Blood, Song, & Silver by MisbehavingMaiar

Chapter 1

Part 1

Read Chapter 1

 

 

The emissary came from the West, and distrust preceded him.

The elves of Eriador had lived through the wars of Beleriand— Where, they asked, had this stranger been during that time? Who were his kin? What had been his alignment in the politics of the old world? What place, they asked, did a Vanya have, amid the flotsam of a sunken continent?

"He speaks silvered words, and spreads clean hands, offering to advise the Noldor in their own craft."  Read a missive from the High King. "This self-styled lord Aulendil is both over-confident and over-humble! Late to our struggles and to the realm; an outrageous dandy with outrageous claims. Nothing could be more irritating. Be cautious, cousin. The Valar have given us gifts enough already."

 

 

This chilly reception was slow in thawing, and Celebrimbor received the outcast from Lindon with blunt manners and little patience. Aulendil was invited to stay in the court of Ost-in-Edhil, if only so he could be better scrutinized.

When the emissary did arrive he was greeted by many whispers. He was, the king guessed, about the same age as his great uncle would have been, had he still been alive. He had a carven quality about his cheeks and chin and nose, but around the eyes and mouth there was a softness, a few criss-crossing lines as Men have, who have reached the middle of their years.

Celebrimbor thought him a strange chimera, as mismatched as his agate eyes (such odd, piebald eyes!); a Vanya, a smith favored by Aulë, a follower of the Valar gone willingly to mingle with the exiles… He could think of none before who came pieced together of such disparate qualities.

Before the throne in the capital, Aulendil made his formal introduction to the king and court, proving not only that was a nimble statesman, but that he was not lacking in charm.

“I do not say this lightly: what you and your brotherhood have achieved here in Eregion is beyond imagination. By the rumors, I thought perhaps that you had succeeded in building a second Tirion— but I was mistaken. Your grace, this city, its accomplishments… they transcend everything built ere now.” 

The emissary’s over-polite tone gave way to a note of genuine awe, enthusiasm clear upon the lines of his face. “It is the very diversity of this place wherein its strength lies— no other bastion of knowledge has had the aid of so many of the speaking peoples’ wisdom… the Quendi, the Khazad, the Atani; all working together to create beauty, and restore harmony to the earth. It is an honor merely to witness your history take place, to say nothing of participating in it.”  He laughed once in quiet self-derision. “It seems foolhardy at best to offer guidance to such an accomplished people. My words sound brazen even to my own ear! But I believe, my lords, that I indeed have something to offer you; an insight into knowledge that could make Eregion as bright as Valinor itself with the aid of its powers. A means to rebuild your nation in—“

Celebrimbor halted the emissary’s speech with an abrupt motion. Cold looks ran round the courtroom; the emissary had struck a sour chord.

“You are full of praise for myself and my city, but you may save your proselytizing. We have no desire for more aid from Valinor. We have not yet recovered from their last gesture of mercy."

"Your grace," Aulendil returned with an amending bow, “with all respect, you are mistaken. I am no missionary. I came of my own will, though my journey was sanctioned by my teacher, Aulë."

"Liar." Celebrimbor stood, caring not for the hushed murmurs that gathered around him. The councils of the High King echoed in his memory; he had a duty to weed out deceit, to hold the line for the surviving kingdoms of his people. What did praise mean, from the lips of a stranger fresh from the shelter of the West? Whatever came from Aman brought with it unwanted and unwritten tithes— and he would have none of it here, in the city he had built out of the wreckage of the Valar’s intervention.

"I was not so young when I left the Undying Lands. Aulë has naught to do with the Minyar, nor they with him. They stay huddled at the feet of Manwë, and only left their bells and star-gazing because the Lord of the West hiked up his skirts and waded over the sea! No Vanya ever suffered the soot of forge-work to mar their pious hands."  The king stepped from the dais and grasped his guest by the wrists, turning his palms upwards to display them to the court.

Celebrimbor’s own hands were worn smooth as dark weathered wood; their shape graceful and hard. The offending palms of the stranger, he noted, were pale by comparison, but rough and lined and etched with tarnish, like old silver;  the etchings of labor the same as his own. 

…Yet, the emissary also had long, clean nails that had been recently tended, and so with a bark of amusement to cover his chagrin, the Noldo spread his fingers. “Ah. I see the file for your nails has given you a callous."

Untouched by shame, Aulendil smiled a little cat smile. "Alas, I cannot pretend I have been in a forge very recently, your grace! My travels have taken me around the continent, reading and learning and recording all that I could. Rest assured, I can still tell when the fire’s hot enough for steel."

He winked.

But the king’s face hardened. "I too, have traveled, and studied under many roofs. Yet I, in all my travels, have never heard of a wandering Vanya scholar, keen on smithing."

Aulendil blinked. "I have been mainly in the East…"

"Enough." Celebrimbor hissed through bitten teeth, and the court went silent as a cairn. “The council has heard your offer, and shall now adjourn to give it due consideration. And as for you and I, we will speak. Alone. Follow."  

In a heavy swirl of piled silk, the Noldo rounded into a council chamber, and when his guest followed with quiet tread, he locked the door behind them.

In the sudden close privacy of the room, the two regarded one another in stifling silence.

"You—" the king laid his hands flat upon a map table, "—will tell me, 'lord' Aulendil, exactly where you come from, and what your purposes are here." Celebrimbor bent, fingers spread over the newly divided continent. "And I warn you, if you are not more forthcoming about your identity than you were with Círdan and Gil-Galad, I  too, will have you expelled from my realm. You have peddled your wares to them already, and have felt their boots on the seat of your britches. So I suggest you not waste words with me." He snorted. "If you are not a missionary, and no spy for Aman: what are you?"

Lines of hurt appeared on the emissary’s forehead. "Your grace! Please excuse me, I did not mean to cause offense by my visit! I had hoped I was becoming better acquainted with the Noldor, but I see now that you do not trust me at all…"  

He lifted a thumb to his distinguished brow, as if in thought, or regret. "…You are right to be suspicious. I have not been entirely honest with you, or your kin. It is long past time I apologized, and cleared the air."

The Noldo inhaled and curled his fingers, holding his breath as curiosity and validation mingled in his chest.  

The folds around the Aulendil’s eyes deepened, and his voice came slow with candor. "I am not a Vanya. I am not even, strictly speaking, one of the Eldar. I am a half-maia. One of Aulë's folk."

Celebrimbor felt his jaw drop; he shut it again quickly.

The emissary continued, "…Curumo, the Cunning, begat me upon a noblewoman of Ingwë’s house. It was no happy union as Thingol and Melian’s was… after strife between them, my birth was a gift that brought no joy to either. And, though indeed I left Valinor at Aulë's behest, to bring light and knowledge to his favored people still in Middle Earth," the emissary continued, "—I left also because I did not belong in that land. I am not, nor will ever be, entirely welcome in either race, or as anyone's kin."

Aulendil glanced across the yellowed map, his face looking older still. "I am as dispossessed as you are, King Tyelperinquar; in this company of exiles and craftsmen, I had hoped to find solace…. But I do not blame you for sending me away. I have kept too much from you, betrayed your trust. I shall take my leave."

How dare you say that name. How dare you presume to be as lost, as abused by Fate as my people… The king thought. How dare you, a Vanya, a Maia— Yet, somewhere within, a dam burst, and he found himself biting back a wave of furious empathy.

How could he, twice an exile, now an orphan, fail to recognize the plight of one unjustly stripped of roots? Of one, he dared to guess, who had felt not the love that ought to be between father and son. Who might understand.

"Wait—" In the silence Celebrimbor swallowed, and lifted his palms from the table open and extended. “I see I have been… ungracious to you, lord Aulendil. My colleagues spoke of you with prejudice, and in my suspicion I made accusations that circumstance has clearly made painful for you to defend yourself against. I swear by my blood, my star, your secret is my secret… I will not send you to further exile, as my kin have done. Let Eregion be your home now."

"Your majesty!" The emissary exclaimed, lifting his head.

The king clucked and waved a hand, clasping those of his guest, warm copper folding in the cool and white.

"You may call me Tyelpe, as do all my smiths… Accept my apology, and let us begin this meeting anew." He gave the emissary’s hand a squeeze. "Join us tomorrow, at the Temple of Silver. I will introduce you to the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, and you may elaborate on your ideas. You may not meet with their agreement, but you ought at least have the chance to be heard.”

Aulendil pressed Celebrimbor’s hands in return and smiled; not the little cat smile he'd worn at court, but a toothy, handsome grin. "My king… Tyelpe. Thank you. You have given me everything I could have wished for."

______________

Golden motes swarmed in the light filtering through tall windows beneath the intricate vaulted ceiling of the auditorium.

A hemicircle of benches  beneath bristled with men and women of many races, all wearing the chain and badge of the Guild; gilt and embossed with the symbols of their respective trades.

