Slight Air and Purging Fire by mainecoon

There was no time in the Realm of Mahal.

It was the screaming that woke her. Slowly they seeped into her mind, those terrible cries that disturbed her peaceful slumber. As she struggled to find her senses she felt the pain too, overwhelming, horrifying, pulsing through her entire being and blinding out all other thoughts. It was the pain of another, but she knew the voice, and she had to remember...

"No. Let me die. I won't tell you, I won't..."

"It is over, Tyelpë." Another voice, dark as a night without stars. "Your side has lost. Tell me where they are and I will kill you quickly."

"Imrid amrâd ursul," came the reply, a Khuzdul curse choked out in a voice that was too soft around the edges, and then it died in another scream.

With all her might she fought to be awake. How could she sleep at a time like this, when all that existed was agony and someone was gasping her name, "narvi aulë galadriel NO," and she stirred and rebelled until a calm presence entered her mind.

"Sleep, my child."

No!

"There is nothing you can do."

No! I must, he needs me...

"Not anymore." A wave of sadness accompanied the words, and she realized that there was no more pain.

I want to see, she thought stubbornly.

"You should not have to."

It was a test of endurance but she knew she could succeed, and with all her will she forced her eyes to open. Slowly the images appeared, merciless as they came from the Weaver's hand.

She saw Ost-in-Edhil, spacious dwellings of air and light, now burned and blackened and splattered with blood. The House of the Mírdain stood no longer; scattered among the ruins lay smoldering blueprints, tools, a half-finished statue, mutilated bodies of craftspeople she had known. She saw orc hordes cut down the holly trees and poison the streams, and how they marched against Khazad-Dûm, and then she saw the banner they carried and she howled in anguish.

There was no time in the Halls of Mandos.

Celebrimbor did not know how long he had been there, nor did he care. They told him he was free to go back, for he had done well in life, a part he could not agree with; and in any case, he did not wish to. The only thing he wanted was to close his eyes and cease existing, but even now the mercy would not be granted. There was no more body to torment but his soul still bled, and the gift of oblivion was denied to him.

They said that he would heal eventually; he knew that they were wrong. The horrors he had endured never left him, and he did not see how they ever could. Only sometimes in his dreams he could hear someone calling to him, someone who sounded like her; but she was a mortal, and thus denied to him.

So he existed, reluctantly, only because he was not given a choice. He did not mingle. The first time his father came was also the first time he felt intensely, but it was merely anger, the curse of his family - but one of many. Curufin spoke of love, and begged his forgiveness. He did not grant it.

The second time his father came he tried to ignore him, but the son of Fëanor would not be treated thus. He took Celebrimbor's hands and looked him in the eye and made him remember that once there had been more between them than bitterness and denial. He then followed Curufin without a word even if he did not want to. His father led him through the shadowy realm of spirits, quiet and eerie, until they reached a room full of tapestries, and Celebrimbor saw.

He saw the blessing of his rings, prospering realms in Lothlórien and Imladris, where those he still cherished upheld a stronghold against Evil. He saw Galadriel, more powerful than ever, protected by the magic he had woven for her, and sometimes she looked at Nenya with a smile that was ancient and sad and he knew she remembered him.

But he also saw the others.

Nine creatures of shadow, faceless and terrifying. They roamed the land on midnight steeds, trailing fear and darkness in their wake. He saw a strange being in a cave, muttering madly to itself, and he could make no sense of it but he knew that it meant doom. He saw dragons attracted to dwarven realms, kings succumbing to madness, with Khazad-Dûm long lost and its successor falling in flames. There were the rings they had crafted for the dwarves, made for thick fingers in strange geometrical patterns, but they did not protect his friends as he had hoped. They were tainted by the enemy because he had given them up, delirious with pain and unable to remember why he must not. And the dwarves did not know.

"I stood here and watched," Curufin told him. "I saw how you created when most of us could only destroy. I was there when you suffered, unable to help. Perhaps that was my punishment. But you are better than I ever was."

"What would you have me do?" Celebrimbor asked with all the dullness that had taken hold of his soul. "Have you brought me here to show me the destruction my ignorance has wrought? You need not have bothered. I am aware that I failed my purpose."

"You did not," Curufin snapped. He turned upon his son and Celebrimbor could see his features drawn in anger, very alike to Fëanor himself. "You did well, and were betrayed by no fault of your own. Now will you let your life work be destroyed by the likes of him?"

"You know not of what you speak," Celebrimbor retorted, "I gave him the means to enslave the world! And I'm dearly sorry that I let myself be inconvenienced by death."

"But you could go back." Curufin's eyes were glittering in the half-light of the Halls. "You may not wish to acknowledge it, but you are still my son. Show him what you are capable of."

"I tried, and he ripped me apart limb by limb."

"You can try again."

Celebrimbor crossed his arms over his chest and fell silent. He tried not to show how the memories affected him, how they brought back his agony, his horror, the taste of vomit and the stench of his own blood. He forced himself to heed nothing but the weavings on the wall, all too aware of Curufin's gaze on him.

"Well, then," his father snarled eventually. "Stay here and wallow in your own misery. Let others complete your work or die trying. It will serve only Sauron, and I thought you wanted him brought down."

"I do, but..."

"But?" Curufin's face twisted into a hard smile. "I would go myself, if I could. I would make him pay ."

Celebrimbor grit his teeth. Anger flared up in him, more so because the manipulative tactics were beginning to take hold. There was no hope of revenge; if Curufin had seen what he claimed to, he would know that. But all those lives that could be lost, all the beauty that could be destroyed? Middle Earth had been at peace for so long that the mortals had almost forgotten. But evil was not dead, only waiting. Galadriel knew, and so did Elrond. They were willing to face it despite all they had been through. Was he so much weaker than they?

Yet neither of them had been fooled and betrayed by Sauron. Neither had aided him unwittingly, then suffered a horrible death in his torture chambers.

I tried so hard to atone for what you did, he thought bitterly. I wanted to make a better world for us all. Look where it got me. Now must I atone for my own deeds?

Aloud, he said: "I am not healed."

Curufin nodded grimly. His face was still set in anger, but there was a strange softness in his eyes, a look Celebrimbor had last seen when he was a boy and his father had shielded him from the woes of the world. For a moment, he wanted to throw himself into those strong arms again, to bury his face in the long dark hair and weep until his tears ran dry, wanted to feel a large hand cradle his head and a soothing voice speak gentle comfort in his ear.

"My brave, precious jewel." Celebrimbor looked up at the endearment and the sadness in his father's voice. "If you stay here, I do not see how you can ever heal."

"You are restless, my child."

