Song of Souls by Raiyana

“I will tell you nothing!” he forced the words past lips that cracked with the movement, bleeding sluggishly. Before him, the blonde elf that he had once considered a fair form had been revealed for the malice of his soul, and Celebrimbor cursed his own naivety for the millionth time, his own need for redemption of his house that had made him so welcoming to this traitor; that fact hurt more than any of the tortures that the creature – he refused to use the name he had called him when he still believed the façade of friendliness – inflicted. The pale hand, its glow seemingly strengthened by the feeling of suffering that hung in the air between them, wiped away one crimson droplet, cupping his chin and lifting his head slowly. Those eyes – once he had thought they were gateways to knowledge beyond measure, but now the blue skies had been replaced with dark clouds – narrowed at him, while the mouth beneath them split in a smile that was a mockery of all the smiles that face had bestowed upon him over the many years he had worked with this being.

“I know,” he whispered, “I have always known you would be stubborn; it’s in your blood.”

Celebrimbor wanted to tear his face away from that hand, but his body was too weak to do more that flinch slightly. His tormentor chuckled, patting his cheek.

“Don’t worry, though,” he whispered, “it’ll be over soon. Even as we speak, my armies are marching on your little city – should we attack those mountain-dwelling grubby Dwarrow you’re so fond of next?” he asked, ignoring the way Celebrimbor stiffened, his arms – stretched beyond comfort for so long he had lost feeling in the limbs – rattling the manacles that chained him to the wall.

The smile widened, the glowing fingers caressing his bleeding lip, healing the small hurt like he was mocking the larger rends he had recently torn in Celebrimbor’s flesh, some still gaping beyond the power of his physical body to close, streaks of blood running down his pale skin to pool on the floor.

“Perhaps I will bring you a little gift; maybe the head of that Dwarf you loooove,” dragging the word out, until it was a mockery of the emotion it concealed, he continued, “that little golden-haired one, what was her name…?”

The mouth paused theatrically, one of its owners long pale fingers tapping those perfectly formed lips as though he couldn’t remember.

Celebrimbor felt sick. Narví! He cried in his mind, longing to conjure up any image of her, but fearing that any memory he chose would be warped into seeing her dead lifeless eyes staring up at him unseeing from where she had been tossed on the dark stone floor of his cell.

Snapping his fingers like someone who has just remembered something elusive, the traitor beamed, drinking in the pain Celebrimbor knew he could not mask from those far-too-keen eyes.

“Narví!” he crowed, “that was her name, wasn’t it?” Stroking down Celebrimbor’s naked chest, his fingertips healing the cuts he had left behind even as his nails opened new rivers of blood, the traitor who he had once called his best friend cackled.

Celebrimbor tried not to recoil from the pain, though the physical one was minor in comparison to the horror he felt brewing in what was left of his mind, his heart burning.

“Yes, once Ost-in-Edhil is a heap of smouldering ashes, I will bring you Narví’s little head; then you can be together for all time. Wouldn’t you like that?” Laughing, he straightened, the white robe stained with crimson blood, though his sleeves were as pristine as when he had entered the cell untold hours before. “Of course, Eventually there’d be only bones left, but I’m sure you could talk to her skull, or something. Just beware my little helpers don’t find her – they do like wearing the skulls of their enemies…” The elf-who-was-no-elf laughed again, a sound that had once been a marker of shared joy, but was now no more than another tool with which to torment the prisoner.

Celebrimbor closed his eyes. Narví, he called, barely registering the death knell of his cell door closing. The door was, like so many things in this prison, a mocking parody of his own work; no ithildin shone on its surface, which had been chased in gold, but the symbols were there, the trees and the arches, the stars, the crown and anvil, each one carved crudely and without any of the skill that had made his own work so flawless.

For now, he was alone, distracting himself from thinking about his beloved city in flames by conjuring up images of sunlight trapped in golden hair, with eyes the colour of the sea squinting at him as their owner’s laugh filled his ears, the memory of a long-ago afternoon in Ost-in-Edhil filling his soul.

There had been so much light there, in the home he had built, based it on what he remembered of his home in Valinor, with courtyards overflowing with greenery, tiny streams and waterfalls creating a soft underlayer of sound that meshed perfectly with the way his uncle’s harp played across the years, his own younger self’s laughter as he threw himself into Makalaurë’s arms, begging for a story. Ammë had chuckled, but together they had built for him intricate castles of imagination in the gardens, and even when Atto scoffed at them and called it a silly habit, he, too, was listening, his quick fingers sketching out scenes from the stories and bringing them to life all around Tyelpe.

Sometimes, Makalaurë would convince Atto to sing with him, and they would make wondrous things happen with the power of their voices, creating blooming flowers that sprouted from the earth in minutes or making his toys wheel around without pushing.

Songs were powerful, he had learned, and though he never had much of the gift himself – he preferred playing in Atto’s workshop and following Fëanor around until grandfather consented to teach him something, making grandmother Nerdanel laugh and ruffle his hair, calling him Mahtan’s blood – Tyelpe paid attention when his uncles told him how they worked.

There were Songs of Power, of Memory, of the Sea – he had not seen those in action until after his name became Celebrimbor – but his favourite was the Song of Souls, which always made Atto scoff and go off to the workshop, telling his brother to stop filling Tyelpe’s head with nonsense. Makalaurë had just smiled, shaking his head and told the story anyway, the story of great need allowing an Elf who knew how to send a message to the one he loved with all his soul – no matter how far the distance between them.

“Narví!” The cry startled her into dropping her hammer, whirling around to look behind her. Narví stared across the room. The workshop was empty.

“I could have…” she murmured, shaking her head as she picked up the small tool meant for the more intricate carvings she made. Once, she had known that voice, had heard it call her name – though never so desperately – and dreamt of more… but it had been years since Khalebrimbur had been in Khazad-dûm, years since he disappeared, and even if he had returned, he had never visited her new workshop, constructed well after the Doors were finished. Narví sighed. She had resigned herself to the idea of never seeing the Elf again – at least that’s what she told herself – realising after the first year that he must have found some diversion in one of the Elven Realms, and by the time he remembered her again, she might already have run out of her mortal years. Elves are flighty like that, she told herself, but she had lost interest in the stone she was carving, her chisel slowly dropping to hang loosely at her side, consciously not-clenching her fist around the metal.

“Narví! Help them!” the voice came again, but this time Narví did not look up, convinced she was hearing things. “Narví! Please, Narví!” It repeated, trailing off into increasingly worried calls of her name. Narví’s not-clenching failed, her fists tightening in anger; this was not funny! Throwing her door open, she expected to find someone outside, playing her for a fool – her brother had called her foolish for striking up such a close friendship with the Elf, but he would not be so cruel… others, however, might, she admitted – but she found no one in the deserted corridor. “Narví, please,” the voice implored, and – even if it had been years since her ears had last enjoyed the way that voice wrapped around her name, making it sound different than when spoken by a Dwarf – she knew who was speaking.

“Khalebrimbur…” she whispered, turning her head slightly to her left when the voice repeated her name. No one was there.

“You can hear me!” Celebrimbor cried, staring at his golden Dwarf – she hadn’t liked it when he called her that, which was half the fun, watching her all riled and glorious in her anger – praying that his uncle had been right when he explained how it worked. His plan – as much of a plan as it was – hinged on an old bedtime story he only half remembered; a remnant of happier days in Valinor, days that seemed in hindsight to have been filled with nothing but laughter and love and play, watching his father’s hands create the most wondrous toys, listening to his mother’s calm voice telling stories or his uncle singing as he played his harp, making up lullabies for the boy who had been named Tyelpë. ‘One hour, little one,’ Makalaurë had said, ‘One hour and no more, then you must return to your own self.’ He hadn’t really believed it possible – how could you separate your fëa from your hröa without dying? ­– and uncle never had explained it properly, and Adar had scoffed and told him it was a silly story, but Celebrimbor had to try. He hadn’t even been certain it would work until he was suddenly staring at her; she had hardly changed in the time – it must be years now, he suddenly realised – since he had last seen her, her golden curls still doing their best to rebel against her braids. “Narví, please,” he repeated, “you must help me save them.”

“Save them?” Narví asked, staring at a point slightly to his left; Celebrimbor realised she couldn’t see him, which wasn’t something Makalaurë’s story had mentioned. He didn’t worry about it, too busy drinking in the sight of her, the sound of her voice, even the familiarity of the clutter in her workspace, though the room was foreign to him; this was not where they had worked on their Doors.

“My people,” he implored, trying to make her understand, “let them escape through the Dwarrowdelf, Narví, while there is yet time for some to survive what is coming.”

“Escape… survive?” she frowned, but she began moving slowly. Celebrimbor wanted to weep with gratitude.

“Nadad!” Narví called, striding into the council chamber and interrupting a meeting; by the look on her brother’s face, it was tedious, so she didn’t much care. “I must speak with you urgently.” Waving away his councillors, Durin, King of Khazad-dûm, turned to face his sister, noting her flustered appearance.

“What’s wrong, nana?” he asked, offering her a seat. Narví paced.

“Âti sabktharr[1]?” she asked. Durin cocked his head, staring at her.

“’Atsi barath'adad, nana’[2].” The firm statement did not still her roving feet. “Narví, what makes you ask such a thing?” he murmured, catching her arm.

“You’re quite sure?” she asked him, and for a moment she didn’t know which answer was worse. People who weren’t physically with you couldn’t speak to you, it was a known fact.

“Absolutely,” he blustered. She smiled, involuntary; her brother was boisterous at the best of times, though he was shrewd enough to play up the trait around those who might be fooled into taking him less seriously because of their perceptions – an error of tremendous proportions – but he rarely did so with her. Narví knew it was an attempt at comfort, but she did not feel comforted. “Now, tell me why you felt it necessary to break up my meeting – thank, you, by the way, Lord Brago has only grown more tedious.”

“Please, Narví, help them escape,” Celebrimbor added, trying to reach for her, tug on one of her curls to catch her attention – it had been far too long since her blue eyes had blazed in his direction, he felt – only to watch his fingers slide through the coiled hair. He stared at his hand, horrified.

“Did you hear that?” Narví whispered, beseeching her brother. Durin shook his head.

“I heard nothing but your voice.”

“I must be mad, then,” she mumbled, her shoulders slumping. “I could swear I keep hearing Khalebrimbur talking to me…pleading with me.” Durin frowned, stroking his finely plated beard, weighted with mithril and diamonds in a display of wealth his sister would normally have called ostentatious, but her complete disregard for the ornamentation – which had taken the better part of an hour to plait – told him that she was deadly serious.

“No, Narví, listen to me!” Celebrimbor objected, still staring in horrified fascination at what was – to him – a fully visible and physical representation of a hand. Narví’s shoulders stiffened. “Please, mellon, you must save them, please!” He would get on his knees and beg, if he thought it would make a difference, but as neither Dwarf could see him, he had only the tone of his voice to convey his urgency. He didn’t know how much time he had already spent as a disembodied fëa, but his hour must be up soon.

“He just keeps talking!” Narví exclaimed, waving one hand in the direction she thought her friend’s voice was coming from.

“Hush, 'âzahbilisûna[3],” Durin murmured, wrapping his strong arms around her shaking frame. Narví’s head thudded onto his shoulder. She breathed heavily. “What’s the silly Elf saying?”

“Narví, save them,” Celebrimbor begged, feeling time running out. “I don’t have much time.”

“He keeps asking me to save someone, or escape…” Narví mumbled into the fine brocade robe, “but the words are unclear, like he’s shouting through bad rock.” Durin frowned. “I just… he sounds so,” she trailed off, “sad. Desperate, almost.”

“Well… I thought he was travelling to one of the other Elven Realms?” Durin asked. Narvi sighed but did not reply. “As he is plainly not here,” Durin continued practically, squeezing her shoulders and trying to make his voice sound encouraging, “perhaps one of the Elves – what was that advisor’s name again? Erestor or whatever – might be able to tell us what’s going on?” Giving her a smile, he moved one broad hand up to cup her chin, stroking his thumb along the braid that bore the mark of their family line. “Come on. We can reach the Doors within a day if we hurry; it’s been a while since we’ve travelled together. We’ll call it a surprise Royal Inspection,” he teased, trying to make her smile, wiping away the first suggestions of tears from her cheek. Narví nodded, taking a deep breath.

“Thank you,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“Thank you, Durin,” Celebrimbor chorused, staring at the Dwarf who had been far friendlier towards him than he had expected when the project was proposed. The King of Khazad-dûm released his sister, keeping a hold of her work-roughened hand as he pulled a cord on the wall, summoning a servant.

“Prepare a pack of provisions for myself and Princess Narví,” he ordered, “we’re going to visit the Doors. Be quick about it!” With a bow, the servant left. Narví sighed.

