Waiting for the Thaw by Narya

Chapter 1

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Ost-in-Edhil
S.A. 1351

 

Laughter echoed from windows, and the stars gleamed needle-cold. Calandil's jewelled lamps bathed the streets in hues of scarlet, green and blue; spindled shadows stretched over the snow; outside the city, the Sirannon and the Glanduin lay silent under the ice.

“Are you proud of it, my lord?”

Annatar's voice was as soft as fresh snow. Celebrimbor gave a quick smile, and shrugged. “I cannot claim credit for all of it.” Though in truth he was proud; he had not designed all of the buildings, but it was the craft and research of his Guilds that had made the city great – and, later, the knowledge that Annatar had brought from the West. “My cousin's Halls -”

“Are a blight on the heart of the city. Yes, I know, you will not hear a word against the Lady Galadriel.” Now his companion sounded amused. Starlight shone on the ice-white hair, and the scrolled lips curved. “But she was no architect. If I had my way, we would tear them all down and build something more worthy of you and your realm.”

My realm. Celebrimbor shivered. It still sounded strange in his ears, and would not settle in his soul.

In silence they passed through the gates, nodding at the guards, who huddled over a fat, leaning candle. One of them – a broad-shouldered, fair-haired man who had once stood guard for Finrod in Nargothrond – hastily slid a wineskin under the table. Annatar raised an eyebrow, but Celebrimbor shrugged again. He could not begrudge them a drink, not on a night like this, when the cold was sharp and cruel and as deep as the grave.

They made for the confluence, treading lightly on the snow, and stopped at the carved stone bench where the rivers joined. He wondered if Annatar knew that the bench was Bría's design, and whether his companion was aware of the long, warm evenings Celebrimbor had spent here each summer, arguing with his cousin over some point of lore, laughing, teasing, studying together. He suspected so. Little escaped those noticing eyes.

Fastidious as ever, Annatar dusted the snow from the bench's seat, then spread his cloak and turned to Celebrimbor. “Come and sit with me, my lord.”

Celebrimbor felt the corner of his mouth lift. Who commands whom, my crafty friend? “With pleasure.” He meant it, unlikely though that once may have seemed. He remembered how Bría had laughed at his jealousy when Annatar arrived.

He shivered. Even with company, it was strange to sit here, in winter, without her. The night was so still that he could hear the expanse of Eregion's plains, and he felt his cousin's presence like a shade - a whisper of another world layered beguilingly over the hushed, dead land he walked.

In the curve of the frozen Glanduin, a trapped leaf peeped through the ice, waiting for the thaw.

From his cloak Annatar drew a metal flask – an ingenious device which trapped heat inside with layers of silver and glass, the air removed from the spaces between – and unscrewed the stopper. Steam rose from the elegant curve of its neck (nothing Annatar made, however practical, was unlovely) and the scent of apples and nutmeg curled through the air. With a knowing smile, he passed it to Celebrimbor.

“Thank you.” Celebrimbor sipped the hot, sweet liquid – and his heart leapt as he tasted the citrus bite under the familiar comfort of spice. “Oranges?”

Annatar nodded. “From Far Cathaia. Dried, of course, at this time of year.”

“Of course.” The eastern trade wagons would never have made it through the snow. Celebrimbor took another sip and closed his eyes, thinking of the first time he'd bitten into an orange as a child in Aglon – the juices had run down his chin, and his mother had mopped his face with a tut and a smile, and his father had tousled his hair – and later, he'd eaten baked sweet orange slices at Yuletide in Nargothrond, Finduilas teasing him and popping them into his mouth... “I thought the last ones were given out at the midwinter feast?”

The smile widened, utterly charming. “I have a small supply of my own. It seemed a pity to use all of them for garlands and cakes and children's dainties.”

With a laugh, Celebrimbor passed him the flask. “Anyway, it's a pleasant surprise.”

“I'm glad.” Annatar took a deep drink. “That was the first time I've heard you laugh since their departure.”

Celebrimbor looked at him sharply.

“Am I too bold?”

“No. No, you are quite right.”

Annatar paused. “If you wish, we could grow oranges in Ost-in-Edhil. There is room enough in the city for glasshouses, and we can obtain saplings when the trade caravans return in the spring; they are easy enough to tend, once established. I have seen it done in Valinor.”

I'm sure you have. His father Curufin had told him of the great orangerie at Finwë's summer house, of the trees' rich, heady perfume, of the flesh as sweet as the first days of summer. Celebrimbor breathed in around tears that were too old to fall. “I assume you did not bring me out here to discuss fruit, Annatar.”

“No.” He offered the flask again, but Celebrimbor did not take it. “Though it is good to leave the city sometimes, and to sit for a while in a silent land.” His eyes rested on the frozen leaf. “I find there is a clarity about ice and snow, and beauty in a thing preserved.”

As though in response, the Glanduin whispered under the ice. The trapped leaf shivered.

“An enticing idea, is it not?” Annatar went on. His eyes gleamed like black opals, and his voice ached like an ancient wound. “The keeping of things...to catch a moment as one might a spring butterfly...to set it in crystal, forever protecting the precious and transient...”

The smell of metal and smoke rose from the earth. Annatar's ungloved hand lay next to his own. Not for the first time, Celebrimbor wondered what this strange smith-messenger had seen on his journeys. For a wild, mad moment he thought of folding the sensitive fingers between his palms and shielding them from the cold.

“Forgive me.” Annatar smiled, and held out the flask; this time, Celebrimbor accepted. “I do not mean to be melancholy.”

“You're in good company.” Though Celebrimbor's longings ran more to creation than preservation, he understood the urge to dam the river of Time. If the choice had been his, he and Celebrían would still be working side by side in Ost-in-Edhil, building a legacy his grandfather could be proud of.  "I find I'm in rather a bleak mood myself."

To his surprise he felt the brush of bare skin against his fingers. A prickling thrum ran through his bones and into his limbs, warming him as even the hot, spiced cider had not. Gently, carefully, he gripped Annatar's hand in return.

“The thaw will not be long now.” Annatar's breath clouded and wreathed about their heads. “The world will turn, and change again.” He turned, and traced one slender finger along Celebrimbor's jaw. Celebrimbor's blood sang; the frozen air heated and caught in his throat. He closed his eyes as Annatar leaned closer, and whispered words caressed his skin. “What will you do with this new world, child of Fëanor's line?”

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Chapter End Notes

Calandil is a minor OC in another Second Age fic of mine.

Bría is Celebrimbor's nickname for Celebrían. I have borrowed it from Raiyana, with Raiy's permission.

Far Cathaia is borrowed from Spiced Wine's 'verse; Spiced has kindly given me the go-ahead to use elements of her worldbuilding. Cathaia shares an approximate geographic location with modern day China, where oranges originate from.