Yes , she thought crossly, I noticed. It was impossible to say how long she had slept - years, decades, centuries - but it was an uneasy slumber plagued by nightmares and fears, and often it happened that she awoke and saw what she was not supposed to see: a violent battle on desolate black plains, someone who was slain over a ring, and the fall of her home when a demon arose; and then, later, a magnificent kingdom under a single mountain, rivers of gold and wonders of architecture, but the king behaved oddly and there was a prince who worried. She always drifted away too soon, but a feeling of dread followed into her dreams.

"It is because you were called awake once. This is very rare."

Possibly because most of us aren't called upon by a dying elf, she returned angrily.

"Yes." There was a pause. "He will go back."

She did not understand.

"He will return to Middle Earth. Because you are unable to rest, Narvi, you are allowed to join him. You cannot have a body, but you may be with him in spirit form."

I will see him again? Her mind rejoiced, and at once she was more awake that ever before. Still she felt compelled to protest: But why does he have to go? He gave so much, what else do they want of him?

The voice in her head was gentle: "He goes because he cannot heal."

That, at least, made any reservations obsolete.

Of how he was returned to Middle-Earth, he remembered little. Dimly he was aware of a garden, and then a ship; his consciousness was not yet clear, the new brain he had been given not yet making sense of the pure impressions of sight, sound and smell around him. It felt like awakening from a dream, the vague state between waking and sleeping.

Several weeks he spent in a guest room that Círdan the shipwright provided for him. The Lord of the Havens had taken him in and cared for his needs, though Celebrimbor could not remember his reaction to his own sudden appearance; but they had met before, and it was good to see a familiar face. It was a while before he could look at his own hands without expecting to see bloody stumps. Breathing without the gurgle of blood in his lungs was a wonder. At first he spent most of his time resting on the soft sheets, letting the gentle light of early spring shine warm upon his unbroken skin, taking in the salty scent of the sea (no blood no orcs no rotting flesh), idly listening to the bustle of life around him, and relished in existing without pain. Sleep was unpleasant, but he never screamed himself awake because he was always roused, sometimes several times a night, when the shadows crept into his dreams. He did not know what woke him; there was never anyone with him when he sat up and poured himself a glass of water to calm his spirits. Only a slight breeze wafted through the room, and often he felt a vague feeling of worry which he could not place.

As the days went by he often found himself lounging on the terrace, walking through the house, and eventually sharing the meals with the rest of the household. Círdan was a gracious host who had apparently warned off the few people who might still ask untoward questions. His host had given him a thoughtful look when he had cautiously inquired after the date.

"You were gone for a long time," the shipwright had said slowly and swirled the wine in his goblet. The coloured glass glittered in the midday sun. Celebrimbor had never seen anything designed in this technique. "Generations have come and gone. We are counting the year 2941 of the Third Age."

He blinked, stunned. "I have missed four thousand years?"

"The wonder is that you returned at all. It happened only once before."

Celebrimbor rubbed his temples.

"I am not familiar with the world that awaits me." He shrugged helplessly. "Though a few things I saw-" He frowned and tried to remember. Change came slowly for the Eldar, but he had been gone for over an age; Middle-Earth was not as he had known it. Eregion - oh, Eregion! The ruins of his dream were long withered and overgrown. Magnificent Khazad-Dûm had fallen to the orcs. The Isle of Numenor was no more.

His mortal wife was a mere memory, returned to stone millennia ago. For the first time since his return anger began to rise inside him, and guilt, and shame; then he remembered why he had chosen to return, and doubted the wisdom of it all the same.

"Elrond and Galadriel are still here." Círdan gave him encouraging smile. "You should go to Imladris. That's where-" He paused, looking sharply into Celebrimbor's face. "That's where the survivors from Eregion went," he finished cautiously. He did not mention the Rings; likely he deemed them not a safe subject. They weren't.

Celebrimbor leaned back in his seat and watched two seagulls circle slowly over the glittering water. From their place upon the terrace they had an excellent view across the ancient buildings and gardens of the Havens. Grey ships were rocking gently beside the piers. From somewhere in the street he heard laughter and songs.

"I am here with a purpose," he told Círdan. "I'm just not sure where to begin."

Look for the Khazad, said a deep voice near his ear, and he dropped his precious goblet.

Being a ghost was very disconcerting.

She found herself in an elven settlement she had never seen before. There was a haven with strange grey ships and spacious buildings of white marble. Typically elven they were, with slender columns and delicate arches and flowery ornaments, but very different from the rustic beauty of Eregion. The stonework was well done, though not outstanding, and many of the newer buildings were crafted in ways she had never seen before. It was impossible to investigate in detail because she could not feel the texture beneath her fingers, could not knock on the stone to determine the density. She could, however, walk through walls, a feat she got used to after a few days. She felt neither hunger nor fatigue, and appeared to be invisible. With a great force of will, she discovered, it was possible to appear as a faint shimmer of light, which she practiced in the ample time she had.

And Celebrimbor was there.

For a while she simply watched him like one would look at a precious piece of treasure recovered from a dragon horde. The gruesome vision of his dead body would never leave her, but to look at him now, hale in flesh, if not in spirit, went a long way to soothe her soul. Long she lingered in his room, watched the candlelight shimmer in his long dark hair (thick and silky, not matted with blood) and the peaceful wonder on his face. He looked frail. This bothered her, for Celebrimbor had been shaped by the forge and was the least frail-looking elf she had ever encountered; but he would recover.

More troubling was the fact that she could not make her presence known. He seemed to be aware of her to some degree; whenever she drew near he relaxed visibly, and sometimes there was a rare smile on his face. He did not look like he fully remembered, and she was grateful while it lasted. In his sleep, he tossed and turned, so she would stand over him and shout into his ear until he sat up with a start and blinked in confusion. She could not touch him; she could touch nothing. It was a matter of intense frustration, for she longed to gather him in her arms and hold him close so no evil could touch him ever again. She wanted to kiss his eyelids and braid his hair and entwine his strong, slender fingers with her own broad and sturdy ones.

But they had known all along that it was not meant to last.

If he knows me not, she complained to the Maker, then how am I to aid him?

It turned out that the matter required just a little more patience. She had not expected him to hear her suggestion - she had merely spoken what came to her mind, unused as she was to being entirely ignored - but he turned white as a sheet and dropped his glass. It shattered on the ground, and wine stained the white tiles like blood thinned with water. He looked straight at her with hope and longing in his eyes. I am here, ghivasha, she told him, desperately willing him to hear.

Celebrimbor blinked slowly, then turned towards his host, who looked at him in worry.

"Forgive me, my friend," he said, "but I am not feeling well. Do I have your permission to retreat?"

"Of course." The strange bearded elf frowned and rose to pick up the shards. "No, let me take care of this. Do not hesitate to ask if there is anything I can do to help."

Celebrimbor hurried along the corridor until he reached his room, blind to the serenity of his surroundings. He closed the door and leaned against it.