“I ought to go change,” she mumbled, looking down at her work-stained tunic and trousers. Her boots were covered in stone dust and her fingers were streaked in grey granite powder. “I don’t exactly look like a Princess.” Her answering smile was wry when Durin laughed.

“You’re always most beautiful like this,” Celebrimbor objected quietly. “I must leave now, Narví… thank you.” This time, by chance, her vivid blue eyes caught his when her head snapped in his direction, wide and a little fearful. Just in case, he waved, but she did not move a muscle as he closed his eyes, trying to transport his soul back to its physical home.

“Narví?” Durin asked, putting a hand on her shoulder when she didn’t continue moving towards the door.

“He’s gone…” she whispered, shuddering once under his touch before striding out of the room, her spine painfully stiff to look at. Durin sighed, shaking his head.

There was… nothing. Celebrimbor flailed, but there was nothing to flail at. He screamed, but there was nothing to scream at, no sound escaping his mouth. He pinched, but there was nothing to pinch, nothing to touch, and no flesh responding to the command to do so. Narví! Calling her name had worked before, combined with his wish to save, to protect, to love. It did not work any perceptible magic on his surroundings, but – just like he had realised under the hands of Sauron’s torturers – thinking about her made him feel better. Narví, Narví, Narví, Narví, he chanted, imagining that he could see her in a thousand different iterations; her mouth – her full lips stretched around a laugh or pursed in thought – splitting in a smile to reveal her teeth, her nose – straight like one of her stone edges – wrinkling in laughter, in distaste, nostrils flaring in anger. He remembered her pride, in-born like most of her race – though he had been among proud people all his life, so perhaps that was why he was so drawn to the Khazâd? A question to ponder – but justified by the skill of her hands, those hands which shaped stone so carefully and easily that she made it seem malleable as clay, a skill he both admired and coveted, feared would be lost with the ending of her mortal years.

The word rang through him only once, but in a terribly moment of clarity, Celebrimbor realised what must have happened.

He died.

It was the only explanation; whether uncle’s warning had gone unheeded, or his tormentors had finally succeeded in breaking his connection to his hröa, ending life as he had known it.

The part of him that didn’t immediately burst into a rage he had thought he had conquered – watching what anger had done to his father, his grandfather, his uncles, his kin, had been a valuable lesson in many ways – felt torn between relief that it was over, confusion that he was not in the Halls of Mandos, and a terrifying fear that his soul had slipped into the Void and he was doomed to this nothingness for all of existence.

[1] Am I pumice? (lit. feeble-rock?)

[2] You’re pink granite(rare and valuable type, found very far down), sister.

[3] Aquamarine-lady

From this side, the Doors were not that impressive, though the trading and guard posts surrounding the entrance to the Dwarrowdelf were well-manned and lit by the soft glow of crystal lamps. Narví sent a friendly thought to their grandfather, the inventor of the lamps, but the thought vanished in an instant, swept away by the wave of worry that washed over her at the sight of the Master Warden of the Door.

“Uzbad Durin!” the dwarf called, seemingly relieved to see them.

“What’s happening?” Durin called, raising his double-bladed axe in ready defence. Worried, Narví loosened her own axe from the harness on her back – she had carved the dark jade shapes herself, though the blade had been made by Khalebrimbur for her Name-Day almost two decades before; the weapon was a curious blend of their styles, but it fit her better than many others she had tried.

“Err…” the dwarf – Jara, Narví suddenly remembered – hesitated, uncertain in the face of their instant readiness for battle, but Durin nodded patiently, moving his axe to a slightly less threatening position when it became apparent that they were not under attack. “We don’t rightly know, Uzbad. We can see down to the Elves, from here, and there’s a mighty disturbance. I sent young Haki to investigate.”

“Open the Doors,” Durin commanded. “I will look upon this ‘disturbance’.” Narví nodded, her heart still beating frantically. Was this what Khalebrimbur had tried to tell her? She was no longer worried she was losing her marbles; the long journey through their vast network of tunnels and holdfasts had convinced her that she was no different in her own mind than she had been before she began hearing Khalebrimbur’s voice where his voice ought not exist. She had not yet admitted – even to herself – what she feared was the true reason behind her auditory hallucinations.

“As you command, Uzbad,” Master Warden Jara bowed, turning back to the underlings controlling the mechanism that opened the Doors from this side and barking orders. It had been kept in pristine condition, Narví noted, a distant part of her pleased with the smoothness of the opening of the Door, proof of her long labour and the ingenuity of its makers; Narví might have done the actual carving of the stone, but to her eyes, Khalebrimbur’s hand was evident everywhere in the completed project – not just the ithildin he had put on the outside.

Stepping outside, glancing at the small lake that they had constructed as a natural looking fortification – there was space for one wagon by the gate, but little more than that – Narví felt her sense of unease growing. Striding to the small promontory that overlooked the hillside and allowed her to see the trees and roofs of Ost-in-Edhil in the distance, Narví felt quite pleased with how natural her work looked, their work, seemingly a part of the landscape that had naturally formed with the raising of the Misty Mountains even if it was created only a scant counting of years ago. Patting the holly beside her – one of the elf’s crazy ideas; a way of marking their work as theirs symbolically that Narví had originally scoffed at but ended up silently pleased about – she looked down. Raising her looking glass – a recent invention by the Jeweller’s Guild and the Glassworker’s Guild that they were now squabbling over; arguing about the rights – Narví focused on the beehive of activity below. Her eyes might not be as sharp as an elf’s, nor even as good as those who manned the watch towers, but even a simple miner would have been able to see that something was wrong in Ost-in-Edhil.

“Does that look natural to you?” she asked, surprised by the tremble in her voice. Handing him the looking glass, she waited in silence until Durin had looked his fill. Her brother shook his head; his eyes were slightly better than hers, but he, too, would have been squinting without the glass.

“No, nana’, that does not look natural,” Durin sighed heavily. Pointing to something Narví couldn’t see with her naked eyes, he added, serious as a mountain-slide, “That looks like a people with little hope of victory getting ready to make a stand. They’re building fortifications.”

“Save them,” Narví whispered, “that’s what Rathukhbatshûn said; what he begged of me. Save them.”

He heard his name in Narví’s mellifluous voice. Rathukhbatshûn. She had called him that, named him in her tongue; an honour not bestowed on any elf since Finrod Felakgundu. Man with hands of ancient silver. Where Finrod’s name had been easily sindarinized, however, his was made the other way around, taking his name and turning it into a Khuzdul phrase.

Of course, she had called him other things in her tongue, too, mostly before she realised how keen his ears were, he admitted, chuckling to himself. He liked Izgilê the best, he had decided over the years they worked together. In the beginning it had been meant as a teasing nickname, the word being the Orocarnish dialect for Moon, but also meaning ‘bright silver-coloured one’ and Narví had used it first to call him blank-faced and foolish. Later, however, it had become something he didn’t quite dare name an endearment, delivered in her usual dry brusque tones but with the glimmer in her blue eyes that spoke of fondness and friendship. Now, however, he stared wildly around him, seeing only more nothingness, and wondered if he was simply dreaming her voice in his ear, dreaming to escape the tortures inflicted on him by clinging to memories of good things, memories of laughter and friendship and home… memories of love.

“I have wondered, you know,” Durin replied quietly, “but… the Eldar are not like us; they do not return to the Maker’s Halls upon leaving this life… do you think Khalebrimbur is dead?” Narví stumbled, ignoring the words as she strode back towards the mountain. Durin gazed after her for a minute, before following silently in her wake.

Khalebrimbur. This time, it wasn’t Narví, but her brother, Celebrimbor thought. He had not known the King as well as he had his Narví, of course – and still there was so much of her he didn’t know, so much he wished he had though to ask while there was still time – but he recognised the softened tones Durin only ever used with his sister. Khalebrimbur is dead? The question seemed to fill the nothingness around him, and made his non-existent heart jump into his throat. Durin had never said that; he had no reason to remember how his voice would shape those words. Staring blindly into the nothingness, Celebrimbor hoped for some clue, some way out of wherever he was. Some way back. Back to her. Even if he would spend the rest of his eternity staring at Narví, only able to speak to her in drips and drabs, he would take it over nothing.

“I want three gangbûh ready to march immediately,” Durin ordered upon their return to Khazad-dûm’s interior, his words sparking a flurry of activity as runners were sent to the nearest garrison; the Doors did not have more than a maznakkâ of permanent defenders. “We may not know what’s going on down there, but it didn’t look like happy tree dancing to me. Make sure we get an extra maznakkâ of battlefield engineers, too, I want ballistae constructed all along the Great Road.” Narví felt her spine stiffen; Durin sounded like he believed they would be at war within a week.

“What do you think is coming, nadad?” she whispered, hoping that he would chuckle and set her fears at ease.

“Whatever it is,” he replied brusquely, “if it tries to turn on us, our enemy will find that the teeth of the Mountains will break him long before he can get a taste of our axes.” Durin gave her a speaking look, and Narví knew what he did not say. If we close the Doors, seal off our Kingdom, we can be besieged for decades without feeling the bite of hunger. Winter is coming outside, however, and anyone trying to attack us then will find our Three Fathers very unfriendly. She nodded. They would save whomever they could, and then they would weather the storms as Dwarrow had done so often before; battening down the hatches and remaining within their mountains, using the cleverly disguised tunnels and watch-points to defeat their enemies, picking them off one by one.

“I’ll set extra watch posts along the road while we wait for reinforcements,” Master Warden Jara – tasked with the protection of this gateway to their halls since its first inception – replied, efficiently organising their underlings.

In the end, Narví went ahead with one gangbuh, while Durin remained on the road with the other, too worried to stay behind though he had asked her to. The last five hundred soldiers had yet to arrive from further inside the Dwarrowdelf, but something in her told her that time was running out swiftly.

When they finally reached Eregion, Elves were milling around everywhere, the air heavy with fear. It was chaos. Instead of happy laughter and song – Narví had had trouble sleeping at times with all the singing – the air was thick and silent; no birds calling in the low light, and no voices raised in song. No elflings were running around in play, which made her sad. Khalebrimbur had been so proud that he had managed to create a Realm where his people were procreating; Narví hadn’t quite understood why, but the wee tykes were adorable, she had to admit; all pointy ears and eyes too large for their faces, wanting to explore everything around them.

Making up her mind, she began heading towards Khalebrimbur’s house, the largest building in Ost-in-Edhil, larger than the hall of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, which Master Curumaiton had not liked, but Narví had insisted on building herself a proper workshop and Khalebrimbur had simply laughed and let her. Looking at the building, she could almost convince herself that the sounds of hammer blows coming from the forge off to the side were him, almost envision the way he would come running to greet her, ask her about all the things that had happened in the Dwarrowdelf since his last visit.

“Lady Narví!”

Narví turned, recognising Councilman Erestor, one of the staidest Elves in Khalebrimbur’s court, but also among the most efficient organizers she had ever met. Beside him strode an elf with hair of gold, armoured in gilded plate with a golden flower as his sigil, one arm casually wrapped around a full-faced helmet decorated with the same sigil.

“Lord Erestor,” she greeted, striving for calm. “I have an urgent question for you.”

“Lord Commander!” An Elf ran up; Narví did not recognise him, but he bore the sigil of Eregion’s Guard. She cleared her throat, annoyed by the interruption. “Princess!” the Elf exclaimed, turning to face her with a quick bow. Narví stared. It couldn’t be young Haldir all grown up, could it? It was. “The Orcs, Lord Commander, they’re coming closer!”

“Orcs…” Narví murmured. “Khalebrimbur was right…” Shaking her head, she turned back to Erestor and the golden elf who seemed far more likely to be the ‘Lord Commander’ of whatever forces the Elves could muster than Erestor.

“How many and how far away?” the Lord Commander replied.

“Less than a day’s march, my lord,” the blonde scout said, seemingly pale, “and we counted at least two thousand Orcs; but Rusc said he counted double that further out.” Narví frowned. A day was enough to build some earthworks, but not enough to construct defences that would repel that many.

“Where is your perimeter?” she asked brusquely. “I’ve five hundred soldiers with me, and another thousand in reserve.”

“Forgive me, Princess Narví; this is Lord Glorfindel. He commands our defences.” Erestor said faintly. The name rang a bell.

“You’re the Balrog guy,” she murmured, running her eyes over his slender form. Not as good looking as my Khalebrimbur, a small voice whispered in the back of her head, but Narví ignored it with the ease of long practice. “Aye, Khalebrimbur told me the story,” she continued, when he nodded. “Didn’t you die?” Erestor winced, but Narví wasn’t going to waste time with idle politeness.

“I was returned to Middle-Earth, my lady,” he bowed. Neither was the Elf, apparently. “We have set up defences along the south and western borders of Ost-in-Edhil.”