Despite its scale and grandeur, the Temple of Silver felt quite intimate, with the steps for the assembly hemmed close to a central dais. Painted wood embellishments and richly colored tapestries made the arena splendorous, rather than austere.

At the center podium, Aulendil ascended the steps, his steps echoing faintly. Seated at the farthest right, Celebrimbor crossed his legs, his eye trained on the members of the Guild, while preamble and formalities came to a close.

The golden chain around the emissary’s neck gleamed new-minted, and blank.

"Brothers and Sisters in smithcraft, artificers, scholars: I did not come here to belittle your knowledge. What you have accomplished here in Eregion pushes the very limits of what can be done with metal and mineral, when one has only the naked eye to study with."  

Some amidst the audience raised eyebrows, unimpressed. Other stared, grim-mouthed, at the newcomer from the West.

"What I propose to teach you lies beyond what the eye can see. It will begin with lenses—"

"Our lenses are the finest ever ground by Khazad masters; carved out of diamond and polished with the hide of unborn lambs. With them you can spy all the stars of Elbereth, or all the puny, invisible monsters living in a drop of pond water!" snorted a bristling old dwarrowdam, her beard twisting and grey.

"Ah, but can you count the fibers of the hairs on the monsters’ legs?" Aulendil chuckled, tucking his hands into his sleeves. "The Khazad are, indisputably, the finest lenscrafters in Middle Earth." This seemed to satisfy the wizened master’s pride, for she eased back into her seat. "In Aman, however, with the aid of the gods, we have found that there is nearly no limit to what can be observed with precise enough tools." His voice dropped, melodious and reverent. "Indeed, given the right vantage point, one can not only see more stars in heaven than Varda ever dreamt of, but even the infinitely small points of matter that separate being from nothing. It is chilling, perhaps, to know that there is equivalent space between the stars, as there is between the particles that make up our bodies."

In the silence, Celebrimbor shifted, imagining the depths the emissary spoke of.

"My lessons will begin with lenses wrought of glass—" Aulendil continued, "And lead to lenses of the soul; for spirits, like light, can be focused, directed, and harnessed to great power. With them we can bend the essence and qualities of matter to our will."

"Can you turn lead into gold?" Spoke one dark-haired smith, sitting in the shade of a carven pillar. His eyes were bright with restrained fire.

"Ach, that fool notion again? How many times must we prove to you, Thuindor, transmutation is pure fantasy! Your old master was a great metallurgist, and a friend of the Firebeards at that, but he was also a moon-brained fanatic with a head full of gaseous notions!" This from a ruddy-haired dwarf in the second row.

The dark elf sat straighter, his mysterious air dispelled somewhat by a nasal voice and a petulant tone.  "Master Eöl saw with eyes unclouded! He saw the past the mundane possibilities of metalworking, Brother Barazbund!"

"Look, my friend,  Eöl was a fine smith, and I say this as a Khuzd! But he was madder than a hive full of blue hornets!"

Bickering erupted from the enclave, echoing through the rafters until Celebrimbor held up one hand for silence.

"I beg your pardon Master Aulendil. These two will go on for days if we do not head them off."  He said, cocking a half-grin. "Please, continue."

The emissary’s expression had grown cattish again with secret amusement.

"Well… I don’t wish to upset the balance of what appears to be a beautiful friendship—"  the audience chuckled. "But indeed, transmutation of that sort would require a vast expenditure of energy. I doubt any but a Vala could accomplish such a feat. But other significant mutations are possible— as you well know! Many of you are chemists, yes? Complex elements can be reduced to simpler ones, and those same simple components can be rearranged to form new, nearly unrecognizable, creations. Perhaps not lead into gold, but certainly carbon into graphite, or carbon into diamonds."

"That, now, I deem a worthwhile pursuit! Diamonds at least are useful! Why this obsession with gold, gold, gold? I’ll never understand." The elderly dwarrowdam crossed her arms.

Aulendil’s feline smile remained, while his eyes narrowed. "Gold." He raised a finger, and the gathering hushed once more. "You are right. It has few industrial applications. One cannot make a drill of it, nor with it coat a lathe… Yet gold has other properties." He licked his lips.

Celebrimbor found he was holding his breath.

"Gold, besides being extremely malleable and an excellent conductor of heat and energy, is remarkable in that it has a long and extremely potent memory for spells. It can retain and even amplify the enchanter’s will to such a degree that it can even be said to retain a fragment of the caster’s soul." He spread his hands, themselves glinting with precious metals. "…And of course, it is exceptionally beautiful."

"It is said that gold was the first invention of Morgoth; that it is as hungry for secrets and mischief as he was." Said a woman who had not spoken before that moment. She was an elf similar in age to the emissary, her austere face lined with the faint tracery of years.

Celebrimbor turned instinctively to hear her. Airalassë had been by his side since the long retreat;  a soldier, a mentor, and a much-needed friend.  

Her arms crossed lazily as she continued. “In my experience, Brother Speaker, enchantments seldom benefit honest people, nor do they always land in the service of good masters.“   Murmuring spread.

The tension between a tentative friend and his oldest one (who still lived) made the king run a rough hand over his chin nervously.

It was a general truism that the Eldar preferred the silver-hued metals over gold, and that there was a long-held belief that gold was somehow corrupt in essence. He did not want Aulendil to think they were a superstitious folk; neither did he wish for the master smith to say anything that would make him disagreeable to the enclave.

But the suspense did not last. Aulendil carried on smoothly. “That is true of many things. Power itself is neither good nor evil. In wicked hands, even a blessed creation can become a source of sorrow, and good men may make use of evil tools to achieve lawful goals." Then the emissary’s smile became somewhat brittle, "…And as for the notion that gold is inherently corrupt, it should be remembered that Melkor— that is, the Black Foe, could not create anything himself, but only twist what already made to his purposes. The dark lord can hardly reach us with his malice now, from beyond the Void."

A blessed creation in the hands of the wicked recalled the Silmarils stolen by Morgoth, and evil tools used for lawful ends brought to mind the cursed sword of Turin Turambar, the dragon slayer. For a stranger to Middle Earth, the emissary knew their history, and knew it well enough to paint it in forgiving light for the present company.

Celebrimbor exhaled gratefully, seeing Airalassë tilt her head in a cool, but at least not openly combative, appraisal of the speaker. The king clapped his hands thrice.

"Well spoken, Master Aulendil! I speak for us all when I say that I am eager to see through these new lenses of yours. True innovation is so often the result of a new vantage point from which to view the world. However, I must caution you… I know you are fresh out of Aman, land of the gods! But if you wish to make yourself a permanent home here on the continent—" Celebrimbor shot a sideways wink at the podium, "—You will have to stop referring to the Dark Lord by his first name."  

General laughter ensued as Aulendil flushed red and took a sheepish bow. "Caught out as the lore-loving bookworm I am! Your highness makes it clear how very much I stand to learn in exchange for my outlandish philosophies."  

And with that, the assembly droned excitedly in dismissal. It was clear from the tone of those passing that the newest member of the order was not yet entirely above suspicion, but neither had he failed to gain admirers.

As the hemisphere of seats emptied, Celebrimbor lingered in the lecture hall, catching Aulendil by shoulder on his way to the door. "I hope you were not offended by the many interruptions. The Order is an argumentative lot, with a great many strong opinions between them.  But I promise you, you have their attention."

"I fear rather that I may have offended several of them! I do not even know their names yet…" The master smith sighed.

Celebrimbor clapped his hand on the smith’s back heartily, choosing to forget his distress over Airalassë’s critical gaze. "Hah! If they are offended, it means they are thinking! There is no shortage of theories or questions here, but sometimes, I confess, we find ourselves turning over the same ground. We do not think big enough!" The king swept an enthusiastic gesture. "We pulled up this city out of a camp of refugees and barren rock, and we can do even more! Too much time we’ve spent only trying only to remember what was lost…" he swallowed, for that loss was immense, and it was not yet far enough behind them to be free of sting. "Salvaging what we can is necessary, but I long to do something new with all this knowledge, all these great minds mingling together! Never before in history has a place like this existed. I tell you, Aulendil," he grinned and found himself clutching both the man’s shoulders, halting him mid-step, "you truly are a gift to this city. You will help us achieve great things, I feel it."

The man stared at him, unblinking. "Your faith in me gives me more confidence than I can say! I am eager to begin as well.  I must prepare many samples tonight if I am to have anything to display for the seminar. Will I see you tomorrow in the main forge?"

"Unquestionably, my friend."

Friend, he said, and found he meant it.

____

In the coming months, Tyelpe discovered by slow observation and daily meetings the habits of his new companion.

When not at the forge or in symposium, Aulendil might be found exploring the foothills and valleys of the Hithaeglir, looking up at their clouded peaks, lost in thought, or sometimes swimming in the long baths of the Quartz Bastion, relaxing in the mountains’ thermal springs. 