"Narvi," he whispered. "Narvi, melmenya. How can it be that I hear your voice?"

She stepped towards him, cursing her formlessness. Perhaps if she concentrated very hard she could make him see...

Amrâlimê, she urged, Celebrimbor, my jewel. What did you do, you foolish creature?

His eyes were huge as he looked in her direction, and then, very slowly, he reached out for her. She tried to close her fingers around his, but the slender hand passed through her shadow, unable to touch. Yet a shadow there was.

"I see you," he breathed. "Narvi, Narvi. Have I lost my mind already?"

No, for I am truly here, she assured. Her whole being ached with longing. It was a sweet relief to see him, to speak to him, yet never she had wished more fervently for his embrace. I was sent back with you, but am denied a form. I can only be with you in spirit.

He stared at her long and wordless, his fine features a mirror of the wonder and pain she felt herself.

"It is more than I had ever dared to hope," he said eventually, and a hesitant smile spread over his face. "You will be with me, then? I need not go alone?"

I will never leave your side again if I can help it, she growled. To her dismay his smile disappeared, and he looked troubled. He crossed the room and dropped onto the bed.

"Would that you had never been taken from me," he said miserably. "You were right, Narvi; you can never imagine how right you were. Do you know the whole wretched tale?"

I only know how it ended, and I have no wish to hear that from your lips. Do you mean he did that? He did it?

"Yes," Celebrimbor admitted sadly, "and I was a blind fool. I helped him, Narvi; I could not see him for what he was..."

So he told her the gruesome story, a tale of hope and betrayal and boundless depravity. She was not a vengeful soul; she had not known that she could feel such raging hatred as she did now against the one who had wronged him and the entire world.

That will be enough, she interrupted when he spoke of being struck down and captured alive while he tried to defend the House of the Mírdain. He had turned ghastly pale; his hands were shaking. She remembered Annatar's fair face and felt sick with loathing. What do we do now?

He twisted a nervous hand into his hair. "The rings," he said hoarsely. "They were lost. All but the Three. I could not... He made me." He closed his eyes and shivered. She wanted so badly to cradle him in her arms and run a soothing hand across his back. "Maybe we can retrieve them. It would not undo the damage I wrought, but maybe some kind of atonement..."

Celebrimbor, she cut him off, incredulous. Why do you speak of atonement?

"Isn't it obvious?" He chuckled, but it was without warmth. "My blindness has endangered the world. If I can destroy the works we created, it might diminish his power. But I know not how to find them."

She sat beside him in silence, angered by the injustice of his own judgment. A bird hopped onto the windowsill, idly looking for crumbs. Celebrimbor's hands were clenched into his robes. She remembered how they had felt on her skin, strong and supple, hands that were capable of crafting wonders beyond measure. You were betrayed and cruelly used, she said eventually. You need no atonement. But if there is a way to defy the thrice-damned bastard who did this to you, then I will help you gladly.

His smile was but a shadow of its former glow.

"I am very glad you are with me," he said slowly. "There are two destinations that might prove worthwhile: Imladris and Lothlórien. This is where two of my own rings are kept, and their guardians are not only dear to me, but also among the wisest creatures of Middle Earth. Another resides here in the Havens; I shall ask Círdan for advice."

This sounded sensible, though altogether too elvish for her liking. What she had seen in her dreams did not affect the Eldar only, and she ached to know how her own people were doing. Besides, there was not even a single cave in this Mahal-forsaken place.

It is a long way to the Misty Mountains, she argued. You should ask him if there are still Dwarves in the Ered Luin.

He threw her a sidelong glance, and for a moment a hint of his old mirth shone in his eyes.

"That, my dearest Narvi," he said fondly, "I will surely do."

Chapter End Notes

To avoid any confusion regarding the timeline, 2941 T.A. is the also the year of the Quest for Erebor.

Language research was somewhat more difficult than I imagined. According to the movie sources, imrid amrâd ursul is Khuzdul for “Die a death of flames” (that’s what Thorin tells Thranduil) and amrâlimê means “my love” (as Kíli tells Tauriel). Ghivasha is usually translated as “Treasure”, though I couldn’t find a definite source for that, probably because my laptop won’t let me access the Dwarrow Scholar’s dictionary. Still using it because it’s a very dwarvish endearment and perfect for a jewel smith. When it comes to Elvish I’m pretty sure Celebrimbor and Narvi would have conversed in Sindarin (or, more likely, a mixture of Westron and heavily accented Sindarin with a few Khuzdul phrases thrown in for good measure), but endearments are a very personal thing, so I chose Quenya for this one. I’m not sure about the sources, but according to several “lists of useful phrases”, melmenya means “my love”.

The road was dry and easy to travel. For a few days, it led Celebrimbor and Narvi along the mouth of the Lhûn, where the broadening river offered a first splendid view across the ocean in the west. Celebrimbor had never been a child of the Sea, but like any elf he enjoyed the music of the water, and he found that the salty air and the cry of the gulls soothed his mind and held the shadows at bay. South of them in the distance rose the range of the Blue Mountains, huge and shrouded in a veil of mist. It was their destination, for Círdan had told him of a dwarven settlement Celebrimbor hoped to find.

The Lord of the Havens had given him a horse and gear as a parting gift. He had also offered an escort, which Celebrimbor had respectfully declined because he felt not in the mood for company, and after all, he was not alone. There was no need for guards during the night: Narvi never slept.

Will you tell me some day, she inquired on their third evening on the road, when he had lit a fire, wrapped himself into his bedroll and was chewing on a lemba, why you named the poor creature Bumblebee?

He turned onto his stomach and watched his grazing mare. She was a pretty chestnut of gentle nature, and he had already grown quite fond of her.

"You have to admit she is a bit round," he mused, attempting a grin. "I seem to have an affinity for hairy squishy ladies."

His wife, as expected, uttered a low growl. If you ever have the audacity to call me bumblebee, you pointy-eared tree hugger-

"I wouldn't dare." He chuckled. "Seriously? It reminds me of home. I like to think of the buzzing in the holly trees on a warm summer evening."

There was a short silence. Narvi's stout frame was clearly visible against the shadow of the bushes. She had settled beside the fire in such a comfortable manner that he almost expected her to draw out her pipe and a carving knife. If he closed his eyes, he could easily pretend that no ill had ever touched them.

He could pretend he had never lost her. Perhaps, if he had been wise enough to see...

I wonder why he thought it wasn't a good idea.

He blinked and opened his eyes again. Narvi was watching him thoughtfully. Her hands were twitching slightly; they always did now, and it taken him a few days to understand that she missed working with them. Narvi's hands had always been busy - carving, sketching, crafting, even when she rested. Very beautiful they were, broad and muscular and yet capable of the most delicate touch. How much it must irk her now to be unable to feel the living world.

