror.

Tonight there is no luck. Halfway through the allocated rest period, he is awakened by quiet, muffled sobbing.

“Ah…” he sighs, wriggling from his bedding into Mírë’s without letting in too much of the currently frigid air, “what did you dream of tonight?” he manages to get an arm over the tightly coiled up body, and rubs the shaking back.

“Fin…fi..fin…fin…fin…finwë…” chokes Mírë.

“Yes,” Celegorm forces his hand to keep rubbing circles, “what about him?”

“Blood. Blood. Lots of it. All over blue stars. He dropped us in it. Again and again.”

Celegorm thought of the tiles of the hallway in Formenos, each white and hand-painted with a blue star, no star the same in pattern. Their father had lavished Formenos. It was not just his treasure vault but a second house, and had been decorated and outfitted to befit a prince.

The slope of the hallway leading to the main treasure vault had been such, that a small stream of their grandfather’s blood had met his arriving, desperate family.

There had been bloody smears around the large pool beneath their grandfather’s body, smudged facet faces clear amongst them.

His hand has stilled completely on Mírë’s back.

“Shone too brightly. Shouldn’t have been b-b-b-born.. n..no not born…c-created? Created. Should not have been created.”

Celegorm sighs and tucks the sobbing youth up into his arms. What does he say now? It’s hard to find words of reassurance when he agrees…at least in regards to the silmarils. He daren’t acknowledge his insane theory right now, not if it means wishing for the unmaking of the teary mess in his arms.

“Shh it will be alright. All of that is over,” he reassures lamely. Comfort has never been his forte. He continues on in this manner until with a whine Huan gets up from his basket and joins them on Mírë’s other side.

“Sleep now Mírë,” he coaxes. “Relax. Sleep. It is alright.” And in time even the hiccups that end a sobbing fit, cease, and the unnamed stranger sleeps like Caranthir used to during their childhood naps; limbs flung haphazardly over Celegorm.

Celegorm lies awake for an hour after, staring into the darkness and wondering if he should tell his father about this.