Age had not decreased his vigor, for Aulendil demonstrated he could work a bellows or swing a hammer without tiring, but he declined to hunt or spar with younger, hot-blooded elves.  His time alone was spent in stately pursuits; reading and writing, his long legs spread and a tome balanced in nimble fingers, a thoughtful scowl furrowing his waxen brow.

When he spoke, the master smith reminded the king of some of the great orators of Tirion; grandiloquent and precise of diction. During lectures he would pace in even measures, his hands tucked within the sleeves of his robes.
...After a glass of wine or two, however, the man’s jokes could be as coarse as a tavern stool, and when his conversation turned to matters of his art, he seemed almost dwarvish in his passion.

In his precision and focus, he was much like Celebrimbor’s father had been; yet in all other ways he was different. And that, to Tyelpe, was a source of disquiet.

At work, the familiar pace and the pragmatic omission of formality drove him into the groove of old habits; soon he found himself following Aulendil’s instructions as if he were an apprentice in his father’s forge again, and not a leader of craftsmen.

With the familiarity came the expectation of old rebuke— he had never been a fumbling student, but his father’s wishes had not always been plain. Like Fëanor, his father had had a mind as clear and sharp as glass, but few words to spare in explaining himself. Tyelpe often thought, that if it hadn’t been for the necessity of training his son, that Curufin would have preferred to work alone in all things. Certainly it had seemed that way when Tyelpe failed to interpret an unspoken desire, or achieve a standard of perfection that only Curufin understood.

So when, in the pursuit of a new method he miscalculated the necessary heat for the coals, it took him by surprise that his error elicited no biting remark on his intelligence or moral fiber.

“Ah!” Aulendil put his hand over Tyelpe’s in guidance. “Close. A few degrees more, it’s a whiter heat for mithril. There you have it. Perfect. Now, hold it there.”  

“I’m sorry, I should have—“

“Eh?”  the Vanya smith blinked in confusion. “No need for an apology, Tyelpe. Goodness, this is your forge after all. You’re doing fine.” He laughed, and returned to work.

And that was that.

The heat in Celebrimbor’s face had nothing to do with his proximity to the furnace then. Fool. Dost thou imagine thy cousins would be so hasty to apologize for imagined offenses? Thou art a king, Tyelpe! Remember it!

Eyes were upon him at all times, both at home and afar. He could not behave like a boyish novice, even if his mentor were thrice his age. But despite all his long habit and discipline of keeping in check a quick temper and hot blood, Aulendil left blooms of inconvenient emotions wherever he touched, against which he was defenseless. It was not flattery, for the master smith gave no accolades where none were deserved, and a king could not afford to yield to sycophants— it was simply that in his mind, he had no suitable space for praise. With no adequate vessel to contain it, it overflowed quickly into pride and embarrassment.

He expected always that a qualifier must follow a compliment, or for a weighty responsibility to accompany each word. But it was not so; whatever he did that pleased the forgemaster was earnestly and sincerely assessed, often with a wink.

“Clever, Tyelpe! Would that I had thought of that…”

“Do not tell the dwarves you have surpassed them in metallurgy, we’ll have another war by lunchtime.”

“Ah, the skill this took! Is Aulë missing more than one Maia?”

Even with a graceful exit planned, Tyelpe often found his store of words uncharacteristically empty, with no witty riposte or even thanks at the ready.

It could make working together a maddening gauntlet of unexpected sentiment, when it ought to have been a cool and untroubled meeting of intellectual minds— so he told himself. The hot breezes of youth had no more place in his life; he was lord of Eregion and of the greatest smiths in Middle Earth! He had not survived the War of Wrath by accident after all.

He had known that a deluge was coming, that trying to hold on to the past was folly. Fate rode roughshod over that country and he had not stayed to be trampled by it, joining the refugees of Belegost and Hollowbold as they fled over the Blue Mountains to wait out the storm. Filial duty had pulled one way, and he had pulled the other. If praise and acceptance were what he craved, he had been born into the wrong family.

Yet, he thought, if he had known that the Valar’s war would drown half the continent, taking all the history of his people down with it into the sea… he would have… he did not know what. Perhaps not flown so quickly from what was left of his roots.

Celebrimbor shook his head to clear it of shadows, focusing on the rhythm of his friend’s nearby hammer to bring him back to the present.

Today was for working, he reminded himself. Today would be a good day. There were no meetings to be had, no more letters to write nor documents that required his approval. Only the furnace, the workbench, and the grindstone.

There would be no more pre-emptive apologies. There would be only camaraderie and learning. He worked his jaw and huffed a brusque, committed sound before removing the mirthril bar he’d been keeping in the fire and bringing it to the anvil for drawing out into sheets.

Throughout his workshop, tables were scattered with the various geometries of a dozen projects; squares and bars and beads of metal that would align into intricate metal knotwork when they were assembled. Tyelpe yawned reflexively seeing the pile of gauged wires he’d been up all night twisting into filigree.Tedious, but satisfying work.

"Brother Barazbund came earlier today with your order of topaz. He said because you insisted on the emerald cut, he chose a flame-tipped rough over the pale yellow. He says if you waste it on something 'flimsy' he will personally shave you bald."  

Across the forge Aulendil laughed. "I cannot tell if that means he likes me better or worse than before…"

"He insists he hates you! Admires your work, but takes great umbrage towards your face and person." Tyelpe assured him.

"Ouh? What a shame. I’m quite taken with him. I’ve always liked my Master’s people, even if they’ve never much cared for me… but," the voice grimaced, "I’d happily risk a savage barbering if it meant I could put his work station in order."

The Noldo bit his lip grinning, picturing his friend’s discomfort perfectly even with his back turned. "He says he knows how it’s organized!"

"He knows more than god, then! There is going to be a king’s ransom of diamonds lost through the floorboards if so much as sneezes! His beard has probably swept up more wealth than—" There was a clank of metal and a flood of blue cursing. “Oh mother of spiders! That hurt! Remind me not to speak to you while you’re being an ass. Expansive gestures in the forge are dangerous.”

Tyelpe had to brace himself against the anvil, snorting with laughter.

"Is—" he choked, wiping his eyes. "Is anything broken?"

"No."

"Is anything disorganized?"

"…I’ll see you in hell, Ñoldo."

He assumed there was a rude gesture he was missing. If it were possible to die from laughing silently, he’d be in Mandos soon.

"As soon as you’re done crippling yourself from mirth, I have something to show you. A private lesson."

"Very well," Tyelpe assented, setting down flatter and mithril. "I see how you reward impudence."

"Hah." Aulendil drawled. he was perched with one leg on a workbench, arranging before him a number of vials. Most the king recognized; two were a mystery.

"Can you guess, my royal apprentice, what I am using to bond this silver?" He gestured to a sheet of granulated silver, spools and beads of filigree arranged delicately atop it, ready to be soldered. Later it would be cut free of the extra sheeting, mounted with a clasp, filed, then polished to gleaming; perhaps it would be set with the much-discussed topaz, or filled with colored enamel.

Tyelpe craned his neck. "I see salt, copper and iron oxide, distilled beech ash, salt, silver dust, silicate, wax, tallow…" the last two were liquid, familiar but unidentified. "These are components for fluxes and solders. If you are bonding sterling, I would think… the salt and oxide mixed with wax for flux, silver and copper dust for solder? Though if you are planning to put the piece to the fire more than once, I would use a hard solder of pure silver first, and the copper mixture after, so that the second weld does not melt the first."  

This was common knowledge for gold and silversmiths; he wondered what his mentor could mean by testing him on everyday practices.

Aulendil made a circular gesture with one hand. "…And? What am I using for binder?"

Tyelpe squinted at the unknown liquids. One was clear and viscous and ringed with bubbles, the other dark and suspiciously red. "…Soap? Water? Rust?” He guessed.

His teacher, the emissary, a man of eloquent words and elegant behavior, leaned forward and spat into the first vial.*

The king wrinkled his nose. It was the most jarring, borderline obscene thing he’d seen the Vanya do. "You’re joking."

"I am not. And the second?"  

"I… dare not guess. No. It isn’t."

He rolled up one sleeve, displaying a shallow cut on the heal. "Blood."

Tyelpe sat down heavily.  "You reveal yourself to be a disgusting barbarian. Why are you using blood and slaver as soldering medium?"

A glint of fire caught the smith’s eye and he crossed his arms, a finger held aloft. “One— because it is a lightly acidic, liquid material that easily distributes our silver and copper dust, and two—“ he held up a second digit, “because it is part and product of the body. The blood, meanwhile, contains some iron, true, but its main purpose is the same as the aforementioned: it contains remnants of the one who is responsible for the smithing.”

“Is superstition at the core of this lesson?” The king shot his friend a suspicious look. “It sounds like a fertility charm made by old wives of the Atani.”