I said, she repeated patiently, I wonder why he didn't want you to visit the dwarves.

"I don't know." He frowned. "Relations between our people haven't always been favorable. But I thought we had long left those days behind us."

Much ill has befallen my folk since the days of Khazad-Dûm and Eregion. Narvi sighed, looking strangely unsettled. If they bear a grudge against the elves, it will be hard to win their trust.

"And well they should, considering who forged the rings that brought them doom," Celebrimbor muttered.

Sauron did, Narvi said sharply. Everything we have suffered, I blame on him alone. But you must tread lightly.

His dreams that night were shadowed. He had not rested easy since Eregion had fallen, his night time thoughts turning to fire and screams and horror. All too often he had visions of Annatar, or his minions, or the blood-stained floor that had been the last thing he had seen before the pain had ended. But this time his dreams had a different quality, new and yet horribly familiar: he was being hunted.

He found himself back in Eregion, among the ruins of the House of the Mírdain. In his hands, he held the Nine, and he wanted to drop them but could not open his fingers. There was fire in the distance but around him the darkness closed in, and he turned and ran, but there was nowhere to go. The landscape turned into a bottomless void, black and empty, and he tried to move but his limbs were heavy, and then he saw it: a fiery, lidless eye that filled his entire vision, watching, searching, craving. He screamed until he knew nothing more.

He came back to himself in his own tangled bedroll, drenched in sweat and sobbing uncontrollably while a panicked voice shouted incomprehensible Khuzdul into his ear. He rolled around, leaned on his forearms and retched until his stomach was empty. Only then did his heartbeat slow enough to allow for more rational thoughts.

For a moment, he remained still, shaking, willing himself to breathe deeply. Narvi had fallen silent. Only when he had calmed himself a little, she said quietly, It is over, ghivasha. They are gone. You are safe.

Celebrimbor drew a shuddering breath.

"No, melmenya," he whispered. "I don't think I am."

A feeling of dread remained with him during the next two days. The colour of the sea seemed paler and the sunlight less warm, and each unexpected noise alarmed him. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw things that made him shudder in horror. In his dreams he kept running and hiding, and though he had not seen the eye again, he knew it was still watchful. They talked little during those days; Narvi was stern and silent, and he could tell that she was worried as well.

On their last evening on the shore they made their camp in the shadow of a small cliff, directly beside the sea and only a short walk from the woods they would have to cross on their way to the Blue Mountains. It was a lovely place, secluded and sheltered from the wind. Celebrimbor spent nearly an hour walking through the shallow water, looking for seashells and trying to find enjoyment in the splashing waves around his feet.

"We should have travelled to the Sea, back then," he told Narvi as he inspected the gentle curves of a sea snail, streaked in brown and beige with a gentle shimmer of mother of pearl. It would have looked magnificent in Narvi' hair. "This is a treasure trove for any jeweller. I would have set this in ithildin, to shine in your braids while we walked under starlight in Eregion's glades…"

I'd rather not glow in the dark, she chuckled. But since we're here now, how about you take a bath? You always said swimming clears your head, and I would get to see you naked.

He smiled with all the warmth he could muster. "Ah, but that would hardly be fair, would it?" In truth, he did not dare to strip off his clothes. He had not even unbuckled his weapons.

Narvi's voice sounded slightly annoyed. It's not like I can help being dead. I'd love to have you right now, over there on the wet sand...

That sounded intriguing, but the pleasant thought was cut off by a sudden wash of frigid air. Celebrimbor froze. There was a moment of silence, then Narvi swore quietly.

Get away from here. Quickly.

He had barely made it out of the water when the terror hit him.

It was the chill borne of malevolence, the pure essence of evil that swallowed him, dulled his senses and made his mind scream. He had felt it before: it had struck him down the moment he had felt Annatar's betrayal, when Vilya on his finger had responded to its master, and then again, later, when he had been there and - and - and he smelled blood and his hands were hurting and he couldn't move his fingers because they were gone, and Narvi shouted into his ear, and then something powerful and vile called to him, Maker, you belong with us, come hither and do not fight. He gagged, withdrew, tried to cower, but there was no place to hide. And from the woods appeared figures made of shadow, five riders on midnight steeds, surrounding him, towering ever him, drawing their blades, though their mere presence was enough to overwhelm him with horror.

Narvi bellowed at him to rise and fight back, and Celebrimbor drew his swords.

Then suddenly a clear sound filled the air. It was a tune, strange and haunting, and it wove its way into Celebrimbor's mind through all his fear. There were words he could not understand; all he felt was a fury that was not his own, and defiance, and so much power that the air sparkled with it. Celebrimbor grabbed his weapons tighter, but his attackers seemed to sense it too. They paused, confused, unsure.

Run, Narvi shouted, and Celebrimbor turned and ran.

Then the sea rose behind him.

A huge wave crashed onto the shore, built by a storm that arose out of nowhere, and it drew two of the riders under before they could flee. He heard their screeching, felt the weight of their wrath, and he parried an attack and sunk his blade into a horse's neck to clear his way. The third rider went down with a howl, and the next wave took him and both his fellows. The strange voice was still in Celebrimbor's ears, an angry sing-song, eerie and summoning. He did not stop to look; he just ran further, determined to hold on, until the chanting stopped and the sea lay again calm and unmoving.

Against the stem of a large fir tree leaned a person who had not been there before. The tall, slender frame could only belong to an elf, and the clothing was of elven make, though tattered and worn. A matted mass of dark brown hair tumbled out from under the hood; Celebrimbor could barely make out the shadows of a gaunt face. On the back this elf carried a light pack and a curved sword, and a bulky item wrapped in cloth was slung over the shoulder.

You could say thank you, Narvi suggested.

Celebrimbor sheathed his blades and walked over to the stranger. "Greetings," he said, "and well met. You saved my life, and perhaps my soul." When he had returned, he had never considered that he could come out of it worse than before, but now he knew better.

The elf turned towards him and drew back his hood. It revealed a face that was still beautiful, with large blue eyes and high cheekbones and a delicate brow, but the lines on his ageless features spoke of weariness and pain. He looked, Celebrimbor thought, he looked like-

"Father?" said the stranger, and Celebrimbor knew this voice, for it carried a melody even in speech. It made him see through matted hair and tattered robes and across many centuries, and suddenly he found it difficult to breathe. It could not be, and yet it was; a gift, perhaps, but one that made him want to wail in grief.

"No," he said softly, so he could keep his voice from breaking. "I am not Fëanor, though I may look like him. You are my uncle... Makalaurë."

"Not father." The elf hummed briefly, looking confused. "Not Curvo? I cannot remember. I used to remember." His speech was slow and halting, as though the words did not come easy to him.

"Not Curvo." Celebrimbor stepped closer and touched his shoulders, carefully, unsure of his welcome. Maglor watched him, but did not withdraw. "Curvo was my father. I am Celebrimbor. You are my uncle, and you saved me."

