Stargazing by Grundy

---

Chapter 1

---

Celebrimbor sighed as he took the half-concealed path that would lead toward ‘his’ stretch of seashore, his refuge for when everything was getting to be too much.

Gil-galad had no doubt had some quiet words with the other leaders of Balar to arrange this small sanctuary for him – for a while, Celebrimbor had been harried from first one spot, then another. And there were only so many places on the island one could go…

He’d known from the outset that he wasn’t exactly welcome, but they couldn’t turn him away either, not when Balar was one of the last toeholds the elves had with Morgoth claiming ever more of Beleriand.  And remaining in Sirion was out of the question once he’d heard why Doriath had fallen, sending what remained of its people fleeing to the Sea.

Under the circumstances, it had been clear that he should remove to Balar as soon as possible. He’d caught the next ship. Cirdan may not have been happy to see him, but he needed smiths badly enough to make sure to tamp down on any grumbling or nastiness.

There had been less of it than he’d expected, when he first arrived. His skills were in demand, and he’d repudiated his father. That was enough, back then. It hadn’t been enough once Sirion had fallen and Elwing’s orphaned twins had been taken hostage.

The Sindar that arrived on the island from Sirion had little love for any Noldor, but when they discovered there was a member of the reviled House of Fëanor in their midst… well, he’d gotten to taste what it meant to be one of the Dispossessed in full. It didn’t matter to any of them that he had parted from his father in Nargothrond and hadn’t seen his uncles for years even before that. It didn’t matter that he’d never slain any kin.

After consultation with Cirdan and Gil-galad, he’d moved his workshop to a section of the King’s House, so that any who wished to assault him or meddle with his work would have to deal with the king’s guards. He lived there, too. He stayed away from the Sindar as best he could, avoiding the parts of the island that they looked on as theirs.

It was stifling.

And then they had discovered that he liked star-gazing. Suddenly, no matter what quiet stretch of shoreline he sought out, he’d find it occupied by Sindar whose stance and expressions made it clear they knew what they were doing.

He’d been on the verge of a breakdown before Gil realized what was going on and intervened. The Noldaran had told him firmly to pick an out of the way spot, and it would be made clear that while they might wander all the rest of the island, that one place was not theirs.

The spot he’d eventually settled on as his quiet place faced more south than west, but he could see the western skies if he wished, enough of them anyway, and not have to endure the company of those who despised him.

It was just enough to keep him from losing his mind.

He came whenever life was getting too overwhelming, the tense atmosphere of the King’s House too constricting.

Losing himself in the stars brought back memories of happier times, barely remembered, when he had been a child in Aman.

Not in Tirion – he wasn’t sure he actually remembered anything at all of Tirion, since most of his short life prior to the Exile had been spent in Formenos. But his parents had been there, and his uncles, and he’d been surrounded by love.

Sometimes in summer, the only time it was warm enough, his parents would take him into the hills near his grandfather’s house and they’d stay out the entire night. He has many fond, dreamlike memories of looking up at the stars as Ammë and Atto pointed them out to him, and just as many of falling asleep nestled between them, their voices dropping to a quiet murmur so as not to wake him.

The stars are the only thing he still has of those times.

He needed them tonight. The past week has been incredibly tense, with the leaders of the Sindar and the Exiles in a standoff with Ingwion and Arafinwë, and he can only hide in his quarters for so long.

It wasn’t the first time since the Host of the West had arrived that the elves of Beleriand and the elves of Aman have been at odds on how best to proceed, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. At least this time wasn’t about him – he’d been surprised and somewhat touched to find that his great-uncle and great-aunt had been horrified to find out that existed in a glorified form of house arrest and had been rather strident in their insistence that he be turned over to their care. (That disagreement was still simmering, but Celebrimbor is starting to lean more and more toward taking up Aunt Eärwen’s offer to make a deck on one of the ships available to him.)

So he was extremely displeased to find another elf in his spot, the one place he can still come to for solitude and quiet.

He didn’t recognize the other ner, not that there was any particular meaning in that. It’s been some years since he could say with honesty that he knew every elf on the island.

The other elf looked up, startled.

“I’m sorry, am I intruding?” he asked.

Celebrimbor would have said yes but for the obvious chagrin in the younger elf’s voice.  Whoever he was, he genuinely didn’t know.

“No,” he found himself replying, to his own surprise. “Don’t get up. There’s few enough spaces on Balar where a body can look at Varda’s creations and think without being bothered.”

“Indeed,” the newcomer murmured. “It is not at all what I had expected.”

Celebrimbor looked at the younger elf, suddenly connecting the lack of knowledge that this was his space and the clothing that did not quite match what the rest of Balar wore and the offhand comment to realize who he must be speaking to.

“You are one of Elwing and Eärendil’s sons,” he blurted out.