“It is not superstition, nor is it hedgemagic; not if one has the willpower to complete the task.” Aulendil’s face grew serious. “Do you think your grandfather’s work contained only crystal?” And Tyelpe’s frown deepened in turn. It was not lightly that anyone mentioned the Silmarils in his presence.  

“I want you to think of these,” Aulendil gestured to the fluids, “as a different kind of solder, for a different kind of weld. When one infuses something of one’s body into metalwork, it becomes easier to affix the essence of one’s spirit, or the essence of a thought.” He glanced at his pupil sidelong, gauging his attention. “But it is necessary first to isolate that which one wishes to imbue. Remember when I spoke to you of lenses of the spirit? A thought or a soul must be focused, in order to be transferred."

“I am not entirely ignorant of what you speak. An old friend of mine was well versed in Khazad rune magic; our work together featured it. But many of us no longer trust in enchantments…  Our fathers and forefathers knew of magic, and Song, and how it might be applied to our craft. But we left much of that behind in the old world, and there it stays. We have not yet decided, whether or not it is for the better.”

“Song, yes! That is the lens! And there is one I can teach you.” Aulendil continued, seating himself beside the king so their gazes were level. “The world was made of Song and from it, all great magics continue. It is necessary to creating of any item of power.”

“…Which I have not yet assented to the making of!” Tyelpe’s eyes narrowed. “You are my teacher. But it is for me to decide what is made in my forges, in my kingdom.”

He all but flinched when a hand grasped his knee gently; Aulendil leaned forward by a small fraction, the creases on his handsome face deepening with feeling. “I know. And you are a good king, Tyelperinquar. You brought something beautiful out of the ashes, made a haven for those who have suffered too much already, as you have. I know that you have only their well-being at heart, their protection. And you wish to move forward from the past, which betrayed so many of us—” he caught himself, amending, “of you and yours, foremost of all.” 

“…Were you on the continent for the final battle?” Tyelpe asked with a start. He hardly knew why he asked it, except that candor was in the air, and his face was already warm with too much attention on himself.

Aulendil blinked slow, and nodded as if remembering. “I was. Under Ingwion.” He shook his head, gold but for the grey at his temples. “I would rather not speak of it, if you do not mind.”

And Tyelpe swallowed a stone in is throat. “I’m sor—“ he coughed, “I apologize, if I have opened an old wound.”

He waved a hand, releasing the king’s knee. “It is forgotten. But more to my point, everyone in Eregion, the survivors, have lost what can never be regained. My wish, and yours too, if I’m not mistaken, is to prevent such loss from ever happening again. And Tyelpe— we have the power to do it, here, now! With the techniques I am about the teach you.” He met the king’s eyes in unblinking honesty. “Trust me.”

“I do.” He heard himself saying, tongue dry.

“Then I will teach you the Song of Binding.”

---

Chapter End Notes

To see a video of the discussed goldsmithing techniques, see this video.

Chapter 2

Part 2 -- 

Contains explicit sexual and violent content 

Read Chapter 2

 The harvest had been good that year, better than any in written record. River traffic generally halted for winter, but travelers from as far north as Angmar and Forochel had come by ship around the coast, traveling up the Gwathló river with their ice-breaking hulls. They’d brought with them exotic cargo, and a desire to trade for metalwork, salt, and bullion. Furs, textiles, nacre shells, great ivory tusks, meteor iron, sapphires, mead, and strange edible tubers found their way into the markets of Eregion, while the foreign visitors made fast friends of curious elves.

Aulendil himself purchased and took to wearing a long coat of cream-colored leather, trimmed with white fox fur, making the emissary look more than usual like a smug, well-groomed cat.

Now at the celebration of the Solstice, the Vanya-Aulendur had chosen to wear a woolen longvest that nestled snug against his torso, with loose sleeves and a plunging collar lined with mink. Little golden beads and seed pearls glinted on his soft leather boots and gloves.

Certainly, he was not the only flamboyant dresser in Eregion; the people of the jewel smiths were not interested in gem crafting as a purely academic interest, after all. Many faceted, precious stones and metal threadwork glinted in the lamplight, the city square transformed into a looking-glass for the stars. The king had chosen dark velvets and matching lace to wear, his ears and buttons emerald-studded; subtle in comparison to his guests. There was more glittering beauty shining against the winter night than the eye could take in, yet he found he could not take his eyes off Aulendil.

The emissary was engaged in polished conversation with others of the Order, preferring, as they often did during festivities, to discuss their esoteric pursuits amongst one another rather than mingling.

"We are all of us such cave-dwellers!" Someone in the enclave laughed in explanation. "Save for the Nandor, who do not use carpentry but rather convince the trees to grow into their dwellings, and the Sindar who lived under close-hatched forests and seldom with heavy snow. When we first arrived I’m afraid we built many flat-topped buildings that collapsed under the weight of snow in the winter. The Men of these regions were the ones who showed us the wisdom of these sloping roofs, and of south-facing doors."

"Fascinating! That is the wonder of a cosmopolitan city. Wherever I go, East or West, the crossroads of many cultures are my favorite destinations. You should travel to Umbar someday and see their university and the great lighthouse. Especially you, Sister Vannessë; with your work on the Teleri’s astrolabe, you would appreciate it.”

“And you should try harping on anything else!" they laughed. "You are besotted with the East, my friend! Is our own university so unworthy by comparison?"

"Not at all! It benefits immensely from the congress of all the speaking peoples; I meant it when I said your city is unique, a gem that needs must be preserved against the entropy of time." His expression grew sober. "That is why our latest project is of such importance."

"Please, Annatar—“ for some had taken to calling him by that name, "it is the Solstice: let us speak of something other than that which we slave over, grindstone and crucible, on all other days of the week!."

He chuckled, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his coat demurely. "Very well, very well! They are beginning the dances in any case… which of you stoop-backed cave-dwellers is keen on taking my arm?"

Tyelpe swallowed the last of his third cup of mulled wine, pressed both hands on the holly-laden table for courage and stood. "I will."  

Aulendil’s brow raised. "Indeed? Canst thou yet stand, o king?" His grin was a challenge.

"I can stand." Tyelpe pressed forward. "And I can dance. I’ll take you to arm, you smug old devil. If you’re not too ancient to lift your feet."

"Careful boy, or I’ll make an example of you before your classmates," the master smith’s voice was low and full of mischief.

The Noldo’s heart hammered loud in answer; "Such treason!" He clucked, meeting the other’s gaze with mocking admonition .

The music began.

They formed two lines, each partner making stately bows towards across the divide; each side separated by sex for the majority, but not for all. Some women danced with women, some men with men. Others still danced with they cared not whom. It was a chill, and beautiful night. The air was full of music and brazen curiosity; no questions needed to be asked.

Dancers met at the hands, the backs of their wrists touching one another like duelists crossing swords, while each partner paced a languid circle round the other. The circles reversed, and so did the hands; then each passed the other with slow, square steps. Hands met again at the back, this time fingers interlacing, and the lead turned their follower under their arm, so that each were facing and close.  Arms raised, palms met, circles turned, each step becoming more intricate and more lively, until the swell of the music had all grinning and twirling, heels clicking in synchrony.

When the pace dropped again, the dancers fairly collapsed onto one another, stifling laughter and panting as the rhythms slowed. And this time the lines were broken; couples orbited one another in tandem, pairs circling pairs, a complex planetary rotation of glittering robes and gowns.

As the momentum slowed, Celebrimbor found himself leaning more heavily on the smith’s great arms, less for the sake of the dance and more for balance as he drifted closer to the other’s chest, wishing somehow it would not be a grievous impropriety to lay his head on the man’s thick shoulder, if only to rest from the spinning lights.

"Not bad by half…" he panted. "…for one so elderly."

"And you neither, for a savage, uncouth Fëanorian."

Tyelpe breathed a laugh. "We had brave, fiery dances. You’d never keep up."

"I would have loved to see them. We were always more inclined towards song than dance, but it is an art my eyes covet."

Aulendil was taller than the king by half a head. During the silence where both men caught their breath, Tyelpe gazed ahead blearily, losing focus on the crowds, the other dancers. In front of him, the only thing he saw was the white-gold trim of a beard on the emissary’s chin. Like Círdan…he thought, like Mahtan. He wondered why he’d not noticed it before… it gleamed so soft and light, like his hair, like the fur of his coat. The tips of his fingers strayed to touch it, needing to understand the texture he saw. It was smooth and warm and orderly when stroked in one direction, rough in the other, stopping just under his lips— his breath fogged in the cold air, across Tyelpe’s knuckles.