Maglor raised a hand and touched his face. It was a frail hand, like the claw of a bird, with skin that stretched too tightly over narrow bones. One thin finger traced Celebrimbor's cheekbone, then the plain circlet on his brow.

"Tyelpë," he breathed. "Tyelpe...rinquar? But you were a lad."

"I'm not now," Celebrimbor returned, and he fought back the bile in his throat because no one had called him by that name in a long time, except for the one who had taunted him while he had choked on his own blood - Tyelpë, my poor friend, why must you oppose me? Tyelpë, last of the Feanorians, what would your grandfather say to this? Here you meet the same end as the rest of your lot, only it hurts more, doesn't it - and then... and then...

"I go by Celebrimbor these days," he added quickly. The ground swam beneath his feet, and Narvi's disapproval echoed in his thoughts.

Maglor looked him as if he did not quite understand before he smiled and nodded. "Celebrimbor," he said slowly, as if to memorize it. Celebrimbor felt sick in his stomach. All his uncles had known his Sindarin name, and used it often.

But there was no time for that now. "We cannot linger here," he said nervously. "We don't know they're truly gone..."

They aren't, Narvi cut in. I can still sense them.

"So we need to hide, and quickly." He turned to walk back to his camp, but faltered when Maglor did not follow him. "Uncle?"

Maglor remained rooted to the spot, regarding him with a look of mild confusion that made Celebrimbor's chest hurt.

"We must go," he urged.

Maglor blinked a few times. "I am alone," he said, warily.

"Not anymore, if you choose to come with me." Celebrimbor took a deep breath. How many times had he cursed his kindred, praying that he would never again set eyes on them? But now he had found this desolate elf, lonely and broken yet still fierce enough to stand up against evil, he could not let him walk away. Makalaurë may have been a merciless killer - a monster, they said, who had never turned his path towards redemption - but he was also a kind scholar with a sad smile and a voice like molten gold.

Celebrimbor had never gotten to ask him why.

"Please," he implored. "It is not too late. Not for you."

He wished he could believe his own words. Maglor watched him for a long moment, and Celebrimbor found it difficult to read the emotions in his pale blue eyes. Then the thin shoulders sagged, and without a word his uncle followed him toward the small camp at the foot of the cliff.

They left the shore and turned inland, making as many miles as the dimming light allowed. Eventually they found a small clearing, hidden from a path by bushes and offering shelter large enough for Bumblebee. It probably would not suffice, Celebrimbor thought with the dull ache of despair, for the shadow wraiths could likely sense him, or they would not have found him so quickly. But perhaps they had a chance to reach the dwarven settlement before the wraiths recovered their strength.

If not- but he could not allow himself to dwell on that.

So , Narvi dropped in when he was curled up in his bedroll and valiantly attempting not to panic. When you say uncle.

He did not have to ask what she desired to know. When he turned towards the voice he saw her translucent frame sitting beside him, square-legged, one of her broad fingers twirled in her beard. He longed to touch her; it hurt that he couldn't.

Yes," he admitted softly. "He was one of them."

Kinslayers, you said. Murderers.

"Aye."

Basically the reason why half of Eregion hated the sight of you.

He leant his forehead into his hands and sighed. "Not half of them, perhaps..."

Yet you are glad to see him.

"Narvi -" Celebrimbor looked over to Maglor, who was no more than a faint outline in the starlight. He sat on a stone, unmoving, his gaze turned up at the sky, and hummed softly to himself. "We're still of the same blood, and he was good to me. He taught me to -" He broke off; perhaps his twin blades were not the most glowing recommendation, given the circumstances. "He taught me to play the lyre," he finished a little lamely.

You are too good for this world, she returned, and the sadness in her voice made him wince. Sleep now. I will keep watch for you.

He pulled his blanket up to his chin and let his eyes unfocus. By now he was almost used to the sweet pain of the memories her voice evoked: a heavy body curled up beside him, thick muscles moving under tattooed skin, the scratch of a beard on his shoulder as she kissed his throat, powerful hands running along his sides in a rhythm that was soothing and promised pleasure. Later he would complain about her snoring while she accused him of deliberately sprawling his long limbs all over the bed to push her out - as if it was possible to move a dwarf anywhere without permission. Now only a light spring breeze caressed his face. Through the gentle sounds of nature meandered a melody, a wordless tune that spoke of beauty and infinite sadness. It wove itself through Celebrimbor's thoughts and followed him into his dreams, and this night the shadows had no place in them.

Narvi was not satisfied with the way things were going.

She hadn't expected this venture to be a pleasure trip. The whole annoyance about not being corporeal had been predictable, the urge to touch, the constant itch of seeing things in their raw form and not being able to perfect them. Also, while she chided herself to be grateful for what they had, she wished she could share more with her elf than a spiritual bond. He was in danger; that had not been part of the plan, certainly not her plan, and whatever were those creatures that hunted him? Who, by all that was holy, would still hurt Celebrimbor after all he had endured? Did they want to kill him, to torture him again, or -

She watched him as he slept, unfocused grey eyes that had almost lost their light, a strand of black hair brushing over a cheekbone, and thought of the faceless shapes of his hunters. Maker, you belong with us.

I thought you sent him back out of mercy, she prayed to any deity who might listen. If you let this happen, then your cruelty knows no limits.

Perhaps it had been divine interference that sent Celebrimbor's odd murder uncle to his rescue. A strange choice for a saving angel, she thought with wry amusement, and one she was not comfortable with. Celebrimbor had never talked much about his family, but mentioned enough to make her wary of the in-laws. Had he not cut his ties because he disapproved of them? Had he not attracted hostile glances and whispers among his folk, he, the purest and most well-intentioned being she had ever encountered? Were not their crimes so terrible that even he had suffered by association?

All she saw so far was how this strange elf could weave magic into song. His mind seemed not entirely clear. Often he wandered off into the woods, much to Celebrimbor's worry, although Narvi was inclined to think that since he had survived several millennia without them, he would surely endure if they lost him. But he always reappeared eventually. He talked little, in his slow, halting way; but deep in the night, when Celebrimbor slept, he often stayed awake and spoke in a language she did not understand, and then it was swift and fleeting like a song. He was very sad, old and weary as a light that dimmed when a flame flickered and died.

For her husband's sake, she tried not to dislike him, but something about him set her on edge. An aura of ancient grief and longing clung to him like a dark, lifeless halo. It reminded her of the shadow wraiths.

It must be a spiritual connection after all that bound Mahal's children to the rock. Narvi could still feel the song of stone call out to her as they approached the Blue Mountains, her spirit soared when the flat woodland gave way to rocky hills and cliffs - mostly granite, hard to shape but very durable. What wonders lay still in the hearts of the snow-clad peaks, ever waiting to be shaped by skilled dwarven hands? In the olden days, the times of Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar, it had been iron and gold.

