Song of Souls by Raiyana

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Chapter 1

“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

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