Narví nodded, silently pleased. Practical Elves; they were few and far between, their race altogether too given to whimsy in her opinion, but when you found one, they were usually worth their weight in gold. Khalebrimbur had been practical… most of the time, at least. And when he was kept well away from Narví’s stash of uisge. He had only challenged her to a drinking contest once; she had had to carry him to bed amidst silly elven singing – though he often sang random little tunes that then tended to get stuck in her head for days. That one had been about gold, which was a surprisingly dwarven topic, but she hadn’t understood more than half of it; something about coiling gold. He had not mentioned it the next day, and Narví had never thought to ask why Khalebrimbur, who favoured silver and mithril, would be singing about gold when he was in his cups.

“Geira!” she snapped, shaking off the wave of memories. “Follow Haldir and begin creating fortifications if you can. Use whatever you can find; if it’ll give an Orc pause, I want it.” The fabarâl nodded silently.

“Move out!” Geira called, turning south. Narví had gone over the maps of the region with her already, pointing out where she remembered the weaknesses in the defences had been. Celebrimbor might have spent a lot of his life at war, but he had not expected to be fighting another one when he founded his realm, she knew. “Quick-March, double-time! I wanted to reach the perimeter yesterday, you lousy sons of petty-dwarves! Let’s go, let’s go!” she shouted, the gangbuh obediently speeding up, following the young elf back to the lines. Narví smirked. Geira was one of the best generals they had; competition to belong to one of her ten maznakkâ was fiercer than any other gangbuh under the mountain. Narví’s personal guard remained behind her.

“Miri!” Narví called next, her personal 'Udshankhuzd[1] snapping to attention immediately. Miri wasn’t quite ready to join the battle, but they were more than capable of carrying a message back to Durin and the mountain; Narví wasn’t likely to need their services with her armour any time soon.

“Narví Zabad,” Miri replied respectfully.

“Send word to Durin, he’ll want to begin fortifying the road,” Narví commanded, “if we are to evacuate as many as can be spared from the defences, they’ll need safe passage.”

“Yes, Zabad.” Miri bowed.

“Wait!” Glorfindel interrupted, making Miri stop in her tracks. “One of our riding messengers would be faster.”

“Very well,” Narví nodded; the Elf had a point. Elven horses could outrun practically anything, she knew, and Miri couldn’t ride anything larger than a pony. “Tell your messenger to say ‘barath'adad’ to prove they bear word from me if they need to pass any guard-posts.”

“My Lady… how did you know to come?” Erestor caught her by the arm, the gesture proving how shaken his calm façade really was; Elves never initiated physical contact unless they were with someone very close to them. “We had not thought… to send word to you, I mean,” he hesitated, a light glow appearing in his ears.

Narví could not keep the sadness from her face. “Khalebrimbur spoke to me,” she mumbled, “though he was not with me, I heard his voice beg me; ‘save them’.” The two Elves reared back as though struck, staring at her with more surprise than she had ever before seen in the face of an Elf. She scowled. “I’m not mad!”

“No, my lady,” the golden elf replied, “you’re not mad… it was always said that the House of Fëanor were blessed with many skills beyond the kenning of even the wisest among us… you saw his spirit, I guess?” Narví shook her head.

“Only his voice; faint and far away, but I would know Khalebrimbur’s voice among all Elves,” she said. The Elf muttered something unfamiliar to her ears in a low voice; Narví did not need to know the words to recognise it as a curse, however. “Do we know what is coming?” she asked, trying to get back on track.

“The armies of Sauron,” Glorfindel replied grimly, “he wants the Rings of Power, the ones Celebrimbor made.”

“But they were sent away,” Narví replied, frowning, “Khalebrimbur told me he sent them away; he was going to visit your Gil-Galad, he said, to discuss how to keep them safe.” It seemed so long ago, now; Narví purposely did not count how long it had really been since she had seen ‘her’ elf, watched his eyes crinkle when he smiled at her. “It was the last time I saw him.”

“The Rings had already been spirited away,” Glorfindel replied, “and Celebrimbor never made it to Lindon…” Narví blanched, but she rallied herself almost immediately, pushing away the certainty that filled her at the elf’s words. Glorfindel did not continue, but she thought she saw compassion in his blue eyes.

“Your civilians,” she said, getting control of her voice through sheer stubbornness, “send them to the Dwarrowdelf. They can escape through the Mountains, reach the Golden Wood on the other side.” Glorfindel nodded once, glancing at Erestor in a way that Narví did her best to ignore; it was the look of someone who knows they will soon be parted from a loved one by duty – someone who knew that they might not see each other again in this world. Private grief best left unspoken; she knew it well. “We can save your people only if you abandon your home.”

“I thank you, my lady,” Erestor said, forcing calm into his voice with great effort before striding off; his spine ramrod straight in a way she recognised from countless wives and husbands separated by duty. Interesting.

“Let’s talk defences,” Glorfindel said, though he, too, was staring after the dark-haired elf. “I’ve sent for reinforcements, but we must give them as much time as can be gained before we abandon this land.”

[1] Squire/errand-runner, not yet battle-ready, though close; a valued position usually leading to a promotion as an officer upon coming of age if the young dwarf has proven skilled enough.

Khalebrimbur told me.

Narví’s voice was growing stronger, as though he was moving closer to her. He wasn’t moving, he thought, but he still seemed to follow his name from her lips, follow the sound like it was the silver trumpets that had once welcomed him to Gondolin. Thinking of Gondolin seemed to have conjured a new voice.

Celebrimbor never made it to Lindon.

Glorfindel. He was almost certain of it, though he felt a moment of confusion at his own certainty before he remembered that Glorfindel had been returned from the Halls of Mandos.

Because of his work, of course, Celebrimbor thought, a shudder of shame running through him. He should have listened to Gil-Galad, he knew, when Anna- Sauron came, but he… His own great-grandfather was a servant of Aulë, and Celebrimbor secretly thought he had learned more from Mahtan than from Fëanor, how could he turn away a servant of Aulë? He, the last remnant of Mahtan’s blood in Middle-Earth? Grandmother would have been appalled; Aulë’s Maiar had always been welcomed in their house, shared their teachings freely with his kin. He had thought… but it didn’t matter what he had thought, didn’t matter that he had hoped his House might not have been entirely forsaken because of the Oath; what mattered was Sauron’s treachery, and the imminent consequences of his own naivety.

We will place your archers behind the line of the vanguard. I’ll be here, with two hundred Dwarven soldiers. Geira will take the flank, and your cavalry can sweep up from the other side…

Narví again, and Celebrimbor thought his heart would burst with the fear her words inspired. His Narví was going to war? NO!

He thought he screamed it; he didn’t want her to fight the hordes he knew were converging on his peaceful lands, didn’t want her facing Orcs and Goblins and whatever other servants Sauron would send at them. He wanted her to help yes, but she had to be safe, be protected!

“I will stand with you.” Glorfindel said it like it wasn’t even a point of discussion and Narví bristled. Who did the Elf think he was? She had been in her fair share of warfare, she didn’t need a minder!

“I can take care of myself,” she hissed. The infuriating elf just smiled at her.

“Yes, my lady,” he agreed placidly, “but my old friend Celebrimbor would be grieved to see you harmed for trying to fulfil his last wishes… I shall honour his friendship with you when he cannot.”

“I’m in no more danger than any other Dwarf, Lord Glorfindel!” she snarled, offended at the slight on her skills.

“On the contrary,” he murmured, “we don’t know how long Celebrimbor was in the hands of the Enemy, nor what he told them… but I should be surprised if Sauron had no knowledge of his friendship with your kin; with you.” Narví scowled, but she couldn’t think of a good argument to rebuff him.

Listening to Glorfindel trying to protect his Narví, Celebrimbor could only nod, even if he objected to the word friendship. What he felt for his golden Dwarf was so much deeper than mere friendship; otherwise he would never have been able to find her when he left his body, which he was sure Glorfindel knew. Even if he didn’t, Erestor was bound to have noticed, bound to have told the Balrog-Slayer that he had caught Celebrimbor looking at Narví more than once with his heart in his eyes.

He wondered why it was so much easier to hear them, now. The voices remained far-off, but clearer, no longer muffled and clouded. The nothingness had not changed, though Celebrimbor didn’t know how he was even perceiving it; he had no ears or eyes, no fingers to touch, no skin to feel chills or warmth, yet he was acutely aware that he – suddenly worried that somehow his conscious would dissipate into the nothingness – was surrounded by nothing. It wasn’t darkness, nor light, wasn’t hot nor cold, there was no breeze, no scent of grass or soil or stone or metal. He felt no other… beings – what was he? A disembodied fëa? – around him, and he only knew that he wasn’t making up the voices he heard because of the words they were saying. Had he told Sauron – he could hardly bear to think of him as Annatar, remembering moments of laughter and joy in the magical rings they were crafting – about Narví?

He wished he could see her one more time, could check that she wore the armour he had made for her – she had called him silly, insisted that her old set of mail was more than adequate for her appearances in the rings, for fighting in the tournaments... but he had made it for her anyway, mithril and steel, inlaid with patterns made of ithildin – on the inside, he didn’t want her to be spotted by an enemy due to the light of the stars above her – and decorated with jade she had carved to match the axe they had made together. He liked making things for her, pretty clasps for her cloak – he was particularly fond of the holly-leaf embossed with the eight-pointed star of his House combined with the seven stars of Durin’s Line and – Eru, he had been courting her! Celebrimbor thought he might have fainted if he had still possessed a form capable of fainting. Had he really been…? Looking back, searching through his memory, he was startled to realise just how many things he had created just to see her smile at him. And yet… he had not spoken the words, had not actually told her that she was… everything.

“I remember making these,” Narví remarked, when they finally abandoned their maps and plans – runners had been sent to Geira and Durin both – looking at a set of statues made of clay. “I had not thought he would have kept them on display.”

“Celebrimbor,” Glorfindel said, nodding in recognition, “but I don’t know the elleth.”

“Also Khalebrimbur,” she laughed, “I was proving a point.” Glorfindel looked confused, but Narví simply shook her head. “It does not matter.” Silently, the golden warrior resumed leading her towards the dining hall; Narví was half-tempted to remind him that she had spent the better part of ten years in this house working with its master and visited countless times since then, but her growling stomach demanded attention.

She made him stonework. Celebrimbor smiled, remembering the statues he thought Glorfindel would have meant. ‘You’re wrong to claim you share no features with your mother’, she had told him, ‘and I will prove it to you.’ He had not believed her, and, as always, the thought of his mother’s fate – had she been reborn in Valinor, with neither her husband nor her son for comfort? – made him sad and withdrawn, but Narví had not cared to let him brood on the past. Instead, he had found two busts; she told him they were haphazardly made, and of clay, clearly inferior to her mind, but he had not let her destroy them once he had seen what she wished him to see; the way his face bore subtle reminders of his mother’s – more pronounced if he had been born an elleth, but there to see plainly once her eyes had revealed them to him.

The enemy would arrive with nightfall. Dark clouds roiled in front of them, but these carried no rain; they were there to block the light of the stars from reaching the ground, to stop the Elves calling upon Elbereth for aid and courage as was their wont, but Narví’s Dwarrow did not care. Many of them saw as easily in darkness as they did in gloom; Dwarrow had never been made for life on the surface, life under the bright light of Trees or Suns. They had been made to work in the deep places of the Earth, to shape the foundations and bore through the mountains, bringing up the treasures of the dark places beneath the rock and their eyes seemed somehow luminous to the Elves standing scattered among them, colours no Elven eyes could hope to match; turquoise, aquamarine, emerald, even a few garnets scattered here and there among citrine and topaz, tourmalines of all kinds glittering in the darkness. Where the elves would be shooting half-blind, the Dwarrow would strike true; Glorfindel had expected the coming of the clouds, and he had interspersed his archers among the dwarven rear-guard.

Chapter 5 the battle

They would hold the Glanduin until they had evacuated as much and as many as could be saved from Ost-in Edhil. The civilians – Eregion could not be held, not even if reinforcements from Lindon arrived in time, Glorfindel had agreed with her – and the wagons currently being filled were loaded with everything the Elves could not bear to leave behind; the ancient road along the Sirannon was already filled with carts and Elves carrying as many possessions as they could salvage. It was at once a frantic scramble and an organized chaos, Narví thought, walking through the airy archways. She had sent Miri back to the mountain carrying a few of her own memories of Khalebrimbur – a hand-mirror he had once made that she had engraved with Dwarven runes to annoy him; a sketch he once drew of her working on the Doors; his favourite jeweller’s hammer – small things, really, but she had felt far too sentimental when she stood in his old rooms to allow herself to leave emptyhanded.