“Indeed,” his… guest? Conversation partner? Uncles’ former hostage? replied ruefully. “I am Elrond. If you were hoping for the more lively half-elf, I’m afraid Elros is probably in his usual haunts, driving Lord Cirdan or perhaps King Arafinwë batty with his questions about ships and insistence that we are too old enough to fight.”

Celebrimbor managed not to gape, but it was difficult.

He hadn’t seen either of the twins before now, but he’d heard about the commotion their arrival – along with that of the retainers Maedhros and Maglor had seen fit to send with them – had caused.

He belatedly remembered it would be good manners to introduce himself.

“I am Celebrimbor,” he said, wondering what Elrond’s reaction would be.

“Oh?” the younger elf asked, looking interested. “Then we are kin, of a sort, though I suppose you would not recognize it.”

Celebrimbor blinked.

“Yes, I suppose we are,” he said, trying to determine what exactly the relation between Fëanaro’s grandson and Nolofinwë’s great-great-grandson would be.

“It would no doubt infuriate my mother’s people to hear it, but by their usual standards, I would call you cousin, as the son of my foster-fathers’ brother,” Elrond continued, blithely unaware of how Celebrimbor had been figuring the kinship.  

“I had not thought of it that way,” Celebrimbor managed to say, with perfect honesty.

It sounded rather as if the prevailing notion of the poor hostages was incorrect. And Elrond was most certainly underestimating just how livid the Sindar would be to hear him or his brother own kinship with a son of Curufin…

“Does it bother you to think of it that way?” Elrond asked. “If it does, I will not mention it again.”

“I do not mind it if you do not,” Celebrimbor replied.

“Why should I mind?” Elrond shrugged. “Aside from my brother, I do not have much in the way of kin here. At least, not close kin, for it seems there are a great many elves keen to claim us as family.”

“You sound less pleased by that than I would have thought,” Celebrimbor said, daring to take a seat in his usual place on the sand.

Elrond frowned.

“Galadriel and Celeborn are one thing, and we knew Gil-Galad for a cousin as children, but the rest seem to want to call us kin only that they may carry their point in some debate or other.”

Yes, Celebrimbor could see where it would be useful to be able to claim the Sindaran (and crown prince of the Noldor) as kin, and his heir with him. Particularly since both were still very underage and could do little more than be kept in safety on the island.

“Underage by elvish standards, perhaps,” Elrond said thoughtfully, as though Celebrimbor had spoken aloud. “Not by mannish. Which Elros is aiming to exploit for all it may be worth.”

Celebrimbor pinched the bridge of his nose.

“A word of advice, young cousin, if you would have it?”

“By all means,” Elrond answered. “At least you ask before dispensing it, which is more than anyone else has done.”

“Do not be overeager to throw yourselves into battle. This war has been going on longer than you’ve been alive, so I rather doubt it will be over before you’re fully grown.”

Elrond considered that notion.

“You do not, then, count the war as having begun with the arrival of the Amanyar host?” he asked.

Celebrimbor snorted.

“Which Amanyar host did you mean, young one? The one my grandfather brought, the one my older great-uncle brought, or the one that arrived with my younger great-uncle not long before yourself?”

There was a twinkle in Elrond’s eye.

“I believe it is popularly accepted that while there were earlier battles, they are to be counted as separate from the present conflict. Though the distinction does seem somewhat arbitrary.”

Celebrimbor had a hard time not double checking that it was a slim young elf with dark hair sat next to him, and not a taller red-head.

“Yes, well, be that as it may,” he murmured.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, contemplating the stars, before the quiet was broken by the sound of someone else approaching.

Celebrimbor scrambled to his feet, ready to tell off whoever it was – he didn’t mind sharing his solitude with Elrond, and perhaps he might extend the same courtesy to Elros, but he was not going to concede it to all and sundry.

“My prince?” called an unfamiliar voice. “Prince Elrond?”

Elrond rose as well, though slowly and with considerable reluctance.

“I might have known it couldn’t last long,” he sighed. “I will leave you to your stars, Celebrimbor, but I trust we will meet again soon.”

Celebrimbor nodded, and watched as the younger elf squared his shoulders before walking off to intercept whoever was looking for him before they reached his sanctuary.

Yes, he had no doubt they would meet again soon – Elrond would make sure of it, and it wasn’t as if he’d be hard to find.

He flopped back down to the sand, hearing voices in the distance and recognizing one as his young ‘cousin’.

His eyes, rather than linger on the familiar stars of his youth, were drawn unerringly to the newest star, the one that meant hope. It suddenly occurred to him that for the half-elven twins, star-gazing might be a bit more than it was to him.

“I don’t suppose you have any insight into how your sons’ minds work, do you?” he asked the sky.

It felt almost foolish, as it was unlikely Eärendil could hear anything from so high above, and yet…

There was an unexpected twinkle, the merest flicker, but the light of the Silmaril was otherwise constant.

“No, I thought not,” he sighed. “I suppose I’ll just have to do the best I can on my own. Varda knows they’re going to need someone on their side.”