Aulendil blinked slow and feline; eyes the color of agate, eyes like he’d never seen before, stained glass fused of blue and brown and green. They blurred into meaningless shapes as Tyelpe swooned, finding himself with his cheek against the emissary’s throat, where he could feel his pulse flutter, smell sweat, the heat of blood just under his skin warm against Tyelpe’s lips. He slid a thumb curiously, lazily, under the man’s collar, pulling it open that he might kiss the line of his neck.

He felt hands on his shoulders. "…Tyelpe."

He did not want to listen, he wanted to follow the lines to their crux, and further. 

"Tyelpe." The grip on his upper arms tightened in restraint. "You are drunk. There are others watching."

And the world came crashing back in a wave— all noise and lights and propriety.

He swallowed, and felt the apology on his lips before he could stifle it.

Stupid, stupid, idiot boy! How could you have disgraced yourself before your teacher like an animal? Have you no more self-control than a dog in heat? You shame yourself, you shame your line!  

The voice in his mind was too familiar, and not his own.

"Not on my account should you apologize." Came a whisper in his ear, and it silenced the other voice with a bloom of fire. "If you were not king, I would undress you here in the courtyard. You are so beautiful, Silver-Hands."

The last he said in a strange dialect that made him shiver.

"I would let you. Were I not king."

Soft leather gloves brushed his sternum and undid the first emerald-studded button they found there, and he knew— he knew that if he did not make his exit now, his humiliation would be complete for all the kingdom to see.

"I ought… There is too much drink in me to finish this dance, and I…" he inhaled, shook himself as if recovering from a blow. "I ought go. Thank you, my friend, for a lovely evening."  

He made his way stumbling back to the tables, laughing off his condition with as much dignity as he could muster. He stayed another hour, hoping not to catch Annatar’s eyes in the lamplight, until finally he found excuse to leave.

______

It was hours before the haze of alcohol left him; the level of his water clock told him it was nigh on midnight. The festivities would be beginning to settle, only those who planned to drink and laugh and cry together until the sun rose would still be lingering at the benches. The sounds of merriment still came blessedly muffled to his room in the palace.

For a blissful time he’d felt nothing, able to concentrate only on his spinning head and the pounding of blood in his ears. His thoughts were silent and empty, but it was only the afterglow of wine holding the storm at bay.

A knock came, interrupting his internal thunder. He groaned, forcing himself to speak.  "I do not wish to be disturbed. I will see no more visitors tonight."

"Even I?" Aulendil's low voice was muffled through the door. Celebrimbor swallowed, and prayed the old Vanya would leave without another word, so that the awkward conversation he knew he must have could wait till the morrow. Or forever.

But when no answer came, the silence broke to the creak of brass hinges, and Celebrimbor flinched, steeling himself for the dreaded questions. One thing was certain: it was his duty to apologize. That sensation at least was a familiar one.

"My friend… forgive me. I have not been behaving as a king ought to this evening. I have no excuse. I was drunk, I took leave of my senses, in public. Your friendship means the world to me and I would not have it compromised by my foolish—"

"Tyelpe--" And the master smith was turning him around by the shoulder, cupping his face, drawing their lips together firmly, long-bridged nose breathing hot against one cheek. Celebrimbor dared not exhale, or blink, or move, until his teacher released him. He burned.

"…I am not blind." Aulendil muttered soft against his cheek. "Do not think I haven't noticed how you've been tormenting yourself. I cannot bear to see you so miserable."

Tyelpe sucked in a breath. Do not quiver, don't you dare. "Brother, Your esteem and tutelage means more to me than anything! I would not let a…" He gulped, "—shameful weakness of the flesh come between us. I swear I will not embarrass our friendship again. Please, do not think less of me… Please."

Aulendil blinked wide. "Shameful weakness of the flesh…! Tyelpe, for the love of Aulë, who have you been talking to?" The Vanya barked a laugh, humorless.

His fluster increased, sounding more like a child than he could bear. "I only thought… You are a man of learning and rationality! I do not want to disappoint you!"

"Dear boy, I did not kiss you just now out of pity." Aulendil raised an eyebrow. "And have I ever, ever, expressed the opinion that to seek affection is an embarrassment? No. How could you disappoint me with a simple desire for touch?"  Ringed knuckles brushed over parted lips, and rested against Celebrimbor’s throat.  "Would you… like to return the gesture, or have I overstepped my bounds?" The master smith asked gently, looking up through his lashes with an uncertain grin.

Celebrimbor smiled, weakly. "How do you always know to say what I cannot hear without blushing?"

"From long experience of not hearing what one craves to be said."

"…You have not overstepped your bounds. Or if you have, I don’t care. Overstep them further." He muttered, feeling himself pushed back against his desk, his mentor half on top of him, smothering his mouth with his own.

By the time Aulendil’s hand brushed the front of his leggings he was already at formidable full mast. He hissed through his teeth as he was pulled free of the fabric, flushed to a deep, shining purple.  

"Ouh. And how long have you been nursing that?" the smith chuckled, lifting the bobbing head of the Noldo’s erection with a graceful finger.

He felt the purse of his balls pull tight against his body.

"All evening, I’m afraid." Tyelpe swallowed, shaking and feeling sweat on his brow. He had never wanted anything more in his life than to rut himself against the man’s white-clad thigh, or push into one long-fingered hand, but he waited, feeling almost as faint as he’d been while drunk, as Aulendil pulled off his leather gloves, one after the other.

"Hard and bright as polished stone. Exquisite." Tyelpe grit his teeth as the remainder of his clothes were divested, and the smith began to unlace himself. "Look at you! Every long inch of you, like a silk ribbon. I want to run you through my hands."

"Please. Aulendil. I’m dying." The king whimpered. "Put me out of my misery."

And the smith laughed, pulled them together by their naked waists, and spat in his palm before shepherding their cocks into one broad, smooth-calloused hand.

Tyelpe crooned and pushed into the tight caress, holding to the old Vanya’s hard forearms and kissing, as he’d wanted to during their dance, the soft bristles of his chaff-pale beard, finding it as exotic as he’d once found dwarven hair, and strangely comforting.

"Might we take to bed?" Aulendil asked, hushed. Celebrimbor nodded vigorously, panting. It was well worth prolonging his suffering to see the entirety of his lover stretch himself out on white linens, gold hair across his shoulders. When the smith had found a comfortable position on Tyelpe’s bed, the Noldo hopped eagerly aboard to straddle his waist, flashing his pearly teeth.

Aulendil raised an eyebrow. "The king knows what the king wants."

"I’m not especially well-traveled", replied Tyelpe, "but neither is this my first time out the door." Then he cupped the smith’s ear in a kiss, whispering "I dreamt the other night of your clever fingers inside me. Would you start with them?"

The Vanya sucked in a breath through his nose, and without hesitating soaked his fingers in the oil of their bedside lamp, dripping and clear. Celebrimbor squirmed to his knees, lip between his teeth in anticipation.

The first press came slow and curious, burning sweetly against the tension of his muscles. The second burned as much, but somehow his body began the alchemy to transmute the friction into pleasure. Eyes closed, he felt the smith’s other hand on his back, firm and reassuring as the other plundered; it was so intimate an invasion, he was giddy with it, trusted it, spread his knees open for more. More oil, a second finger, deep past the knuckle, in and out, till he was gasping into the pillows. By the time the third entered he was tugging himself and half begging with every breath.

The only words that came easy now were short, and filthy, and he could hear them echoed by Aulendil’s stunning voice, rumbling and deep—telling him how good he was, how perfect, how much he was taking— the same voice he’d heard in the lecture hall, in the forge, and the thought of it was so deliciously sinful.

He felt the smith grasp the backs of his thighs, pull them up against him as the covered the lithe Noldo with his body. "Let me come in you." And he could only whine in assent.

Aulendil fumbled with his cock, and Tyelpe inhaled deep as it nudged his entrance, pausing at the first push as his lover steadied himself. As he slid in, slow and halting, he gave such a barrel-chested groan of pure relief that Tyelpe felt his loins pulse.  "Too long…" the smith sighed, "Oh, too long since I had this…" He made a fist in Tyelpe’s long, dark hair and thrust in more savagely, taking him by surprise so that he gasped. But it was good, ferociously good, and the Noldo stretched a hand behind him, finding the other’s skin, clawing in the tips of his fingers urgently. "More— hard like that, like that… have me, hammer me open, take me."

And he did— with a snarl and hot breaths on the back of Tyelpe’s neck, growling and biting hard his nape, pulling his hair, rutting as fast and vicious as an animal till he spent inside hard with a gasp like pain. Tyelpe shuddered, gulping air like one half-drowned, his own seed still dripping, shot from him long since. The lamp, pilfered messily of its oil, guttered and went out, leaving the two men in darkness, where they collapsed on one another, kissing wearily.

_________________________

“Is it really necessary that you leave now? The mountains will be dreadful to cross this time of year.”

“If I leave before the thaw, all that will trouble me is the packed snow and a storm or two— and that I can handle.”  