Erestor had estimated that it would take another fourteen hours to empty the city completely, so they would attempt to keep the Enemy at bay for fifteen as a minimum. Eregion did not possess many warriors, and Durin’s spare gangbûh had been marched as swiftly as possible to reinforce their numbers. Narví had faith that they could hold the land between Sirannon and Glanduin for at least half a day once they begun the retreat; the Elven bows would hopefully aid in keeping loss of life at a minimum, but none of the defenders had doubts that they might easily be facing their last hours in Middle-Earth. By the time the last of the rear-guard made it back to the Stair Falls, all the Elves ought to be safely inside Khazad-dûm, leaving only archers and those Dwarrow who would man the ballistae Durin had ordered constructed along the Gate Stream to protect their retreat. The gorge through which the Gate stream ran was narrow and easily defensible; they did not anticipate any enemy forces getting through all the way to the Doors for at least another day – if not more.  

“Can you hear them, Khalebrimbur?” Narví whispered, looking out of the window in the tower-room he had used as a conservatory, the sun slowly sinking behind her. “They are afraid – with good reason – but they have hope, now; can you hear them, wherever you are?” She tried not to wonder where exactly that was. His body could be anywhere, of course, and she had not heard his voice again since that day in the Mountain – was it really only three days hence? – but if the Valar were kind, it would have found its way to the Halls of Mandos. Narví hoped it had; the thought of his soul wandering the earth, lost and slowly forgetting all that it had once been… was unbearable. Even more unbearable than the knowledge that she would not see him again until the Remaking; at least, she had some hope she might find him again in the new world her kin would create, would see him once more, listen to the silly songs he made up when he was happy in his forge or watch him to that odd thing his people called dancing, all wavy limbs and twirling. Narví smiled to herself; that’s how she would think of him, think of him dancing with his friends and family in the Halls of Mandos – maybe he would be reborn, get to re-join his mother – think of him being happy.  

“My Lady,” Erestor interrupted her thoughts quietly. Narví turned. The Elf had dressed in full armour, a pair of twin blades – Narví recognised Khalebrimbur’s work, though the weapons looked old – strapped to his sides. On his shoulder, the star-and-holly sigil of Eregion had been fashioned into a cloak pin; she had a similar belt buckle at home, though her star was not the House of Fëanor’s symbol, but the collection of seven stars that heralded her own line.

“Erestor,” she replied, “I have told you to use my name.”

“Yes… Narví.” The Elf looked a little sheepish. Narví cast about for a different topic.

“I did not think you were a warrior?” she really hadn’t; Erestor had always been happier among scrolls and histories. He glanced out the window, looking at the wagons still being pulled towards the shelter of the Mountain.

“Not for many years, Lady Narví,” he admitted, Narví let the title slide; the Elf’s eyes seemed locked on something far away in both memory and distance. “It’s been many a summer since I last took up arms to fight the Enemy; but I shall do so once more… defend what I have cherished, even unto the end.”

“It is not the end, mellon,” Narví replied softly. “We will stand victorious.”

“So much faith, in such a small body,” he murmured, but Narví did not take offense; Erestor had always been a little peculiar that way, “though, perhaps you are right. Still, I do not think we shall ever see the like of Eregion again.”

“Khalebrimbur would scold you if he heard you say so,” Narví said, narrowing her eyes at him and moved towards the stairway. Erestor fell into step beside her. “Renewal is the Elven way, I have always thought,” she added philosophically. “You will build a better Eregion, one that is more defensible than this one, because you will be less naïve in its construction; you will know that the Enemy has not been defeated.” Moving down the stairs, she barely heard Erestor’s sigh, but when she looked up at him once more, the Elf was smiling faintly. Narví shook her head; Erestor might be pompous and somewhat pessimistic, but he had loved Khalebrimbur dearly, and she knew how much it hurt the Elves who had settled here to abandon this land where they had been happy for almost a thousand years.

“As my Lady commands,” he swore, bowing to her, and Narví heard the ring of an oath in the words. “Then let us draw steel together, Narví,” Erestor said, something like fondness in his eyes, “in the name of Eregion.” Turning on his heel, Erestor strode from the tower, heading towards the golden shimmer that was Glorfindel, still in the courtyard giving orders.

“You’re sending Erestor to the foothills?” Narví asked; that had not been the plan earlier, but looking at the maps Glorfindel had spread out on a table in the middle of the courtyard, pointing out the positions to his captains, Erestor’s marker had been moved.

“No!” Erestor replied, staring at Glorfindel, who looked up briefly, piercing Narví’s soul with the strength of his gaze.

“Yes, Erestor,” he said and Narví wondered when she had become so skilled at reading Elves as to notice that his calm demeanour was a screen for deep anxiety, “I need you to command our forces there, stop the Orcs from crossing the mountainsides and getting behind our lines.”

“Don’t-” Erestor began to protest, but Glorfindel held up a hand, silencing him. Narví kept her mouth shut.

“You’re taking the flank, Erestor,” he continued, running the tips of his fingers over Erestor’s fist where it lay clenched on the table. “Please.” Erestor pulled away violently.

“He would stay with you,” Narví murmured, watching Erestor stride off in what was not quite a run, “I though you meant to keep him at your side.”

“He will be safer in the flank,” Glorfindel replied quietly. “Erestor is a good fighter, I know, but I can’t…”

“You can’t bear to see him hurt, watch him fight for his life without trying to get between him and his enemy, aye, I know, Lord Elf.” Narví did not look up when the Elf gasped, keeping her eyes on Erestor’s lithe form, mounting his horse with ease. The dark-haired elf did not look back as he set off. “For your love is as plain as the gold in your hair.”

“You are perceptive, Princess,” Glorfindel murmured. Narví shook her head.

“No, Glorfindel, though I perchance read Elves better than most of my kin,” she chuckled, “but you look at him the way my brother used to look at his wife when he still believed her beyond his reach.”

“It is… uncommon… among my kind, to love someone of your own sex,” Glorfindel continued, still staring after Erestor. “I did not expect to find such love when I was sent back from Valinor.”

“When did you arrive here?” she asked, turning to face the despondent elf.

“In Middle-Earth? Near a century ago. In Eregion? Only two decades,” he admitted.

“And you have not told Erestor what dwells in your heart, I wager,” Narví added, slightly charmed by the glow that appeared in the Elf’s cheeks, staining the tips of his ears pink.

“No,” Glorfindel sighed.

“You will.” Narví laced her voice with command, as though she were speaking to a recalcitrant noble. Glorfindel chuckled. “Promise me.”

“You never …” he began, but she interrupted him easily.

“No…” Narví sighed, “but I know what it is to wish you had said something. Before it was too late.” Giving him a shrewd look, she smiled gently, trying to mitigate the sudden fear in his ancient eyes. “You have fewer obstacles in your path than I had… And Erestor… he loves you, too.” The golden-haired elf seemed frozen beside her, a sudden breeze blowing his long hair into his face. Narví sighed. Blind – they were both blind. Shaking her head at herself – how blind had he not been, to miss the way she felt for him? Oh, Khalebrimbur, what should I do? She had been cowardly, she thought, and now it was too late… but not too late for them.

“We should be off, too, my lady,” Glorfindel murmured, breaking the silence by picking up his helmet and securing his hair beneath it. Casting one last look at the house where she had spent so many happy days, Narví nodded.

“Aye, so we should,” she agreed, accepting the hand that helped her onto his great stallion.

Standing on the hastily constructed earthworks they intended to use as barricades, Narví felt proud of her kinsmen. They hadn’t had much time, but these mounds of earth they had built along the south bank of the Glanduin stretched all the way to the foothills where the river cascaded down from the snowmelt of the Silvertine and made a natural barrier; the orcs would not be able to cross the rocky crags to get behind the line of defenders. Reinforced with sharpened young trees – she had sent a silent apology to Khalebrimbur when she ordered them to cut down as much wood as they needed from around Ost-in-Edhil, but Narví knew he would have approved – the earthworks now stood chest-high to an elf, and by the time the first volleys had been fired, the archers could take position behind the Dwarven vanguard and continue firing, while the axes hewed down the foes determined enough to get over the walls.

“Baruk Khazâd!” someone called, bowing to her when he recognised her.

“Khazâd ai-izdnu!” Narví replied, to great cheer. Beside her, Glorfindel pretended not to be listening, but she had caught the impressed look on his face when he saw the battlements they had managed to create in such short time. “It is our war-cry,” she explained. “In battle, we believe in prophesizing to our enemies.”

Looking up, it was obvious that the Elf did not understand. Narví smiled. Khalebrimbur had once explained how Elves called upon names – either those of a higher power or heroes of the past – for courage in battle, but her people had never believed in such things.

“Baruk Khazâd,” she explained, twirling her broad-axe with one hand and watching the way the late afternoon sun glinted off the sharpened edge, “the Axes of the Dwarrow.” Gesturing at the bearded soldiers who bowed respectfully at her when she passed, she smiled. “Khazâd ai-menu; the Dwarrow are upon you.”

Nodding at the soldiers they passed on their way to their position, Narví repeated the words several times before they got there. Glorfindel remained silent, exchanging a few nods with his own people in passing.

“Of course, our enemies do not understand our tongue,” Narví continued, looking out from the small ledge where the Dwarven warriors would stand to get better reach once the Enemy’s footsoldiers came in range, “for the words are sacred and created by the Maker.” Pausing, she turned her head, giving the golden Elf a cheeky grin: “But it is a terribly impolite way to address someone in our language.”

Glorfindel chuckled.

Night had fallen. Swiftly and seemingly from one moment to the next, they were under cover of unnatural darkness, dwarven eyes staring wildly at the roiling mass of bodies they would be facing. Narví did not understand why they hesitated, why they waited, why the Orcs did not attack…

And then she saw it.

“No!” she didn’t hear herself cry out, her eyes wide, one hand helplessly reaching towards the grisly sight moving ever-closer. “KHALEBRIMBUR!” she screamed, but Glorfindel’s hands held her back, stopped her running off and hewing down the fiends that had dared treat her elf like that.

Like a horrifying parody of a banner, pale flesh had been pierced by long spears and raised up above the advancing enemy. Dark hair hung in snarls, lank and lifeless, half-way obscuring the face she knew so well. Blood had dried in streaks from wounds too numerous to count, rivulets outlining the muscles and sinew. The head lolled on the neck, boneless, broken, and Narví stuffed her fist in her mouth to stop herself screaming, the metallic taste of copper strong in her mouth as she tried not to sick up, staring at the evidence of old torture. Some of the wounds were scars, she could see, stark white and bright pink, injuries that had healed over well before whatever final blow struck his life from this earth.

“Khalebrimbur…” she whimpered, wanting to close her eyes, wanting to hide from this vision and pretend it had not happened, pretend he had died in his sleep, like her father, full of days well-lived and surrounded by kin and loved ones.

Around her, Dwarrow and Elves alike were snarling; if the Enemy – she would never again dignify him with a name – had thought to strike fear in their hearts with his ‘banner’, he had managed only to fan the flames of righteous fury.

Around her, Narví saw vengeance shining in eyes that had been darkened by fear and doubt, saw the need for revenge rally those who had not thought war would ever touch them again.

“A Eruchîn, ú-dano i faelas a hyn an uben tanatha le faelas[1]!” Glorfindel called, as a single voice began singing. Narví did not understand the words, but the Elves around her seemed to stand straighter.

“Baruk Khazâd!” she cried, hearing her call to arms echo along the line, until the Dwarven army was chanting with one voice, a sound that she could feel rumble through the earth beneath her feet. “Khazâd ai-menu!”

“Tangado a chadad![2]” Glorfindel added, and the archers raised their bows as one; Narví felt distantly impressed with their coordination, even as her eyes remained glued to the corpse of Khalebrimbur. “Hado i philinn![3]” Glorfindel’s arm fell, a blur of gilded steel in the corner of her eye and Narví felt the rush of air as the arrows sped past her. A few of her own kin had crossbows, but they were not as swift to reload as the Elves, whose continuous firing was quickly dropping scores of Orcs.

He heard her scream. There had been no words in his nothingness for some time, and the sound cut through his soul like knives of fire had once bit into his flesh. This was the sound of heartache, the sound of despair, and he almost did not dare consider what would have made Narví cry out such a denial.

“Khalebrimbur!” His name. It echoed in the void around him, like wolves howling in deepest winter. She was crying out for him?

“Narví!” He called, trying to reach her again, trying to tell her that he would be there, that he would make it better somehow, take away whatever hurt she was feeling and make her smile again. No sound escaped him, and the scream continued to sound around him, battering his ears like the ringing of bells and growing louder with every repetition.

Glorfindel had stopped her leaping past their defences, stopped her going directly for the standard-bearer with his grisly trophy, but by the time the orcs reached their barrier and began to break upon the blades of the defenders like waves upon the shore, the Elf was right there with her.

“Baruk Khazâd!” Narví bellowed, fury in every syllable; her cry echoed by those around and behind her. “KHAZÂD AI-MENU!!”