Higher and higher the path led them into the mountains. They passed pretty valleys and meadows that smelled of spring flowers, waterfalls that sprung from rock and made her dream of underground cave systems, and here and there a settlement of Men. Celebrimbor, who after all this time still lacked any sense of subtlety, always marched straight up to them to inquire after dwarven whereabouts.

"How are we supposed to find them if we don't ask?" was his exasperated reply when she berated him one fine evening after they had received another vague answer and far too many disbelieving stares. She did not like the way they looked at him. Had they never seen an elf before?

I thought we were hiding, Narvi snapped even as Maglor, who leant against a tree trunk sewing a tear in his sleeve, looked up and shrugged.

"I didn't say anything," he remarked, "though I thought we were hiding."

Celebrimbor rolled his eyes and leant his forehead into his hands.

"The dwarves will be near impossible to find if they don't wish to be found. It would be helpful to get directions."

Maglor went back to his stitches, slowly, accurately, and did not reply for several minutes. This was a common occurrence, as though he frequently forgot about his companion before he remembered they had been in the middle of a conversation.

"Why do you want to meet the dwarves?" he asked then.

Celebrimbor grabbed a branch and began to trace patterns into the moist ground. Narvi watched, mesmerized, as flowing shapes twisted and turned in effortless beauty. On a fresh spring evening in Eregion she would have asked him to work this design into a necklace, and he would have laughed and said that he could do better for her. It was a small comfort that Sauron, for all his cruelty, had not been able to quench the spark of creation that was so much the core of him.

He had not told Maglor much about his journey, and his uncle had not asked. Apparently it had not occurred to him before.

"How much do you know," Celebrimbor asked eventually, though she knew the subject caused him pain, "about Sauron and the Rings of Power?"

Maglor's hands stilled. For a long moment he sat in silence, lost in dark reverie which Narvi could feel with a force that unsettled her: the shadows around him grew denser, colder, an ancient echo of hurt and terror that resonated in her mind. When he spoke, his voice was lifeless in a way that made her spirit shiver.

"He serves Morgoth."

Celebrimbor grimaced. "You could say he runs his own business now. The rings? Have you heard...?"

Maglor shook his head. "Bad things happened. There was war. But not for a long time."

"He's still out there." Celebrimbor's hand clenched around the branch. She wanted to pry it off and hold it in her own to stop it from shaking. "He made weapons, magic rings. We helped him... I helped him. The dwarves must be warned."

He broke off, and for a moment there was no sound but the soft knocking of a woodpecker somewhere in the distance. Maglor stared at his nephew, at his pale face and trembling hands and the sickly flush in his cheeks, and Narvi could see comprehension dawn in his eyes.

"He hurt you."

"Only afterwards. When I saw what he was and tried to oppose him, but it was too..."

"He hurt you."

Celebrimbor bit his lip and nodded. He could not meet Maglor's eyes and Narvi understood, for they were burning with a light she had never seen before. For the first time, she believed that he was a murderer.

"How did you get away?"

That was too much to ask. Celebrimbor hugged his knees and hid his face in his sleeve.

Narvi's spirit rebelled. She felt his anguish and terror, she remembered his screams, his pain, his bloody corpse hanging from a pole and did he even know? - and now she could not even protect him from his demons.

He didn't get away, she shouted. He was tortured and butchered and his legacy violated! Leave him alone, can't you see he's suffering?

A wave of panic hit her out of nowhere. Images and sensations flooded her mind - fire and pain and terror and red hair clinging to blood-streaked skin and darkness and despair and NOT HIM NOT HIM PLEASE NO...

She gasped and pulled away, and the onslaught stopped as suddenly as it had come. Maglor drew a sharp breath and reached out to embrace his nephew, who buried his face his uncle's tunic and wept. Narvi could only stare at them. Her heart ached for her husband, whom she had never seen so distraught, but this strange elf seemed to carry a darkness in his soul that easily matched Celebrimbor's. She wondered what tales he might tell.

So she watched, unable to comfort either of them, while Maglor ran a trembling hand through Celebrimbor's hair and muttered in his foreign tongue that blurred the lines between speech and music. It had to be the language of Valinor, a gateway to memories her lover would never speak of. They could not be more terrible than the fate that had befallen him in their own time.

Long they sat like this while all around them the setting sun made the mountains glow like gold and rubies. Once, so many lifetimes ago, it would have filled her heart with joy.

It took them a week to find traces of dwarven craftsmanship in the Ered Luin. No doubt anyone not familiar with her people would have missed them entirely. While the menfolk in the area spoke of dwarven traders who brought fine goods to their villages, no one knew where they came from. But both Narvi and Celebrimbor could tell a man-made path from a dwarven one, even if it was barely a path at all, and so one fine afternoon they passed through a narrow valley and crossed a ford only to face a solid wall of rock.

"A door," Celebrimbor observed as he ran his nimble fingers over the stone. "No doubt secured by a clever mechanism... a password, perhaps..."

"I don't see a door," Maglor remarked. He stood back to hold Bumblebee's reins and watched his nephew curiously.

"That is the entire point of dwarven doors." Celebrimbor sighed. "If only one of us had a helpful idea..."

I didn't make these doors, Narvi snapped. And go ahead, try to open them without their consent - mellon.

"True," he muttered, before hollering at the top of his voice, "Oi! Shamukh Khazad! Mukhuh turgizu turug usgin!"

Have you lost your mind? she spluttered, but then fell silent to listen. Only the sounds of nature disrupted the quiet.

"We'll make our camp," Celebrimbor decided. "Now they know we're here. We can only wait till they come to us."

"I hope they will not bring their axes," Maglor said doubtfully, though he bent to hobble the horse's legs. "That did not sound friendly."

"They will surely bring their axes, but no ill will, or so I hope." Celebrimbor set his pack down and looked around. "I blessed their beards, after all."

Beard, Narvi corrected, singular. But your pronunciation is improving.

He did not reply, not aloud, but the smile that lit up his face was answer enough.

It was a hopeless endeavor to beat the dwarves in obstinacy. Elven presence at their doorstep might inconvenience them, but Narvi knew they would simply wait a few days - unless Celebrimbor had roused their curiosity. If it took too long she would risk a peek behind the stone, but for the time being it would be better to adhere to the rules of courtesy. Usually Celebrimbor, who had ample experience with dwarven idiosyncrasies, would have settled down in good cheer, taken out his sketchbook, and driven Maglor to despair with merry but tuneless whistling. Now he spent the evening with carving work that was inferior for his own standards because his hands were blunt and his mind was not on his task. Ever since the attack he had been radiating tension, and there was little she could do to reassure him. The danger was real. Only Maglor seemed unworried, but then she could rarely tell what he truly felt.