Celebrimbor watched the back of Aulendil’s heavy fur coat as he finished tying down his bags. He’d chosen not a horse but a pack of dogs and sled to carry his supplies; more practical, he’d said, than taking a horse over the pass. The dogs were happy, wooly things half the size of ponies; they had intelligent seeming eyes that looked towards the emissary as if waiting for orders.

“I don’t doubt you can manage the weather… but…” Tyelpe crunched through the snow and caught his arm. “It’s a very long way to Umbar. You’ll be gone until Spring, or later.” He blinked snow off his lashes. “It will be cold here without you.”

He expected a smile and a reassurance, but Aulendil did not meet his eyes, staring ahead into the white fog of drifting snow. “There is something I must do there, above and beyond my duty to the university. It cannot wait any longer. I am sorry.”

“It must be a true crisis of academia to warrant such haste.” and to warrant taking you away from me. He tried not to sound petulant, but a note of bitterness crept in all the same. At this, Aulendil did smile at him, and kiss him, wrapped as he was in a great fur collar.

“You will be busy here, with or without me.  And I will miss you too.” He put his lips to Tyelpe’s ear, breath steaming in the cold. “I had grown accustomed to loneliness and solitude before I came to this city. Now I fear to go back to it. It feels like shrinking… like putting on old armor that bears gruesome memories. But I will acclimate soon enough, and when I return, you and I will have the pleasure of reuniting and removing that armor together.” He stroked Tyelpe’s cheek, hot from his words.

“I love you.” The Noldo let the words tumble out, afraid to wait all winter before he could say them.

Aulendil pulled back to look at him, searching his face with an expression half curious, half dismayed.

“Do you.”

“Of course.” The king stared back, holding the smith’s hand to his cheek. “I’m not fresh from the river, I know my own heart.” He looked down. “I know… it is not convenient, given our stations. But it is true. I love you. And I wish for you to return to me quickly, so I don’t mind inconveniencing you with this knowledge before you leave. I am selfish.”

“The inconvenience is a pleasure. Would that I could be inconvenienced so more often.” He laughed, something distant in his eyes. “I am old to be playing at romance, Tyelpe. There are many things beyond our stations that come between us in this matter, and I cannot reveal the half of them. But I will say that you have given me something precious, that I will treasure for all my days. And if it is not love as the Eldar understand it, then it is love of another kind, just as true.”  He blinked something from his eyes. “I am sorry to leave you this way. I love you too.”

Tyelpe stood on his toes to reach his lips, arms crossing about Aulendil’s shoulders, heart in his throat.

“I only wish the matter weren’t so mysterious.” He finally said, breaking away with a pout.

The smith raised his shoulders with a hapless expression. “It must be done. If I lose any more time… the matter will only become more difficult, the longer I leave it. The longer I stay.”

“And you cannot tell me? Even if I wished to help?”

His face fell. “I cannot.”

“I suppose I must send you off then, so you can get whatever it is over with quickly, the sooner that you may return to me.” Tyelpe forced a smile, ruffling the furs of Aulendil’s coat.

They embraced, and said their farewells; the king patted the wagging beasts tethered to the sleigh fondly, wishing them good luck and safety on their journey.

And the emissary left; headed east, and it would be long, long months before he returned to Eregion.

________________________

Tragedy struck late in winter, when the joy of the Solstice had faded and the drudgery of constant cold set deep in the mountains.

Brother Barazbund, not young in years, but no older than many healthy dwarves his age, took suddenly and deathly ill, and retired from the college to rest. Weeks before his sickness, the red-headed dwarf had finished what had become his master-work; a ring, mighty and square-shaped, for noble, Khazad hands. It was set with red topaz, which Celebrimbor remembered him fondly for.

As it became clear the old master was becoming weaker with time rather than haler, an offer came from his relatives; they would take him home to their halls in Khazad-dûm, to treat him as only they could, with hopes that the native stone would heal his ailing spirit.  

…And if they could not, it was left unspoken— he would die amongst his own, to be interred according to their tradition. Tyelpe fought to keep tears from falling openly as he opened for the last time the door of the jeweler’s residence.

"Majesty. It’s good to see you."  The old Khuzd was far, far too pale, his coppery beard too thin. But he clasped Celebrimbor’s hands in his own and gave them a hearty squeeze. "I won’t apologize for the mess, as I never have before, but I will say I don’t envy the bugger who has to clean up after me when I’m gone." They laughed, and the king pressed a kiss to his friend’s worn knuckles.

"You cannot know how we all will miss you— how I will miss you. I haven’t the words."

"Fah…" Barazbund turned to cough, wheezing upon recovery. "You’ll have started picking over my gem stores soon as I’m out! And that bastard dark elf will already have nicked my best files…" He shook his head. "But don’t pine for me, majesty, don’t fret. Where I go, there is family, and rest, and peace. It is you, Tyelpe, I fear for."  

Celebrimbor tilted his head, searching the dwarf’s face. "How do you mean, my friend?"

A chill blew through the room, as though the fire were not stoked to blazing. "You won’t want to hear this,” he said.

"Tell me."

"These last few years, we all have been swallowing venom. We knew it not. There are some things that cannot be used, no matter how good the intention. Our rings… what we intended them for was noble. We all agreed… I remember we did, we thought, what ill can possibly come from the halting of decay? Or the longevity of those we love? We brandish our swords against entropy, against evil itself; ENOUGH, we say! You have taken everything from us, and now, we use the power of gods to turn you away! But it was the same evil behind us, laughing, as we used the tools it gave us."

The king felt cold, numb from his spine to his hands, and he shook his head. "Power itself is neither good nor evil, it can be used for—"

"NO. Lad… no. Listen to me." The dwarf raised himself from his bed, eyes stained red and glassy. "I heard the same speech you did. I know the tongue that spat it. You cannot trust him."

"Such accusations against Aulen— against a fellow member of the Order? I know you have had your differences, Barazbund, but is this truly the note you wish to part on?" He did not know what to say; nameless sadness welled in him from all sides.

Barazbund laughed, humorless. "Hah, Aulendil. That man. that Song of his… Trust me, your majesty, no Vanya, no Vala, ever suffered that curse to pass their lips."

"I know the tongue of the Valar is harsh. I know it seems blasphemous to use such power to bend the natural order, but—"

The dwarf straightened, raising his hand to his forehead and reciting a line of words that cracked like lightning and falling stones. Tyelpe stared.

"I am Khazad! I know the tongue of Mahal, at least, I know its sounds, for they are sacred to us."  The look he gave Tyelpe then burned into his soul. "I could have told you this, years ago, had I only heard the words of that incantation before my own ring was finished: what begins in the language of the gods ends in a something foul, something I cannot name. The words are tar on my tongue, water in my ears. They left a crack in my spirit… I can feel it. Here!"  His eyes blazed, thumping his chest. "From what we have made under his guidance, no good can come. Whoever, whatever Annatar is, he is no friend of Aulë’s, and no Vanya either with his power over earth and metal. Perhaps you knew this. Perhaps you have a reason for keeping your silence— I’ll judge you not. We were all caught in this web together, but I fear, my king, that you alone can get us out of it."

"…You are right, my friend. I do not want to hear this." Tyelpe swallowed, unable to keep the dwarf’s gaze any longer. "But heard it I have. And if what you say bears any truth, even a grain, then it is my duty to weed out what has poisoned us. I will investigate your claims, though I hope, and in my heart I feel, that you are wrong."

Barazbund sighed, looking older than he ever had. "You must, must tread carefully, my king. I wish I were talking the nonsense of an old fool as well, but I know I am not. Do not put yourself in jeopardy while you search out this serpent, for it is very close to your breast."

__________________

Celebrimbor did not emerge from his forge for many days. His secretaries, long used to their king’s extended periods of absence, managed the affairs of court as best they could, delaying where possible all petitioners of the throne. If men and dwarves found this behavior unseemly for a monarch, the elves were untroubled; they were accustomed to a slower pace of governing, and lords with great destinies.

In his chambers alone, Tyelpe buried himself in the notes of his studies, reading and re-reading every word he found on the Song of Binding he’d been taught at the beginning of the emissary’s tenure.

He had been taught the sounds, but not the meaning of the Song.

Each ring was forged by a different smith, a smith whose year had been spent laboring, achieving the highest level of craftsmanship they could to make a vessel for their desires. Each ring Celebrimbor took, and using their blood and spirit as flux, repeated the phrase that had been taught to him as he focused their intent. And for each ring, Aulendil Sang in his orotund voice the words of power that buzzed and resonated with metal and flesh and bone, fusing them together forever.

If there was something to Barazbund’s warning, then saying the words without the half-maia’s influence would produce a work he could study, and test against the effects of the other rings.