In her hands, her axe was a living thing, hacking at flesh and biting through armour like it was mere scrap metal. Narví smiled grimly. Behind her, her personal guard were dealing out death like there was no tomorrow, and beside her, Glorfindel shone golden, as though the sun had lifted her head to pierce the night and the Enemy’s clouds just to catch in his hair. The Orcs recoiled from the sight, as much as they did from his sword, which seemed to be an extension of his arm, of his will to see them all pay for what had been done to his friend. As he swung, he sang, words Narví did not understand, but which filled her with curious joy, as though his light was touching her soul. It did not abate her fury, did not soothe her rage, her utter despair and agony unceasing as she felled orc after orc, cut down foes without counting.

Taking the standard-bearer’s head was satisfying, Narví’s teeth bared in a visceral snarl as she hacked the spears to pieces, yanking every spike of metal from the body of her Elf, barely even noticing that Glorfindel was killing every orc that got in range, keeping her safe as he had promised.

Picking up the corpse in her arms, her axe clutched in her hand as she carried him bridal-style back towards their earthworks, trusting the golden elf and her guards to watch her back and clear a path for their retreat, Narví didn’t even hear herself whispering soothing words into ears that could not hear her, telling him that it would all be alright, she would take care of him, keep him safe.

Narví’s tears did not fall, her anger burning too hotly for grief to become water in her eyes.

“It’s alright, Izgilê,” her voice murmured, “I’ve got you, everything will be fine. I am here, I’ve got you.”

Celebrimbor would have sworn he could feel a metal-covered hand stroking his hair, as he listened to the sound of her voice; it would have been soothing, he thought, if not for the knowledge of what she was carrying, the knowledge that she would see all that had been done to him; the image of his last years as a physical being also the last image she would have of him.

Weeping with eyes that conjured no water, Celebrimbor sank down onto the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees and hiding his face.

Please don’t remember me like that, my Narví, he whispered, but the plea made no ripple in the void.

[1] O Children of Eru, Show them no mercy, for you shall receive none!

[2] Prepare to fire!

[3] Release arrows!

Celebrimbor woke with a scream, almost comforted by the sight of the nothingness that was better than his memories of pain and fear. It had been an eternity since he had heard Narví’s voice, heard her bellow out a war cry, fury evident in every syllable.

Narví was getting tired; they had defended their barricades for almost 6 hours before Glorfindel blew the retreat and the vanguard was obviously the last to cross the long planks they were using for bridges, while the rear-guard and the archers continued to decimate the ranks of Orcs that were still coming over their line of defence. In her arms, Khalebrimbur’s corpse lay limply; she ignored the sickly-sweet smell of decay that clung to him, pretending it was the warm scent of hot metal and coals as she carried him across the planks. She had put him down once they were back behind the barricade, but she hadn’t even acknowledged Glorfindel’s offer of taking her burden. No one would be carrying her elf except her. The Elf had simply sighed, raising his sword once more and falling in behind her, allowing her to focus on cross the blood-slippery wood without falling into the Glanduin – the river was not too swift, here, but it was deep and her armour was heavy. If she fell in, she would not be able to get back out under her own power, Narví knew, though the threat of drowning was a distant concern to her, overshadowed by her broken and bleeding heart. She had known, yes, but there was a difference between knowing her Khalebrimbur had perished – she had not wished to believe it, but she had known that when he said goodbye to her in Durin’s Council Chamber, it was goodbye for good – and actually seeing the physical evidence of the horrors that had been done to him. She tried to call forth images of his smiles, of his skin unblemished as he worked shirtless in his forge on a hot summer’s day, but her happier memories kept being pushed away by the horrible image of his tortured flesh hung up on a pole to be carried as a banner of war. Narví did not speak a word, simply continued to head towards the Sirannon, her feet sinking into the soft ground between the two rivers. Around her, soldiers were fighting, and Glorfindel was never far, his weapon singing through the air as he fought the oncoming hordes. Narví’s hand was still clutching the handle of her axe, but she did not swing it, slowly moving forwards, always forwards, carrying her precious burden towards the mountains of home.

The darkness around them was thick like the deep mines; even Glorfindel’s glow seemed diminished, as though the dark clouds of the Enemy’s making had fallen down from the heavens and layered across the boggy ground they were traversing, their steel boots getting trapped in soggy patches. The Elf was dancing across the ground, keeping an eye out for any pursuit. Narví herself felt mostly useless, her arms full of Celebrimbor’s cold corpse and leaving no way for her to swing her axe without dropping him. She had heard guardsdwarrow die behind her, but she had to keep moving no matter what, she knew, survival more important than mourning. Glorfindel’s words earlier had borne fruit in her mind, a thought she wasn’t sure had even occurred to the Elf himself: If the Enemy knew about Khalebrimbur’s friendship with her, Narví thought it likely he would also assume – or guess, she didn’t think Khalebrimbur would have told him anything on purpose – that she either possessed one of the rings – Durin did, the Ring of Sapphire, which Khalebrimbur had made almost a century before, shortly after they had first agreed to building their gate, as a sign of friendship between their peoples – or that Narví knew where the Three might be found. As a matter of fact, she had some idea; surely, he would have sent at least one to his cousin – Narví wasn’t quite sure if the Lady who had walked through the Deep without her light ever dimming was his cousin or his niece – the Lady Galadriel, and probably one to Gil-galad, the High King of his own kind. It’s what she would have done if she wanted to keep safe something that important, and Khalebrimbur was cleverer than she was in many areas; even if he was woefully naïve in other matters.

The sound of running water became louder in her ears, the sounds of battle dimmer behind her with every step. They had left behind a few of her guard to halt the Enemy’s pursuit; Narví could have cursed herself for giving away her position with her insistence on reclaiming Khalebrimbur’s corpse, but she could have done no different in the moment, she knew, even if she had known how doggedly their enemies would pursue them to get to her. Glorfindel’s light, too, seemed dimmer, as though he was tiring, and yet he kept vigilant, while on her other side one of her oldest and most trusted guards – one of her brother’s personal friends, in fact – seemed bent on ensuring no blade had a chance of even getting near her armour to test its capabilities. Narví almost smiled. Harkon was diligent at all times, but she reckoned he’d received special instructions from Durin with the way he stuck to her side like a burr, his axes whirling instruments of death. In her arms, Khalebrimbur lay still, as though – aside from the wounds hat marred his pale flesh and the way his head lolled on his broken neck if she bumped it away from her shoulder – he might be simply sleeping. We’re almost home, Khalebrimbur. She didn’t know if she had said the words aloud, tiredness dragging at her heels when she finally stepped through the last obstructive holly-bush and caught sight of the pale ribbon that was the Sirannon. On her right, the sound of the Gate Falls roared through the still and oppressive darkness; she had never felt so terrified of darkness before, even in the deepest blackest pit of a mine they had dug. The darkness inside a mine, however, was a welcoming thing; the bosom of their Stone Mother, the Realm of their Father, where no Dwarf would ever be shown away. This darkness, however, was clammy and oily against her skin, smelling foul and filled with malevolent hatred and greed for something she could not name.

“We cannot cross here, Narví,” Harkon remarked, which was true; the stream was not that wide, but it was swift and deadly deep so close to the falls.

“We must, Harkon,” she said, trying to give him an encouraging smile. It was a pale effort at best. Glorfindel nodded.

“We cannot get further down stream,” he added, “the Orcs have already crossed the river: they’re fighting their way along the Great Road now.” Narví snarled quietly.

“So be it.” Setting down Khalebrimbur, she began pulling off the plate-mail of her armour. Harkon gasped. “We cannot swim in steel, Harkon,” Narví sighed. Behind them, they could hear someone violently crashing through the foliage. Harkon stiffened.

“I will guard your back, Narví Zabad,” he swore, turning his back on the river. Narví wanted to cry, but she would not demean his sacrifice by offering protest. Instead, she nodded.

“I will sing for you,” she murmured, barely giving herself time to witness his nod before picking up the body once more. Harkon did not turn, but Narví knew he was smiling.

“Let me carry Celebrimbor,” Glorfindel said. By virtue of his height, should be able to walk across the bottom for most of the crossing while keeping his head above water. Narví sighed; part of her wanted to be stubborn, keep hold of her love’s physical shell, no matter how empty, but she knew that she would be unable to keep herself alive while keeping him in her arms at the same time. She might have abandoned the heavier pieces of armour designed to safeguard her from sword-strokes and axe-blows, but she was still wearing mithril mail and steel boots, the armouring surrounding her legs too cumbersome to remove without aid. Nodding to the elf when he bent to pick up the corpse, she waited until he had made it into the stream, his helm left behind as his only concession to the power of the rushing water. Taking a deep breath, and with the sound of Harkon’s war-cry ringing in her ears, Narví plunged into the icy stream.

“We’re almost home, Khalebrimbur,” Narví’s voice whispered through the foggy greyness that surrounded him. It made Celebrimbor look up sharply, fearing that she would be gone forever when he had stopped hearing the ringing echoes of his own cries and realised that her voice was silent.

“The Orcs are in sight of the Stair Falls, Durin Uzbad!” the breathless messenger said, interrupting Durin’s greeting of the Elves who had had the task of keeping the foothills between the rivers from being overrun. Lord Erestor – Durin hadn’t thought the Elf a warrior, but he moved like one who was fully at home in his armour – whirled, staring across the milling warriors, the tall Elves and the stocky Dwarrow intermingling, nursing wounds and trying to get back towards the Mountains, make way for the reinforcements meant to hold the Gate of Stairs. Durin’s eyes, too, followed that path, but neither of the golden heads they were searching for were in view.

“We must close the Gate of Stairs and shore up our defences, my King!” his general implored, but Durin snarled wordlessly at her in reply. Erestor looked paler than the moonlight made him, his eyes frantically roving across the masses of soldiers. The civilians had all managed to get through; most were already inside Khazad-dûm and heading for their temporary lodgings – Durin was awaiting reports from the other side of his Realm, waiting for word from Amdir’s people as to whether the trees of Lindórinand had also been overrun.

“No!” he ordered, his booming voice making those around him look up sharply. “I will not trap my sister on the other side of our Gates unless I absolutely must. Send a small charge, and keep an eye out for her!”

In his chest, his heart beat frantically; he had tried to stop her going down there, but Narví was always too stubbornly impatient to sit at home when there was work to be done – and the Elves of Eregion were nearly family to her, he knew, though she had never said it… and he had never asked.

“Yes, my King,” Fabarâl Mori nodded respectfully, biting her lip, and Durin knew that she was right; closing the Gate of Stairs would see the enemy break upon their defences like waves upon a sea – he had seen the sea, once, many years ago, when they were younger and more foolish, he and Narví, and decided to go see ancient Nogrod’s ruins – but he could not give the order, though he knew he would be sacrificing many to save a few… to save one. Narví was little when Adad died, born late in life to the King, and their Amad stolen by her birth; it had always been his task to look after her, and failure had never seemed as imminent as it did in that very moment.

“They still live.” Erestor’s words were quiet, and only a minute and almost-imperceptible tremble gave away the fact that they were wishful thinking, not fact. Durin nodded tightly. “Glorfindel is with Lady Narví – they still live,” the elf repeated, his eyes continuing to roam the blood-spattered forces milling around them.

“Of course, they do,” he replied, keeping his own voice level through sheer will and wishing that he had gone with her, that he was the one standing with her – what will I do if she dies? How will I go on, knowing Narví was killed by these horrid creatures without me there to protect her? – staring across the mass of soldiers, hearing the far-off thuds of their ballistae at work, heaving heavy blocks of stone down upon the heads of his enemies. The last thing Adad asked him, ‘Protect her – she is too young to be without her parents, keep Narví safe with you, Durin, promise me.’ – Durin couldn’t help but feel that he had failed.

The icy water dragged her down, but Narví managed to keep her head, refusing to let her air escape her in a great gasp of cold surprise when she was instantly submerged, and began the hard work of moving across the Sirannon. She knew how to swim, yes, and her armour was not as heavy as it could have been, but it still took all her strength to achieve forward motion, her lungs burning with the need to breathe. Before her eyes, she saw a spectre of Khalebrimbur, waving her on – was he calling for her to join him, or cheering her on? – but Narví knew better than to allow beguiling memories to sweep away her focus.

Breaking through the surface with a harsh gasp, Narví nearly collapsed on the bank, gasping for air, as her tortured lungs slowly got used to the less-chilly surroundings and the presence of oxygen around her. Staring acros the Sirannon, she could make out the stout form of Harkon, battling an Orc almost twice his height as though it was a green recruit he was sparring against. Narví wheezed.

“We have to keep moving,” Glorfindel urged, just as wet and dripping as she was, his golden hair plastered against his skull. In his arms Khalebrimbur still rested, and the sight made Narví struggle to her feet, shuddering with the cold of her soaked clothes stuck to her skin.