Their foes returned at nightfall.

She was the first to feel the chill that wafted through the air, like a breeze brought by the setting of the sun. It was not the same but colder; the sort that froze hearts and made them forget that joy existed. She could not see them, not yet, but they would arrive soon.

Ghivasha, she said sharply. Prepare for battle. They are coming.

Celebrimbor lowered his carving work and looked up at her, calmer than she felt herself. As she met his eyes she prayed for Mahal to protect them. Her husband gave her a slight smile, such as he had often done but harder and less joyful, and reached for his swords. It was Maglor who first rose to his feet and drew his blade in one fluid motion. Perhaps he could sense them too; he gazed towards the ford with a cocked head, almost as if he was listening. He still did not look particularly concerned.

Malice surrounded them as it had on the beach. She could see it whirl through the air like black smoke as the wraiths appeared, more this time, six, no, seven, and their power lay in the terror brought about by ancient evil.

She was neither ancient nor powerful, not compared to their enemy, but one thing she had never lacked was courage. They were not entirely of this world, so maybe she could fight them in their own. Perhaps being a ghost would be of use after all.

Escape was not an option. Celebrimbor dragged his nervous horse towards the dwarven door, and both elves stood armed, with their backs to the rock. But they were only two and the others were many. Slowly their enemies approached, faceless shadows clad in the black armor of Mordor.

Maker, they spoke, the master is waiting for you.

"He can wait past Dagor Dagorath," Celebrimbor spat. "He won't get me alive this time!"

Nor any other way, Narvi thought fiercely.

The elf's next words to the dark riders were among the foulest Khuzdul curses Narvi had ever heard.

She sensed the chill of their dark magic and moved between the wraiths and their prey. If their presence alone could harm, then maybe hers could protect? Their cold could not touch her, for anger kindled a fire inside her that radiated heat like the forges of Khazad-Dûm. The dark mist recoiled from where she stood. She concentrated hard on the heat, fanning it, bundling it, just like she had made herself visible through sheer force of will. A faint shimmer began to surround her. It seemed to confuse the riders for a moment, but it would not be enough; there was no time to practice, and it drained her quite thoroughly. If her friends attacked, perhaps, while their foes were taken aback...

But suddenly the flames inside her mind surged high. White fire filled her entire being, and then it was as easy as if she had done this a hundred times before. A hot, bright glow engulfed them, burning away the cold, and the creatures of shadow withdrew in distress. Celebrimbor's eyes were huge and glittered in the orange light, and Maglor...

For the first time since she had met him, Maglor was smiling.

There was no reason whatsoever to smile. The shielding might take little effort, but they were trapped; there was no way to go except into the mountain.

It was unspeakably helpful that right in that moment the rock behind them opened into a doorway. "Come quickly!" called a harsh voice, and the elves did not need a second invitation. Within seconds they had retreated behind the invisible door, which closed behind them as seamlessly as it had been before. Narvi lingered for a moment to make sure that they were not followed, but apparently their foes had no ability to walk through stone.

The other side of the door lay in near absolute darkness. Like all dwarves Narvi could see regardless, but the same was not true for her companions.

"Well met, and take our deepest thanks," Celebrimbor said, sounding only slightly out of breath. "Would it be terribly inconveniencing to light a torch? I would be honored to greet our saviors face to face."

A flame appeared in the dark and illuminated four grave, bearded faces. Narvi wanted to weep with joy. For so long she had not spoken to any of her kind. These dwarves were clad in rough clothes and leather, and they were armed; guards, apparently. The dwarrowdam who held the torch stepped forward and eyed the two elves without sympathy.

"Who are you," she growled, "and what devilry have you brought to our doorstep?"

"My name is Celebrimbor... Curufinion. At your service, and your family's." He bowed with practiced ease. "This is my kinsman Makalaurë. We come in friendship."

Maglor imitated the bow, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Celebrimbor, on the other hand, was beaming. Narvi felt his relief and delight sparkle at the edge of her consciousness. It was quickly doused, though, by the dwarrowdam's next words.

"There has been no friendship between elves and dwarves for longer than anyone can remember."

Celebrimbor frowned. "But... Khazad-Dûm. It has been a long time, but surely you remember the friendship between Khazad-Dûm and Eregion?"

"You speak of ancient history, elf," the guardswoman retorted. "Now, what are those creatures, and what reason have we not cast you out again?"

"They are servants of the Dark Lord," Celebrimbor explained, now with greater caution. "They hunt us because they fear me, I believe. It is that I wish to speak about with the leaders of your settlement. I carry a warning."

The guards withdrew for a short conversation in Iglishmêk, which she got the gist of though it had changed significantly. They were distrustful, but not cold-hearted enough to throw them to the beasts. At last the spokeswoman turned toward the elves again.

"Looks like we have no choice but to take you in," she snorted. "Follow me."

Two of the dwarrows accompanied them into the cave. It was a long walk through narrow tunnels, roughly hewn, crafted for practicality and not for beauty. After all this time in the elven city and then under the open sky, Narvi finally felt the deep contentment that came from being underground. It was a reassuring darkness that called out to any dwarf, the steadiness of rocks that were not fickle and did not move in the wind or change with the seasons, and ever encouraged the children of Mahal to explore and create.

Only she could not create any longer.

They were made to wait inside the tunnels while one of the guards announced the uninvited guests. He returned a short while later without explanation, but gestured for them to follow. The sky had darkened already when they emerged on the other side. A steep path led them into a valley that was, in fact, more of a plateau, apparently inaccessible from either side. There was a modest entrance to the mountain carved into the rocky side of the cliff large enough to allow mining carts or three dwarrow to walk abreast. Several low stone dwellings were huddled in front it. The cave system that was part of any dwarven settlement must be inside; but houses? Why would anyone built a house if they could have a cave? And these were clearly inhabited, for lights were shining in the windows.

The guards led them to one of the larger buildings. At least, Narvi noted with a modicum of relief, the main floor was underground. They descended a stairway to a single room, dominated on one side by a fireplace, with tables and seats scattered before it. The walls were adorned with woven tapestries, musical instruments, and tools of steel and iron. It was a comfortable room, though, as far as dwarven dwellings went, very plain.

The elves had hardly taken seat when heavy footsteps descended the stairs behind them. Celebrimbor jumped to his feet. Three more dwarrows approached them, these clad in official-looking robes, though threadbare and hastily adorned. The decorations woven their braids and beards were of plain steel and iron. One was grey-bearded and elderly, marked in his face by scars and wearing a mighty scowl, the second a broad-shouldered fellow whose haphazard blonde braids undermined his dignified expression and made him look slightly boyish. But it was their leader who captured Narvi's attention. She was a tall dwarrowdam with raven hair and light blue eyes, and Narvi recognized her face, though it had been male when she had last seen those features. Many generations had left their mark, yet those were the same piercing eyes, the same long, straight nose, the same high forehead, and the beads in her hair...