And if I find no ill effects, no difference between my work and his, Aulendil’s name will be clear, and I can forget what Barazbund said in his delirium. Or perhaps, the spell itself is to blame! Perhaps it was taught to him out of spite by the wicked one who drove him to exile! Whatever the case, when it is done I shall sleep easy once again. I cannot, will not, believe that Aulendil could hide such malice from me. I know he has secrets, but who has lived this long without secrets? The man has reason enough to want privacy in his deeds, and he has never given me reason not to trust him.

Resolutely, Celebrimbor dipped his quill, and with deliberation began drafting on a sheet of technical parchment the designs for a new project. His lines were thin and precise, as his father had taught him to draw after many failed, inadequate attempts. Never set thy pen to paper before knowing already what thou wishest to see.

He knew with all his heart what he wanted to see.

He wanted those he loved to be immune to harm, for Time that crept like a thief into every life, stealing away what was most precious, to turn them a blind eye; he wanted courage for those who had to face injustice, strength for the weary who must continue their journey in the face of pain; he wanted peace, healing for those whose souls were damaged, whose pasts sat like lead in their breasts, keeping them anchored and drowning in the tide of regret.

He knew which of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain he wanted to help him complete his opus.

Celebrimbor worked first in royal copper, its hue dark as liver. He set it with a garnet that seethed with the colors of fire.  Airalassë my oldest friend, who crossed the treacherous ice aboard swan-ships with my grandfather, who wept when he burned, who buried in ash the beasts of flame and shadow. Give us your strength, your valor, the hope you felt on the first rise of the sun.

Next he worked in mithril, shining as the streams of his youth and white as snowbells. Its center spun around diamonds of adamant luster, more silver than stone. Vannessë, whose first love is the stars and second the sea; gift us the melody of bright, undying shores. Show us the way home, to harbor.

Last he worked in golden brass, strong and unyielding. He set it with blue topaz as clear as untroubled skies, twinkling like the eyes of a friend. Thuindor, parted too soon from brotherhood, whose heart lies in forests of nightingales and cool shadows; turn sickness to health, transmute weariness to peace, chase the clouds from our minds that we may see with clarity.

They were beautiful, the three. All different, but alike in harmony, as siblings are, as colleagues become.

When they were finished, gleaming from fine polish and exquisite labor, Celebrimbor knew he’d made that which he could never make again. It was strange to look at them, knowing they were his masterwork; that perhaps he would never put more of himself into his designs again.

But they were not yet finished. So with his blood, and that of his smiths, he brushed on the flux and the solder, saying the words that would focus all the light and power of his will and burn it deep into the matter of this world.
 The rings lay before him, almost thrumming with potential, awaiting the final blast of annealing heat that would bind intent to material. And Celebrimbor Sang.

The notes felt too big for his mouth, each consonant like a rattle and drum. He could feel the hairs on his neck stand on end, his teeth aching. They were not words he was meant to say, he sensed; not syllables nor phrase of music that could be contained in so small a vessel. They would rip him apart— he faltered, terrified.

Whose grandson art thou? Whose blood runs in thee? said not one, but many voices in his mind. And suddenly he was not afraid, but excited-- This! This was what it meant to be Noldor. What it felt like, to achieve what others could not. 

The melody tore out of him, burning his throat, shining from his eyes. The essence he bound was not only the wishes and wills of his friends, but every boiling want he’d harbored his entire life; every scream of loss, every unbearable need for hope, every burst of kindness, every heartbeat of joy. It was all the suffering he’d meant to correct, all the pain he wished to ease, all the love he’d fostered for those around him, every elf, every Khuzd, every Man, every student, teacher, worker, friend… It was a whole city of desire he harnessed, and focused, and bound into three small circles of metal.

And then it was over.  He’d made something entirely new, something even he did not fully understand. Celebrimbor touched the rings gently, reverently, finding them hot to the touch. He’d Sung what should only have been able to be Sung by one with Ainur blood, and he’d done it alone.

“Do we put them on, your majesty?”  Asked Thuindor in hushed tones.

“I dare not.” the king panted, drenched in sweat but smiling. “Do you?”

The three smiths, whose spirits now in part rested inside something besides their person, looked upon the devices and shivered. Unspoken was the agreement: it felt wrong.

The king gently placed the rings in the palm of his hand and closing it. “There are others of my kin more fit to wear these than I. I will send for them, and tell them what we have wrought. They will know what to do.”

______________

Celebrimbor did not impart to his summoned guests— his cousin, the Lady Galadriel, High-King Gil-Galad, and the lord of the Falathrim, Círdan— the personal nature of his test.  

That he had been laboring in secret with the Gwath-i-Mirdain to produce treasures of unparalleled power and value, he informed them in detail. That it was Aulendil, called now Annatar by many folk, who had devised the method of their making, he told them as well.  He even supplied in part the warning from master Barazbund (now passed, he had been told, into the Halls of Aulë, or wherever it is that the Khazad go when they depart this world). But he could not bring himself to reveal the suspicions against his friend that had led him to seek a means of proving his innocence; it was motivation enough, considering his history, to want to create something extraordinary that could ease the suffering of many.

“Then let us don these things that you have made, Tyelperinquar— and see what powers they grant us.” Spoke Galadriel, whose eyes had been set upon the ring of adamant since first she saw it.

“The Emissary I sent forth from my kingdom has made himself useful in yours, I see,” said Gil-Galad, examining the great ring of blue and brass. “Perhaps I was over-hasty in my judgement.”

“We shall see.” Said Círdan, who spoke no more, but lifted the ring of fire.

What they saw, Celebrimbor guessed by their expressions, was very fair indeed. Amazement shone through their faces, illuminating them from within with a fey light. Around them, cracks in the masonry began to fade, the water of the fountains shone clearer, the air brimmed with sweetness, and Tyelpe found himself feeling lighter somehow, tiredness sloughing from him though he had hardly slept in weeks. He sobbed, giddy-- he knew not why! The cut upon his forearm that he had made for the gathering of blood erased itself as though it had never been. Standing in the combined light of the three, he felt ready to fly away from joy; he remembered, suddenly, the face of his mother, more clearly than he had in hundreds of years...

A tear ran down his cousin’s alabaster cheek, and he knew she felt it too; whatever this was, this power could hold no evil. Nothing this beautiful could be used for wrong. He’d been afraid for nothing.

Flowers bloomed at his feet, flowers he’d not seen since his childhood. He remembered the sound of Narvi’s laughter. The taste of Aulendil’s kisses.

That was when it changed.

A heavy shadow, cinder-flecked, seething, fell upon them all— not smothering, but seeking, pawing, wrathful. It tore at their clothes, their skin; a great sandstorm roaring in their ears. Tyelpe could barely see through the stinging grit, making out the bright form of Galadriel, hunched to protect her face, still glowing despite the shroud of darkness.

He looked up, squinting, into what he thought was the sun.  Yet it was not the sun.  A circle of bloody flames shone down on him, its heat hitting him with the force of a hammer, a slit of pure blackness at its center— a force from the old world, a devil they thought they’d escaped long ago.  

YOU.  It said, in the tones of thunder and iron shrieking.

The evil his friend had sensed was no half-maia, but a shadow of the Dark Lord himself. He saw a cloud billowing in from the East, and Tyelpe, quivering, thought of Aulendil in its path, drowned in ash and sand, buried alone in the desert by this monstrous force he had summoned… it was his fault, it was all his fault…!

A flash, and the clouds were gone. Metal chimed loud against stone as Galadriel threw the ring from her, face drained of all color. 

“It is coming.”

___________________

Celebrimbor's boots dragged and kicked against the checkered marble, strung between two great orcs who hauled him forward like a disobedient child. Their stride was greater than his; he dangled more than he walked.

There were signs, horrible signs, of struggle and resistance throughout the campus, but no students or apprentices to be seen. At least, none that were still breathing. He saw for an instant the black hair of one of his head smiths, spilled across a familiar face that lay sideways on the ground. Its body and half its skull were missing.

"Stop--" he flailed against the ground like a swimmer trying to find purchase in a coursing river. "Stop, please."

His head cracked to one side, grey-green knuckles glancing off his lip and teeth. Blood drooled onto his tunic and his golden buckles.

The lord of Eregion sucked in quick breaths, numbing himself with anger, pulling in what was left of his energy to spend it all on one last struggle against the rape of his city. But his escorts came to a halt. At the center of the campus court, near the fountain of Aulë, Aulendil stood, surrounded by soldiers, their red eyes all fixed on his pale, silken robes.

Panic surged, and drowned his valor. “’Aulendil!” He slurred.  "Save yourself! There will be no happy meeting for us in Mandos if you die! Please, listen—“ He looked pleading to the orcs who held him, "I'll tell you anything you need to know! Spare him! I will trade anything for the Vanya’s life!!"

Hearing this, Aulendil turned, almost surprised, his hands tucked in his sleeves. "Tyelpe…"

Their eyes met, and silence fell on the court, even between the orcs. His mentor broke into a grin, raised a palm, and slapped it hard across his thighs.