“Let’s go,” she chattered, failing to keep her teeth from rattling like die in a cup. Getting a grip on her axe with frozen fingers was difficult, but she managed.

“The orcs are nearly upon us; some are already ahead of us,” Glorfindel cursed, making Narví whirl, staring into the darkness. A hissed Khuzdul profanity escaped her; she could see the same; there were at least twenty Orcs to fight their way through, but with more coming up from behind it might as well be two thousand, considering how limited her ability to protect herself was.

Opening her mouth to demand Khalebrimbur’s body once more, Narví was surprised to see the Elf already holding it – him – towards her. Exchanging a tight nod with her tall companion, Narví grit her teeth. Khalebrimbur was too tall to sling over her shoulder comfortably, but Narví did it anyway, keeping one hand free to grip her weapon; it was made for two hands, but she could swing it with one if she had to… and she was not leaving Khalebrimbur behind after all they had already lost trying to save him. Narví didn’t really know why it mattered so much to her that Khalebrimbur’s body be brought back – by anyone’s logic, his soul was long-since fled, had even said goodbye to her on the way to Mandos – but Narví was nothing if not stubborn and she knew she could never live with herself if she had left it out there for whatever games of torture the Orcs had not already thought of playing with it.

“Baruk Khazâd,” she murmured to herself more than anything, “Khazâd ai-menu.”

Glorfindel’s smile was a white slash in his pale face as he gripped his sword once again.

Together, they stepped out from behind the bushes that had sheltered them from the Orcs’ view and prepared to battle their way towards the Gates, a measly distance of fifteen Khuzdsiginarnâg[1] that might as well have been a whole mountain range.

The Dwarf-King had tried to make him fall back, tend to his wounds, do anything besides standing and staring towards the Stair Gate, but Erestor felt frozen to the ground. Beside him, the dark-haired King was equally still, though he roused himself to respond when his subordinates asked him things. Erestor simply felt numb. Please be alive, he called, biting his lip to keep from screaming it across the valley. His eyes were the only part of him moving, constantly darting from one side of their defensive position to the other, hoping that the one he was searching for had simply been hidden from view.

“Come along then, Lord Elf,” Durin said brusquely, catching Erestor’s armoured elbow when the Elf didn’t seem to hear him. Erestor startled, giving his shorter companion a confused look. Durin sighed. “We’re giving a charge, Lord Elf, pushing the Enemy back in case Narví is close enough to meet us with whatever guard she still has.”

“Du bekar!” came the cry, when Durin moved towards the Gate – they had built barricades beyond the Gate itself, which remained open – his elite warriors lining up behind him, ready to spear into the face of their foes.

“DU BEKAR!” Durin bellowed, raising his red axe high. “BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AI-MENU!” With that, they charged.

Erestor found himself swept along without deciding to do so, the twin blades in his hand hacking at any foe in reach.

He heard her again, and Celebrimbor felt like weeping in relief. Then the words registered, the quiet voice uttering a war cry in a way he recognised from his own days as a soldier and commander in war as that of a person almost at their limit trying for one last burst of courage. The voice of a last stand.

“Please, Aulë,” he whispered into the void, not even caring that he had no voice to speak the plea, “let her live.”

They heard them before they saw them, and Narví felt a sudden wave of dizzying hope fill her.

“DU BEKAR!”

She would know her brother’s voice anywhere, had heard it in every mood and occasion imaginable, but heard in it now a new thread of despair she could not remember hearing before.

“BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AI-MENU!”

And then they were spotted by the Orcs, and she didn’t have time to worry about anything but parrying the blows coming for her.

He saw them, amidst a roiling mass of darkly armoured orcs, two golden heads shining dully in the light of the few dwarven lamps that had not been cowed by the Enemy’s darkness. One tall and lean, one short and stocky, and both surrounded by these fiends that were begging for his axe to cleave their skulls from their miserable bodies. Durin smiled grimly, the red blade of his axe already dripping dark with blood.

The Dwarven charge split easily when it reached the two combatants, surrounding them swiftly as the fresh fighters made short work of the orcs, retreating slowly back towards the Stair Gate once Narví and Glorfindel had been placed behind a protective barrier of Dwarven steel and mail.

He hardly recognised Erestor, the dark blue accents of his steel armour as foreign now as they had been the first time he realised that the Lord Advisor intended to fight in the upcoming battles. Glorfindel stared. The dark-haired elf’s face was twisted in a hateful snarl, his sword flashing through the air with unbridled fury that seemed incongruous with his image of Erestor, who was among the most peaceful – some called him boring, but Glorfindel did not think so – Elves he had met in his long existence. He shivered. Beside him, Narví’s blue eyes were also taking in the sight, sharing this moment of stillness with him in the midst of battle, as they allowed themselves to breathe, relieved that they had made it.

Moving back towards the mountain, he lost sight of Erestor for a moment – he would have believed it impossible; Erestor might be shorter than him, but he was still much taller than a Dwarf – but turning back he caught sight of him once more and allowed himself to be pulled towards the Stair Gate by Narví.

A distant part of him wondered if they might be able to find something dry to wear; Elves might be almost impervious to cold, but he did not relish being soaked through nonetheless. The larger part of him, however, wondered how he would find the courage to fulfil the promise he had made to the Dwarf beside him, whose arms were once more cradling the empty hröa of his old friend.

“You will,” she murmured, making him realise that he had spoken the words aloud. “I have faith in you, Master Elf, and that is no small thing for one of my kind to say.” Looking up at him, Glorfindel was amazed by the soft smile playing around Narví’s mouth; the way she had screamed when she first saw the body she now carried would ring in his ears for years to come, he feared, her grief as heart-felt as any elleth he had seen receive news of her loved one’s demise. He nodded to her, feeling more respect for her strength of spirit than he would have believed he could feel for a Dwarf – certainly more than he had expected when Erestor had greeted her as a Princess.

“Le fêl, Narví,” he murmured.

“Follow me,” she replied, once they were behind the fortifications, above the Stair Falls that drowned out any hope of conversation as they passed the white waterfall. “My… squire,” Glorfindel hid a smile at the way she had to search for the word; her Sindarin was better than most of the Edain and yet she seemed uncertain when she used it, “should have some dry clothes for me, at least, and we could probably find something dry for you, too.” A practical soul, he thought, well-matched to the Elf who had stolen her heart – had Celebrimbor known what he held in such a gift? – as he continued to walk beside her, silently vowing that he would ensure that Erestor knew the answer to that question no matter what the Loremaster’s feelings turned out to be. Glorfindel wanted to hope that Narví’s perceptions were correct, but he hardly dared.

Someone – Glorfindel bet it was Erestor – had ensured that a change of clothes for him had been packed with the crates destined for their interim camp along the valley leading to the Doors of Durin and soon he was both dry and dressed in a familiar green tunic, stitched with a border of golden flowers that brought a melancholy smile to his face when he saw them. Narví had disappeared at some point, entering a tent that could only belong to her brother by its decorations, and Glorfindel turned around to look for Erestor, wanting to reassure himself that his lovely Loremaster hadn’t been hurt in the fighting.

Erestor found him first, though it took Glorfindel a while to realise that the person who had slammed into his chest and was now trembling violently against him was Erestor.

“I am here, Erestor,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around the slender body. His armour was gone, as well as his swords, replaced by a dark blue tunic with silver stitching. Erestor did not respond, and Glorfindel did not know what to say, so he simply wrapped his arms tighter around the trembling body, resting his cheek on Erestor’s hair and enjoying the softness against his face, the subtle scent of apple-blossoms that clung to the strands even through the scent of dark blood that had not been completely washed away. “I am always here for you.”

“I thought you had died again,” Erestor whispered, his face still hidden from view, but the roughened voice and the slight dampness soaking through his clothes spoke plainly of his fear and relief.

“No, Erestor,” Glorfindel sighed, hardly even aware of the way he was pressed against the shorter ellon, never wanting to let go, “I am here, safe and sound, I promise.” Erestor sighed into his throat, tension leaving him with the expelled air. “Are you well, mellon?” Glorfindel asked, the moniker tripping off his tongue with familiar ease. Erestor stiffened. Pushing himself away from Glorfindel, he took a step back, nodding decisively. Glorfindel’s arms felt suddenly empty.

“I am unhurt, my Lord,” he murmured. “Excuse me, I should check on… excuse me.” With that, Erestor whirled and Glorfindel uttered a low curse at his own apparent cowardice.

“Erestor!” he called, but though he paused, the other ellon did not turn around. “Please… forgive me for causing you fear.” Glorfindel wasn’t used to uttering pleas, but he wasn’t sure that his overwhelming impulse to spin the shorter ellon back into his hold until he felt satisfied enough by the contact to let him go was a good plan either.

“I forgive you,” Erestor sighed, his shoulders slumped. He began moving again, and something reckless rose up in Glorfindel’s chest.

“Erestor!” he called again, louder, and when the Loremaster stopped this time, he caught him by the arm, using the advantage of surprise to spin him around once more. “Forgive me this, too,” Glorfindel murmured, cupping his face and raising it so he could look into those grey eyes. Erestor stared back, his eyes a little frightened, but he did not move away from the touch, which made Glorfindel smile. “But I could not let it go undone any longer.” Seeing no reluctance in his face, Glorfindel dipped his head slowly, stealing the softest of kisses from those lips, the dark hair tickling his fingertips. Erestor seemed frozen, reaching up to grip Glorfindel’s forearms tightly. Suddenly fearful, the golden warrior pulled back.

“What…” Erestor’s words petered out, his grey eyes large as he stared up at Glorfindel, who was beginning to curse himself for a fool. Erestor shook his head. “You…” but the words died out once more. Glorfindel winced. Closing his eyes, he waited for Erestor’s reproach, his palm still resting along his well-formed jaw while Erestor’s fingers were curled around his own wrists. “Why…?” Erestor finally breathed, the tiny gust of air playing across Glorfindel’s lips in a way that made him want to kiss Erestor again and damn the consequences.

“My heart,” he murmured instead, keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn’t have to see the possible disgust on Erestor’s face. “Do you truly not know how it beats for you?” Erestor’s gasp was loud and damning to Glorfindel’s mind. He sighed, beginning to pull away. With a murmur of protest, Erestor’s fingers tightened their grip, keeping him in place. Glorfindel’s eyes flew open, in time to see Erestor’s face galvanise into determination as one hand abandoned his wrist in favour of tangling in his hair and pulling him back to that mouth, swallowing his groan in a kiss that was a thousand times sweeter than the first one. Glorfindel’s fingertips were still stroking along Erestor’s jaw and up to his ear, but his free arm wrapped itself around his back once more, pulling him in close as the kiss continued.

“Meleth,” Erestor whispered between kisses, his long fingers tangled in Glorfindel’s golden locks; he wondered why having his hair pulled was so pleasurable, but he didn’t want to break the kiss to ask.

“Marry me,” he gasped instead, as his own fingers clutched at any part of Erestor he could reach.

“Yes.” Glorfindel pulled back, almost surprised at the ready acceptance, but Erestor simply smiled at him.

“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve performed a battle-field marriage, but I think we all remember how it goes,” someone said drily, and Glorfindel recognised the watery version of laughter that followed as Narví’s.

“I stand to witness!” she cried, and Glorfindel thought that his face might have caught fire, as heat not unlike that of a Balrog suffused his cheeks. Erestor, too, was blushing, and the sight was fascinating beyond belief. Narví’s call was repeated by the Dwarrow around them, until it was a rhythmical chant.

“With the Maker below, the Star-Kindler above, and the Life-giver among us, to witness your oaths, I do call these two… married!” Durin bellowed, the volume necessary to be heard over the chanting and stomping Dwarrow.

Glorfindel stared. Erestor seemed paralyzed in his arms. He whirled, glaring at Durin as those closest began to sing a song he thought he might be quite pleased not to know the meaning of, if the accompanying ‘helpful’ gestures from the two Dwarrow closest to he and Erestor were any clue.

Beside her brother, Narví was smiling, looking more alive than he had seen her since the terrible moment on the barricade. Taking Erestor by the hand, Glorfindel led him towards the two royal Dwarrow. Durin was grinning smugly, while Narví gave him a proud smile that didn’t relieve his fears that this was some sort of joke at all.

“What just happened?” Erestor asked, sounding dazed. Narví reached out to pat his hand.

“Battle-field marriage. It’s a Dwarven custom, Erestor,” she explained.

“We’re… married?” Erestor still seemed slightly lost. Narví nodded. From further away, they could still hear the sounds of battle, but Narví had been right when she told him that the Stair Gate would hold for a good long while, and Glorfindel didn’t worry about the Orcs in that moment at all.

“In the eyes of my people, yes,” she agreed. Glorfindel felt slightly dumbstruck, standing next to his… hervenn… the title filled him with a shivery sort of satisfaction. Erestor simply gaped at her. “Congratulations.”

