Drinks in the Dark by Lingwiloke

Chapter 1

Additional warnings: drunkeness, mentions of death, suicidal ideation

Read Chapter 1

It is long past midnight when Celebrimbor finds the prince - nay, the king, now - deep in the bowels of the city, in a particularly dark, dank corner of the royal wine cellar. He has ventured down here more on a whim than with any real hope of finding his friend, and he is just about to give up and leave it to the servants to locate their wayward lord, when a slight movement in the corner of his eye draws his attention.

Sitting hunched in the shadows between the furthermost wine barrel and the wall as he is, clothes in disarray and an empty cup cradled in his hands, Orodreth looks more like a common drunk than the newly crowned king of Nargothrond, or even the pale, wrathful apparation that sent Celebrimbor’s father and uncle into exile this very morning. His eyes are bloodshot as he blinks up into the light of Celebrimbor’s candle blearily.

“What are you still doing here?”

Celebrimbor winces – not at the accusatory tone, he has expected no less, and honestly, he is glad that he has not been forcibly sent out to follow his father yet – but at the hoarseness of Orodreth’ voice, the slight slurring at the edges. Orodreth doesn’t get drunk. Ever.

Except today, it seems.

“I thought you said alcohol is an escape for the weak-minded.” Setting the candle down on the edge of one of the barrel’s wooden stands, Celebrimbor kneels down and leans into the dark space, trying to catch Orodreth’s eye.

Orodreth scoffs, not meeting Celebrimbor’s eyes. “What makes you think I am anything else than weak-minded?”

Celebrimbor sighs at that. “I would say this morning has shown everyone that you are anything but.”

Orodreth snorts at that, but when he finally looks at Celebrimbor, his expression changes. “You truly believe that.”

“Of course.”

To Celebrimbor’s utter astonishment, his assurance causes Orodreth to dissolve into laughter. Laughter that ends with tears trailing down his cheeks which are not caused by joy, and that he doesn’t even seem to notice as he leans forward with a cynical smile and adds in a conspirational whisper: “I’ve made a terrible advisor to my brother, Tyelpe. I will make an equally terrible king.”

Celebrimbor opens his mouth to object; but Orodreth is already continuing, completely ignoring his protests.

“Do you know” he asks suddenly, eyes glinting, “Do you know why Findaráto left for that foolish quest?” He does not seem to expect an answer, or at least he does not wait for Celebrimbor to give one. “Because he is a hero. Because he is noble, and kind, and honest, and good, and what is more honourable than keeping an Oath of friendship, what is more noble and good than a death in sacrifice? And even more, what better way to go out, to escape this, this nightmare that we oh so courageously maneuvered ourselves into? I envy him. I envy your father, even. Don’t you see? They have a purpose. For them, everything is so easy. Clear-cut. Follow the Oath. Keep your promises. Fight heroically, die heroically. Who cares about the rest of the world when you can follow your doom.

“But for us? The songs, they never talk about what is left after all that glory and death. We are left. I am left with a kingship I never wanted, and an example I can never live up to, and a people who feel ashamed for not following their king into certain death. You bear the scorn of the people who blame you and your kin for something they did not dare to do, and you carry the weight of an Oath initiated and sworn by one who has long moved on.” He shakes his head. “A heroic death is the best we can hope for in this time and place, and I am not made to be a hero.”

As suddenly as it had come upon him, the feverish energy with which Orodreth had spoken is gone, and he slumps back against the wall.
“I cannot but fail in this.”

Celebrimbor only stares at him for a moment, his mind still trying to catch up with his friend’s ramblings. At last, he latches on to the one thought he believes he understood. “You believe Findaráto left to die in Gothaur’s dungeons because he wished to seem noble? That he went because he had lost hope? That he wanted to die?”

“No.” Orodreth sounds bone-tired. “I do not think he wanted to die. I know he did not want to die. He loved Middle-earth, the romantic fool…” Fresh tears, and this time a single sob escapes before he catches himself. “Tyelpe- It is only… “ Orodreth sways, and as Celebrimbor rushes to steady him, he clings to his arm tightly. His next words are said so quietly that Celebrimbor has to strain his ears to understand them:  

“I only want it to end.”

A sinking feeling settles in Celebrimbor’s gut at the words. He does not think Orodreth is only speaking of the War, or the unrest that has gripped Nargothrond...
But, he reminds himself, he – they – have dealt with worse situations before, and so he shoves his shock aside. He pats Orodreth’s arm awkwardly and tries for a smile. “I think,” he says, carefully, “we had best continue this conversation in a more comfortable setting, don’t you think?”
“My lord,” he  adds, on a hunch.

To his relief, Orodreth reacts to the honorific as expected, with a glare and a mumbled “Do not call me that”. Celebrimbor’s offered hand is regarded with scorn, and for a moment he believes he will have to fight Orodreth’s pride. But there is not that much fight left after all, and after almost tumbling head-first into the stone wall in an attempt to get up, Orodreth relents.
Celebrimbor slings an arm around his waist, and with some awkward shuffling and bumping into each other, he manages to manoveur his friend out of his cramped hide-away and onto his feet, and they slowly make their way towards the stairs, and onwards, towards the lights of the city above them.