"HA!"

A guest at a party, warm with wine, listening to a rambling tale which has just concluded in a joke whose punchline becomes apparent only after a moment's pause; that was the look Aulendil wore, his ivory mouth wide with merriment. His laughter echoed between the smoking towers of the campus, raucous and hooting. “Have you really—! Have you really not put the pieces together, boy?”

Reason dawned as the orcs began to chuckle around him in mocking chorus. Celebrimbor's stomach turned, sick with horror.

"Shapeshifter!"  He yanked his chains, growling and blind with rage. "Reveal yourself! What have you done with Aulendil?"

"Shapeshifter--!"  The impostor's mirth tripled, his friend's face contorting with breathless laughter. It put a hand on its knee to steady itself while it buckled and gasped for breath, shaking its fair head.

"Oh Tyelpe…" it said, wiping the corner of its eye at last. "You are right. Shapeshifter I am. A very, very good one."

Taking a lit torch from one of the monstrous guards, who passed it to him with the same deference as a lower apprentice, Aulendil strode across the court towards his shackled student.

"I can become anything I need to be. I can be… a wolf, a vampire, an ogre…" He tilted his head conversationally, holding Celebrimbor's gaze. “A Vanya." He smiled.

Celebrimbor swallowed, begging all the silent Valar that it would go no further, that the thing, the creature wearing his lover's body would indeed become a wolf or an ogre and rend him with fang and claw-- anything but keep talking. Instead it tapped one long finger beneath the Noldo's chin, tilting his face up to meet its many-colored eyes.

”I can be a mentor. A father. A friend. A lover. Even to a lonely, love-starved little sot like you. That is how excellent a shapeshifter I am."

Any of his uncles, his father, his grandfather, would have heard this list, understood their betrayal in stoic fury and hardened their hearts. Celebrimbor's simply broke.

"Liar." He croaked. He did not look away from his teacher, searching for some sign, with eyes that betrayed him by overflowing, that this was a ruse, some tactic to throw the enemy off their guard.

"No, Tyelpe. Not this time." Aulendil smiled down at him with pity flickering in the torchlight.  "This time you're the liar. You're trying very hard to lie right now-- to keep believing in the person you loved, even though he never existed." He stroked the side of the king's face, wet with salt tears and mucus, coarse with blood, the rings on his long fingers cool to the touch. Aulendil wiped his hand on the king's robe, and paced easily back to his orcs.

"I loved you!" The words flew out of his mouth. He could not stop them any more than he could stop his traitor chest from heaving, his heart from beating.

“Oh, you love me still!” Aulendil said over one shoulder with conviction. "You will love me with all the sincerity of a child until the moment your miserable spirit leaves your body and flies to everlasting darkness… which will be soon, Tyelpe, I promise." His tone was reassuring. He threw the torch into the font of Aulë, and the water erupted with steam and burst into flame just as if it were oil. The statue's red iron began to warp and blacken. "Just… tell me where the rings are. The three you made, while I was back in my country. Give them to me, and I will end your suffering.”

The rings. So it had been the binding, the Song all their work had in common, that betrayed him after all, bringing to a close this terrible, unspeakable farce. The dwarf had been right.

Have you not heard the rest of the tale, my son? ‘For he changed from wolf to worm, from monster, to serpent, to naked flame; and finally he changed to the likeness of Luthien herself, so that Huan was afeard to close his jaws, and would have failed, had not his true mistress been standing direct before him.’ Such was the treachery of the enemy that even our own faces were not safe, and trust between our people became thin as dew.

The Fëanorian's blood stirred at last; the tears dried in his eyes. "No maia of Aulë, thou. Cur of Morgoth."

The creature he'd known as Aulendil laughed, this time with condescension and disgust. "Oh, but I was! Long, long ago. Before I grew tired of my old master's restrictions, and the tyranny of the Valar."

"Running from one tyrant to lick the boots of another!" The king sneered, his broken lip dripping.

The Maia did not reply at once, blinking slowly in the fire's light. "It was more than that, dear friend. Much more than that. I promise to tell you all about it, in time," He said, and his deep voice grew very cold, colder than Celebrimbor had ever heard it. He did not expect the words to hurt so much. "But first… the rings, Tyelpe."

A pale hand extended, glinting, and with deliberation Celebrimbor spat toward it. "You could have had them, if you'd held your tongue a instant longer, my dear friend."

Aulendil's prim nose wrinkled, then smoothed into a little cat smile. "True. An opportunity lost in a moment of indulgence, but I confess, it was so satisfying I have no regrets. I will learn what I need to know one way or another. You could have answered me when first I asked, and I would have let you die gracefully. Remember that, in the days to come." He waved to the orcs holding the king's chains. "Bring him to my forge."

Smoke, acrid and poisonous, drifted from the burning monument and stung Celebrimbor's eyes.  He let it, welcomed it in, unblinking, until he mercifully lost sight of the courtyard and the golden monster that stood gloating at its center.

___

“There was a moment, you know… between bedding you and listening to your friends prattle about the greatness of your city, where I actually considered letting you rule here in my stead.”

Coals sparked with white heat, breaking the darkness of the forge with bands of red where their glow passed through rows of iron tools. The air stunk of hot metal and burnt flesh.

“It’s not as if I plan to destroy every kingdom that comes before me; only the ones responsible for my Master’s fall. The rest needs must be ruled; and how shall they be ruled if they are empty?” Laughter echoed dully in the chamber. “You could have remained king, kept your symposiums and your order of smiths, all of it. If you’d only waited, Tyelpe. If you’d only let me finish what I began… It might have been wonderful. Or, I might have kept you closer, made you wear one of the Nine, perhaps? I wonder how they would fit an elf…”

Days of torture had produced no confession, no rings; only typical Noldor stoicism, wearisome heartbroken looks, and finally, a kind of untouchable clarity that was beyond pain.

Sauron was beginning to run short of methods that could be guaranteed not to kill his victim.

“We could still have it, Tyelpe, if you’d let go of your pride and tell me—“

"I love you."

Sauron paused mid-step, silenced by the interruption. He had carefully, very carefully, kept it possible for his prisoner to speak, but this was not what he’d expected to hear. "If you are still saying that then you are either delirious or more pathetic than I thought." He snorted, returning a brand to the fire.

"No. I do. I love you even now.” Tyelpe's voice was wet, and small, but steady. “You know I am not a very good liar. I can't even lie to myself very well. But you can. You're the most artful liar of them all." The elf breathed an evanescent sound, like laughter.

"All that rage and grief and all you can do is vent it on me-- me! I was not even born when the Silmarils were forged! I, who broke with my own kin, who hid with the wounded when the final battle came! I who never shed a drop of my kin's blood, who am cursed to live in exile and never see my loved ones in Mandos! Could any have more cause to hate the Valar than I? And yet, I am the only Fëanorian left alive for you to vent your spleen on! What a sorry vengeance that must be…”

“Do not speak of what you cannot understand.” The Umaia growled.

“But I do understand. I know you craved kinship, and affection, as much as I did. You say that Aulendil was not real, but that is also a lie.” Tyelpe choked. “That he was not the whole truth of you does not make him fiction. And whatever you are in your entirety, I will love that part of you that was kind, and earnest, and brilliant, forever. And I am sorry, my friend, that you cannot pull back from this path you have taken, I am sorry that you have chosen the most useless and destructive consolation of all to salve your grief. I cannot bring back what you lost, nor be the downfall you wish to avenge. I am only Tyelpe. And I love you."

Red coals sprayed over the ground as Sauron yanked the hot iron from the forge and drove it upwards through Tyelperinquar's ribs. "Silence! Still your idiot tongue, you disgusting child! I hate you, I hate all your kind, your family, your breed, your species! I will eradicate you from this earth and piss on the wreckage, useless whelp of Eru! Don't you dare speak another word to me!"

And Tyelpe did not. His mouth filled to overflowing with blood and his eyes stared into the Umaia's-- wide, and empty of bitterness.

"Shoot him." Sauron hissed.

"My lord, he is already--" The orc guardsman hesitated.

"SHOOT. HIM." The maia bellowed, face contorted and no longer remotely human, the iron boiling and flaking in his unscorched fist.

The archers knocked their arrows and took aim.

Sauron rose in a storm of sparks and ash, exiting the bloody cellar with fury that disguised a sinking, terrible emptiness. 

"Raise his body on a spit. Leave it where the whole city can see.”

Blood churned in the streets and the horizon vanished into smoke and flame, and looking upon the ruins of Eregion, the courtyard where small white flowers blossomed, he knew: there was nothing and no one left in Middle Earth that would understand what he had cherished, or why.  The One Ring gleamed on his right hand, and all that he had been drained away into the gutters, lost to time.

---

Chapter End Notes