“May I kiss you again… hervenn?” Glorfindel heard himself asking, the sound of his voice seemingly shocking Erestor out of his stupor. The Loremaster flinched, and Glorfindel worked very hard not to be hurt by that, but then Erestor’s fingers wrapped tightly around his, and then Erestor smiled at him. Glorfindel’s heart sang, and he didn’t even need to see the nod of consent before he had pulled Erestor back into his arms, kissing him with all the fervour he could muster while the sound of Dwarven cheering faded into the background.

[1] Dwarf-length measuring unit roughly equal to 1.4m

“I want to bury him.” Narví’s voice was steady, but Celebrimbor could hear the strained notes.

“Bury an Elf?” Durin replied, his voice less familiar and fainter as it whispered across the nothingness that surrounded him. “Hardly…”

“You just married two Elves, brother, are you going to tell me I cannot bury my… my friend?” Narví interrupted, her voice cracking slightly near the end.

Celebrimbor felt like the words were liquid sunlight poured into his soul. Narví’s voice was clear, clearer than it had been since he left her in the Council Chamber, and the thought that she would defy millennia of her people’s customs for his sake… Celebrimbor wanted to laugh with joy, ruthlessly banishing the small voice that wondered if she would have done that if he had been brave enough to ask her openly. Durin’s laugh – another familiar sound, though the King of Khazad-dûm sounded slightly weary – rang out into the void.

“Aye, that was a sight. Thought Erestor’s eyes were going to hop right out of his skull,” he guffawed, and Celebrimbor wondered if he understood their conversation; surely, the King of Dwarrow had not married two Elves, one of them being his own Erestor – had Erestor ever shown inclination towards anyone? – Celebrimbor’s mind boggled.

“I want to bury him out here,” Narví whispered, standing beside Durin as she stared across the small lake where they had stood so recently, staring down towards the spires of Ost-in-Edhil from the promontory outlook. “Khalebrimbur does not belong in stone; I will return him to the trees he loved as much as he loved metal,” she added, pointing towards the single holly growing by the lake. Durin nodded. “It has always been his tree, nadad,” she murmured, silently grateful for the silent support of Durin’s warm fingers squeezing her tight forearm.

“Should we call for the Cantor, nen’ar?” Durin asked quietly, but Narví shook her head.

“No,” she sighed. “Khalebrimbur was no Dwarf… I will bury him, and if there is to be singing, I shall do it, and hope my voice might reach him in the Halls of Mandos.” Durin knocked his forehead gently against her temple, kindly forgoing mentioning the tears sliding down her cheeks as she stared at the blurring holly.

“As you wish,” he acquiesced, turning to walk back towards the mountain. Narví sighed, but did not follow. Today, she had no wish to command, had no need to do… anything, really, feeling so horribly sad at what had befallen her Elf that she could barely muster a smile for the flushed cheeks of Erestor’s happiness when she saw him earlier. She was pleased that Glorfindel made him so happy, she was, but she also felt envious to her core.

“We saved them, Khalebrimbur, do you know? In your Halls, can they tell you?” she whispered the words into the air, expecting no answer and receiving none. “Your people, Izgilê, they are well. They are sad, and angry, but they are alive, I promise.” For a long time, Narví was silent, but then a quiet whisper passed her lips. “I miss you.”

He heard her clearly now, and he wanted to weep with gratitude. He could imagine her there, as she had stood so often with him, teasing him about the tiny tree he had stubbornly hauled up from his home and made to grow in the mountain’s sparse soil through sheer will-power. He liked the thought of his bones resting there, as a nod to both his heritage and their friendship. In his mind’s eye, it was early morning, and the first rays of the day played across Narví’s hair, the fantasy so vivid he almost thought it was true, wanted to reach for one of the loose curls that fell down her back. Lost in his own imagination, he didn’t hear anything else until the deep sound of a drum shocked him out of it.

She had dug the hole herself, refusing anyone’s help. Then she had wrapped his battered body in a large shroud hastily embroidered with the runes that spelled his name that she had stitched by candlelight, cursing her lack of experience with the needle. There was no doubt in her mind that she would have been better served by making a statue of him – she remembered every plane of his face, his body, and she was more than capable of rendering them in stone – but she also knew that she would not. It would hurt too much, having his face to look at like that, turning her longing too bitter with absence and grief. Instead, there would be the tree, and she would keep her memories in her heart, keep him alive there until she was returned to the stone herself and woke in Itdendûm. For a while, she indulged herself imagining what she would say to Mahal, how she would argue to be allowed to see him again before the Remaking, just… but her mental argument stopped there, knowing that she would never be satisfied with whatever came after the plaintive ‘just…’ and saying goodbye to him once more… Narví thought that would break her.

The Cantor did not come, as Narví had decided, though Durin did bring out one of the ceremonial drums that were used to play a heartbeat tattoo during the Dwarven funeral ceremonies. The young Dwarf whose hands played the instrument, tolling out deep sounds that echoed across the mountainside, did not seem to understand why he was out there playing, but Narví paid him no mind. She ignored the faint sounds of battle coming from the direction of the Stair Falls Gate too, all her focus on the wrapped body she held.

Glorfindel and Erestor stood behind her in silence when she lay the body down beneath the roots of the tree, curled up like a sleeping child. His wounds still stood out starkly against the pale skin, but Narví’s wrappings hid the most gruesome cuts from their sight.

“Here lies Celebrimbor, who was son of Curufin,” she said quietly. “He who was named Rathukhbatshûn and a Friend of Dwarrow, whose hands created beauty. May he find rest here, until the World is Remade.” Narví kept her voice steady as she spoke, but she could not bear to add a personal farewell before an audience, even an audience consisting of two Elves she was quite certain had guessed how she felt about ‘her’ Khalebrimbur. The beating heart of the drum stilled.

None of them spoke for a long time.

“Namarië,” Erestor whispered at last, “Tyelperinquar Celebrimbor.” Glorfindel repeated the words solemnly, but then the two Elves left her alone. The young drummer followed in solemn silence.

Narví wept.

Every sob tore at his heart, made him want to hold her until she stopped crying, cursing whomever decided what sounds came to him through the grey nothingness. They seemed to go on forever.

When Narví finally got to her feet, she was not surprised to see Durin standing by the Doors, alone. Stumbling into his arms, she sighed deeply, breathing in the comfort he exuded, even when he was wearing armour.

“Come on, Narví,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Let’s get home.” Narví nodded silently.

Durin stood by the Doors that bore their names, pausing to cast one look back towards the sole tree by the lake. With a final nod at the memory of an Elf, the King of Khazad-dûm stepped back into his Realm and shut the heavy door behind him.

The first time he saw her, it was a glimpse, blurry and imperfect, but unmistakeably Narví. For a long time, he believed it purely imagination – he had heard her, since his burial, but only ever accompanied by images conjured up by his own memory.

The Orcs had been repelled, though bands of Sauron’s army kept roaming Eriador; the reinforcements Glorfindel had talked about had arrived, and their fortified camp up north by the Bruinen – they called it Riven Dell – was used as a base by their riders, going out to harry Sauron’s forces and prevent him from bringing all his power to bear against Lindon. Durin had even sent a few gangbûh up there, when the fighting was worst, and Narví had wondered if Khalebrimbur could see how close their people had grown in such short time. They had been friendly before, of course, but infrequent trade and diplomatic visits between neighbouring kingdoms was something quite different to the current intermingled military situation.

The second time he saw her, however, she was standing next to Durin in what could only be a wedding ceremony, smiling broadly as she watched her brother marry a different blonde-haired Dwarf. Celebrimbor had learned enough about her race to know that the Dwarf was considered beautiful, though to his mind she couldn’t hold a candle to the beauty of his golden Dwarf.

The next thought that hit him was a curiously numb shade of despair that grew sharper the longer he watched. He considered, as he saw her dance with some nobledwarf or other, whether he would ever see her marry someone, have dwarflings of her own, and the idea was heart-breaking.

But he wanted her to be happy.

The desire to have her heart for his own warred with the wish to see her happy in ways he could never make her, no matter how much it hurt.

Narví preferred to remain deep in Khazad-dûm, and though she tried to tell herself she ought to be stronger than grief, she knew that watching the Elves she had known perish like the keeper of her heart would eventually break her. Already, she had received news of more than one casualty to tear at her wounded heart; the kind Loremistess Nyarmë, for example, whose son had been a secret favourite of Narví’s among the younger elves, had been killed during the evacuation. It was wrong, a deep part of her knew; they should have been immortal, just like she had always known that Khalebrimbur would outlive her – and yet they could be hewn down and ended by cold metal just as easily as a mortal.

Durin had asked her, once, if her heart had been given in vain, but Narví did not think so. She did not know how she could not have loved her elf, after all, how she could have avoided feeling that change in herself that grew from fondness to friendship to love as deep as the roots of a mountain. Durin had simply sighed, patting her shoulder, but Narví had known that he pitied her loss.

She had gone north, once, to help build a new fortified home for her displaced friends, and though many of the Eregion survivors had fled to the Golden Wood on the other side of the Mountains, most of their fighters had joined Elrond and Glorfindel at Riven Dell. Most of those who had made it out of Eregion were still filled with the same rage that burned in her heart for their slain Lord, and Narví had not hesitated in offering the Elven warriors the use of their Deeps Roads to reach the Valley without running into any of the roaming orcs. Some of the Roads had had to be expanded, being little more than old mining tunnels, but they did a brisk trade of goods with the camp now, bringing up food from the south and the east to supply them, along with weapons and smith-work to arm them.

Erestor had refused to stay behind, the stubbornness on his face almost Dwarven in intensity, and Glorfindel had caved after only a few minutes. Narví had laughed at that, though she was quietly pleased they had managed to cleave to each other through everything. She ignored the pang she felt seeing them together, as sharp as the first time she had realised what she had lost, even if she had never truly had it in the first place. Whenever she wondered what might have been, wondered if she could have had that kind of happiness, if she had been braver, Narví reminded herself that she would see the silly elf again, no matter how long the separation.

She just had to be patient.

Narví was not good at being patient.

More than one night, thoughts of his terrible fate found her roaming deserted tunnels, until the morning bell rang; more than once she had spent a night locked in her room with nothing but her regrets and a bottle of uisge to warm her. Waiting for Arda Remade was a bleak way of living, however, and Narví did her best to banish such thoughts, filling her waking hours with work and the happy smiles of her little niece.  

As time passed, his visions grew keener, and it became a mantra, watching her laugh – always from afar, though he could often hear her words – and dance, and play with her tiny nephew – niece? Celebrimbor couldn’t tell. Be happy, Narví, he would whisper, though he knew she could not hear it.

“Why aren’t you married, Auntie?” the Dwarfling asked one day, but only Celebrimbor saw the sadness that flickered over her face at the innocent question.

“I suppose… I was not asked,” she smiled, though he could see the strain. “I don’t think anyone wants to marry me, sweetling.”

“Lord Brago wants to marry you! Adad said so.!” the dwarfling protested, entirely unaware of the way those words became knives through Celebrimbor’s heart. Would he have to see her marry this Brago? Bed him? Bear his dwarflings? Panic whirled through his mind, revulsion and utter hatred towards this Brago filling him to overflowing. Watching her marry someone else – even though he knew he was dead, and had never mustered up the courage to ask her for anything even close to what he truly desired – would break him, he was sure, feeling guilty for not wanting to see her wed someone, worried that his selfishness would keep her from finding love.

Narví laughed, picking up the small dwarf and placing him – her? – on her lap.

“Aye, so he does,” she agreed, nodding, tickling the little one. Celebrimbor screamed into the void, rage consuming his thoughts. “But I have never loved Brago, my sweet one,” she murmured, but the dwarfling nodded solemnly.

“And we only love once,” she – he? – replied. “Will you find someone you love?”

“Ahh, no, kafnith, I lost the one I loved… a very long time ago.”

Narví’s words were coloured with old grief and Celebrimbor felt his heart break at the wistful look on her face. Seeing her marry someone else, love someone else would have been unbearable, yes, but not as unbearable as knowing that she had loved someone else. The tears that slid down his cheeks weren’t really there, but he felt the warm wetness nonetheless as he stared at her. Narví, he called silently – sometimes, he pretended that she could hear him, talking to her like he had that first day in her workshop, but she never reacted – wanting her to look at him, smile at him, allow him to pretend that he was the one she loved.

“Was he nice?” It was not the question Celebrimbor wanted answered, and yet he hoped that Narví would say yes, hoped that she had not thrown her heart away on someone unworthy of such treasure.

“Yes, kafnith, I think he was very nice,” Narví smiled, tugging on a tiny braid and receiving a gap-tooth smile in response. Some part of him rejoiced in the fact, though he also had to wonder why she had never told him of this dwarf, but perhaps it had been too painful for her as it often had been for his own Atto to speak of Ammë, even centuries after she had perished.

“It’s too bad he’s dead,” the Dwarfling – Celebrimbor wondered why he had never heard the name of Narví’s newest kinsman, but it was a distant thought – said quietly. “I want cousins.” Narví’s laugh – he loved her laugh – rang out through the small room, though her eyes were still sad.

“Well, I’m sorry about the lack of cousins, wee Dori,” she murmured, looking up at the sound of the door opening. By chance, she was staring straight through Celebrimbor, and for a single infinite moment he pretended that her smile was aimed at him, those blue eyes fond and welcoming. The dwarfling’s happy cry of ‘Amad!’ soon made it obvious that she was really looking at the person behind him, shattering his illusion, though he fought to keep hold of it; filling his world with those vivid blue eyes as his soul warred with itself whether to be happy about her remaining unattached or grieved that she had lost her love – even if it meant there had never been hope that she would be his to begin with, and all he had felt since before he died had been entirely one-sided.

Sometimes, Narví thought she could still hear him, hear his voice whispering her name, but she carefully did not look up, fearful that if she was to look for him, he would appear as she had last seen him… and even more fearful that he would not be there at all.

Every so often, she would leave the capital, go through the Doors that remained heavily guarded, and sit beneath Khalebrimbur’s tree, telling him stories of her home, of Durin’s little girl who was growing up to be as pretty as her amad. She did not tell him how much the Dori’s innocent questions hurt her, made no mention of the image of a tiny being with pointy ears and her adad’s dark hair in combination with her own eyes that had once haunted her dreams. She spoke no words of love to him – it felt cowardly, somehow, to tell him when he could not respond – but she never stopped feeling it.

His Narví was growing old, Celebrimbor realised, watching her hair slowly whiten. Once, he had feared such a thing, feared what he would do when she finally left for a place he could not follow, but now it only made him sad that he was missing it; missing the chance to tease her about the white hair, wondering if it was as soft as the golden and tell her that she was as beautiful in his eyes now as she had been when he first realised that he considered her lovely to look at.

He tried, at times, to speak to her, but he had resigned himself to the idea that she would never hear him and kept his murmured words to rare occasions, quietly fearful that if he persisted in speaking to her, whoever was in control of the greyish nothingness would decide that he did not deserve to look upon her at all and should return to that… void. The thought made him shudder. He didn’t know if he could survive that, returning to that place that held nothing; he never wondered if he would simply become a sad ghost, doomed to haunt the depths of Khazad-dûm until the remaking, certain that madness would be inevitable. Just as he never wondered what would happen to him when Narví finally joined Mahal’s Guard, he refused to consider how she would die. Once, he had told himself that watching her leave him so permanently was reason enough never to reveal his heart, that if she did not know, losing her would somehow matter less, hurt less.

Lying in her bed, Narví felt tired. Durin had gone some years before, and Brynhilda even before that, leaving only King Halldora and her small family to witness the slow wasting of Narví’s body. Her hair had turned white many years before; the elders claimed it must be a mistake, for Narví remained as healthy as she had been, and a Dwarf looked much the same at 40 and 240; such signs of aging usually only appeared a few years before the Dwarf was called to Itdendûm. Narví knew better. Her hair, once the colour of gold and wheat, had gone white with grief, pure and simple. She considered it proof that she had loved and loved truly, though she kept that knowledge to herself.

She slept more, these days, and Celebrimbor didn’t know if he was grateful for the long uninterrupted hours of watching her, or terrified that they meant she was slowing down, her body’s candle nearly burned down, her stone all but chiselled away.

It was time, she knew, when she began catching glimpses; an ear here, pointy like a leaf, dark hair there, falling straight across a nicely rounded shoulder. Narví smiled to herself, fingering the white locks that adorned her own head and wondering what Khalebrimbur thought of the wrinkles. She made no sign that she had noticed, knew that those around her would say he was no more than a figment of imagination, a product of a mind slowed by age, but Khalebrimbur felt real to her, and Narví wanted to hold on to that feeling.

"Amrâlimê..." Narví whispered, her head turning slowly on her pillow. Celebrimbor simply sat on the chair in the corner that he quietly considered his, watching her wrinkled face move into a soft smile filled with love. He wondered who she was seeing, knowing the word: My own Love.

"No, Auntie, it's me, Halldora," the younger dwarf replied shakily. Narví stretched her arm out slowly, for once looking straight at him.

Celebrimbor wanted to weep. He had heard that this could happen when mortals grew old, heard of dwarrow losing touch with reality in their final days. Narví’s uncle had suffered that fate, though his eccentricity had resulted in a marked preference for walking around naked, rather than hallucinations. 

“You're a good girl, Dori," Narví murmured tiredly, but she was still reaching for him. Celebrimbor hadn't dared try to touch her since the first terrible day in Durin's council chamber. "I will be sad to leave you," Narví coughed, her breath rattling in her chest, "but he is waiting for me, the silly sod." When the cough subsided, she fell back onto her pillow, still reaching towards him.

"Then you should go when you feel ready, Auntie," Halldora croaked. Celebrimbor could hear the tears in her voice. Reaching across Narví’s aged body, her niece took the hand that wasn't stretched towards him, patting it gently. "I will miss you."

"We will meet again, kafnith," Narví mumbled, squeezing Halldora’s hand but smiling in his direction. "Amrâlimê," she whispered, "take my hand."

Celebrimbor thought he was crying, but he could not deny her plea, even though he knew she was simply seeing things. For this once, he would believe that she meant that word for him, believe with all his heart that she was reaching for him. When he stretched it out, he expected his own hand to move straight through her hand, but his fingers closed warm and solid around hers.

Narví smiled, closing her eyes for the last time. 

Celebrimbor knelt by the bed, his forehead resting against the mattress as he clung to her hand, feeling his heart break more thoroughly than he had ever expected. 

"Khalebrimbur, look up." The words were a whisper, a plea, but Celebrimbor shook his head, keeping his eyes firmly shut. He could not bear to see her corpse, no matter how much he called himself a coward for it. The speaker sighed. "You always were contrary," she huffed, chuckling under her breath.

"Please," he begged, though he wasn't sure what for. A hand raised his face, but he kept his eyes stubbornly closed, his tears escaping beneath the lids to tail down his cheeks.

"Khalebrimbur! Open your eyes, you stubborn fool of an elf!" 

"I don't... I can't," he babbled, gasping the words through sobs. "Please don't make me watch her..." The tears came faster now, flowing down his face and across the hand that cupped his jaw. 

"I won't," she whispered gently; the hand wiped the tears off his cheeks. "But I have not seen your eyes in many years, and I would look once more upon that which is dearest to me if I may." Celebrimbor shook his head. A sigh floated across his hair, and then he found himself leaning into a solid body, with warm arms wrapping themselves around his shoulders and a gentle voice humming in his ear. "I had not expected to find you here," she whispered, and Celebrimbor felt the lightest of touches running along his ear. Jumping up and away from her, he hadn't even realised that he had opened his eyes to glare at whomever dared take such liberties with his body.

He stared.

Narví laughed joyously. 

“Narví…?” Celebrimbor sank down to his knees, reaching for her in disbelief. Narví smiled, holding out her hand for him once more.

“I am glad to see you truly, mellon,” she whispered, tears forming in her own eyes, “I have missed you so much since you…” she swallowed heavily. Celebrimbor nodded, getting to his feet slowly.

“As I have missed you,” he croaked, feeling hoarse. Bending at the waist, he pressed his forehead gently against hers, “though I have been with you every day since.”

"I still think this should be impossible," a different voice grumbled, making Celebrimbor whirl around to stand between his Narví, looking just as she had when he’d been alive, and whomever was speaking.

“…Atto?” he whispered, clenching Narví’s hand in surprise. Standing next to a being who could only be Aulë, Curufinwë – looking more like the father he remembered from Valinor than the hardened general who had forced him to remain in Nargothrond and forswear their kinship – waved sheepishly. “What… what’s going on?” Celebrimbor whispered, feeling Narví’s fingers warm and solid around his own with a sense of unending wonder.

“You’re not Námo, Curufinwë,” Aulë rumbled, though Celebrimbor thought he was amused rather than angry, “and this was the only thing that could happen.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Curufinwë sighed, “I told Tyelpië and Káno it was a silly story; you realise how much your ammë is going to laugh at me when she hears about this?” he asked, directing the last at Celebrimbor with an annoyed gesture. Celebrimbor laughed, almost not believing that any of it was real and wondering if he was really stuck in Narví’s bedchamber losing his mind and self. Curufinwë’s lips twitched into a wry smile.

“I don’t understand, Atto,” Celebrimbor said, squeezing Narví’s work-roughened hand – suddenly fearful that Atto had come to fetch him to the Halls of Mandos.

“The Song of Souls, Tyelpë,” Curufinwë said quietly, reaching out to stroke his cheek gently, wiping away a single tear. “You sang the Song, but you… you never did understand how it worked, I know.” Sighing again, though a small smile played around his mouth, Curufinwë stepped towards Narví, catching her free hand with ease and bending to press his forehead against it. “The Song of Souls can send word to the one soul you love, yes…” he explained, straightening once more and looking at both of them, “but it has a price. If this soul does not belong with you, it will not work at all, and you will die, regardless of whether you return to yourself within the allotted time – which depends more on your strength of spirit than an arbitrary measure of time as it is.” Wearing a look that strongly suggested he did not approve of such willy-nilly magic, Curufinwë let go of Narví’s hand, stepping back beside Aulë.

“But I did die,” Celebrimbor protested, gripping Narví’s hand tighter as he worried whether Aulë would take her from him so soon.

“But you did not leave Endorë, Tyelpë; you tied your soul to the one who could hear your Song… this dwarrowdam.” Curufinwë nodded at Narví, who wore the frown she always wore when she was working something out.

“What did you do, you silly elf?” she whispered, staring up at him. Celebrimbor shrugged. In truth, he had had no plan, no purpose other than to see her one last time and bring warning if he could; he had not even known if his desperate act would work at all when he hurtled his fëa out of his body.

“He married you… daughter.” Curufinwë’s face remained solemn and serious; otherwise Celebrimbor would have assumed he was joking.

“…” Narví stared, looking as baffled as he felt.

“Tyelpë tied his fëa to yours as though he had Joined with you in a bond of marriage… though you had not.” He chuckled. “You gave his untethered soul an anchor – a fixed point in space to hang on to; you… made yourself the soul the Song could reach, essentially.”

“That makes no sense, Atto,” Celebrimbor said, reeling. Curufinwë chuckled.

“Your Ammë would be much better at explaining, I know,” he admitted, “or even Káno, but… forgive me, Tyelpë, but I wanted… I wanted to see you.” Running a hand through his hair like he alwaysdid when he was agitated, Curufinwë paced across the floor. “Bonding of fëar is not bound to time, not really. I am no less married now than I was when I first bound myself to your mother, though I am dead, and she has been reborn for many years; my fëa will know hers through all ages and all times.”

“Nuttûn,” Narví said, frowning slightly, but looking like she at least, understood what Atar meant, “the one left behind in the marriage is still married.” Aulë nodded.

“What happens now?” Celebrimbor heard himself ask, his mind whirling. He felt too shy to look at Narví – his wife – who was still holding his hand, her thumb rubbing in tiny circles.

“Now… well, Námo said ‘choose’,” Aulë replied, though he too seemed confused, “though he made no further comment.”

“Maralmizu.” Narví spoke clearly. Celebrimbor turned so swiftly his neck twinged.

“You… you do?” he whispered, falling to his knees the second time, staring at her as he mouthed the word.

His golden dwarf nodded softly, reaching up with her free hand to stroke his ear slowly as she stepped into his hold, raising his face for a kiss.

“Maralmizu, Khalebrimbur,” she whispered softly.

“I love you, too, Narví,” Celebrimbor murmured, pulling her close as he pressed a soft kiss to her lips, nearly laughing when Narví pulled him closer to deepen it. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tightening when he wrapped his arms around her and got to his feet, lifting her easily.

“Congratulations, son,” Curufinwë whispered, but when Celebrimbor thought to look up, they were alone once more, together in the airy stone room that reminded him both of Narví’s bedroom within the mountain and his own in Eregion at once, a finely wrought door at either end; one carved with vines and the star of his father’s house set against the holly-leaves he had made Eregion’s sigil, and the other carved in stark lines and angular shapes, with a clearly defined anvil and hammer beneath a crown and seven stars.

“You may pass through to either side, and back again.” A strange voice suddenly said, filling the room. “Though only together. Where one goes, so too the other. This is the Doom of Telperinquar and Narví.”

Chapter End Notes

All Khuzdul courtesy of the Neo-Khuzdul dictionary with appropriately archaic grammar for the time ;)