"Greetings," the lady spoke. "I am Dís, daughter of Thráin. I oversee this settlement. These are my kinsmen Gróin, son of Farin, and Varli, son of Borli. You wish to speak to me, I am told."

Narvi felt Celebrimbor's shock radiate through her mind. For a moment, he stared in a most unbecoming manner, then he bowed as deeply as he could manage.

"Celebrimbor Curufinion," he repeated, this time without hesitation, "and Makalaurë, my kinsman. I had not expected this honour, daughter of Durin."

Dís looked at him through narrowed eyes, then towards Maglor, who had risen also.

"There is no reason to mock my heritage," she growled. "My guards tell me you carry a warning. Let us speak about the matters at hand."

The straightforward demand could not surprise Celebrimbor, but Narvi could tell he was taken aback by the open hostility. "As you wish," he conceded, "though I did not mean it as mockery. I was named dwarf-friend in another age. I have not forgotten, even if it appears that the world around me has."

One did not need to know much of dwarves to see that Dís did not believe a word of it.

"Very well," she grunted. "The warning?"

Celebrimbor looked at the doubtful faces that surrounded him and sighed. Maglor placed a comforting hand on his arm.

Be brave, ghivasha, Narvi told him. Your intentions are pure. And you have always known how to deal with us.

She knew that his smile was meant for her.

"This may take a while," he admitted, and then he told the daughter of Durin everything: about Eregion and Khazad-Dûm, about his friendship with Durin himself, about Sauron and the Rings and the betrayal. He was hard on himself when it came to his own part, much harder than he had any right to be, and did not shy away from the bitter end. Narvi noticed that Maglor had paled, and his eyes were shimmering strangely. He looked utterly horrified.

"So," Celebrimbor finished, "I have reason to believe that he still means to use these rings for domination. The wraiths that hunt us are somehow tied to them, though I am not sure how. I seek to destroy the rings if I can."

A very long silence followed his words. The flickering firelight illuminated Dís' grave face and those of her companions. Narvi attempted to enfold her husband in a cloud of comfort.

Hold on, she muttered. You did well.

"So," the dwarrowdam said at last, "You claim to be the legendary Silverfist, who was murdered by Sauron in the war of Eregion - four thousand years ago."

"I am the same."

"Can you prove it?"

He shrugged. "I do not see how, since all my possessions are long gone. Perhaps, if I were allowed to use the forge... but I am aware that this is a bold request."

Dís chuckled. "You surely are a bold one, and you do not engage in useless drivel. I can believe you had dealings with my folk before... but the rest of your story is rather fanciful."

"I know," he admitted, meeting her eyes. "I have only my word to give."

She watched him long and thoughtful. A falling pebble could have been heard in the silence.

"If it is as you say," she said at last, carefully, "what do you want of us?"

"We made seven rings for the dwarf-lords." He took a deep breath. "At first I simply meant to warn you against them, and to see a few friendly faces on our way to Imladris. But now - knowing that you are a descendant of Durin - maybe you can help us."

"How so?"

"I crafted a ring for him. It was one of the Seven. If you know its whereabouts, maybe you could see it destroyed." Dís' face darkened, and he added quickly, "I have no desire to possess it. I just want to be certain it is gone."

Again, there was a long pause. Narvi found Dís' expression difficult to read; it was far more guarded than Gróin's, who did little to conceal his contempt, or Varli's, who looked fascinated. The guards watched them with an identical expression of doubt. Maglor looked like he very much wanted to be sick.

Celebrimbor appeared calm and collected, though she knew that inside he was screaming. It always happened when he was forced to relive his torment.

"I will not decide today," Dís spoke eventually, "and not alone. For the time being, you are welcome in our homes. Consider it an honour, for no elf has ever laid eyes upon these dwellings." She smiled caustically. "Little though they may reflect the glory of Khazad-Dûm. Noni, see that our guests get a roof over their heads and some stew to fill their bellies."

The guardswoman nodded and stood aside.

"You are wise and gracious, Dís, daughter of Thráin, " Celebrimbor said. "We consider ourselves in your debt."

"Pretty words, elf-lord," she retorted, "but they mean little to me. We will speak tomorrow."

With that she left along with her companions. Celebrimbor and Maglor followed Noni the guard to a small building where they found dwarf-sized beds and a fireplace, and food was brought shortly after. Narvi watched them, unwilling to leave Celebrimbor's side after this, but anxious to explore the place as soon as possible. She had to know what lay beneath the door of stone. Where were the halls, the mighty forges, where was the golden treasure she had seen in her dreams?

If these were the descendants of Durin, then where was their kingdom?

Chapter End Notes

According to The Dwarrow Scholar, “Shamukh Khazad! Mukhuh turgizu turug usgin!” means "Hail, dwarves! May your beard continue to grow longer!" I wasn't sure about the plural, but Celebrimbor isn't a native speaker, so I cheated and let him make a mistake.

Varli is an OC with a backstory. I'm not sure I'll be able to include it, since Dís probably won't tell. He is the brother of her deceased husband, thus another uncle of Fíli and Kíli. Like Dís, he didn't accompany them for political reasons (though they were both really pissed about Thorin's decision).

Gróin, obviously, is ”in's and Glóin's father and perfectly canonical. The name is Tolkien's fault.

That night Celebrimbor's demons returned.

He could not even run. Ever before he had been running, but now he was chained to the wall by a cuff around his neck, unable to flee or hide. It was dark and he could barely breathe because the air was filled with poisonous smoke, and all around him were orcs, vile, stinking, horrible creatures that laughed and leered and rejoiced in his fear. And amid them was the vilest of them all, the one with the purest face, the one he had once called friend. It could not be, for it was over, it should be over, but now the traitor stepped close and smiled and Celebrimbor tasted bile.

Annatar caressed his face, tenderly, lovingly, except that his fingertips tore the skin away and blood dripped into Celebrimbor's eyes. "Tyelpë, my friend," he whispered. "I missed you."

"No," he choked. He tried to back away when deadly fingers traced down his neck and curled around his throat. "No..."

"I don't believe you," said a deep voice, and then he saw Narvi standing nearby, watching the scene with crossed arms and contempt in her blue eyes. It wasn't right, for her eyes should be dark and her hair should be brown, and her beads should not be of Durin's line. She walked away and he screamed her name, and Annatar laughed...

Then suddenly the ground vanished under his feet, and agony shot up his right arm. For a moment there was only pain, then he found that he was chained by his wrist to a precipice, dangling helplessly in the air. He had been there for so long, terrified, humiliated, begging for death with every heartbeat while Makalaurë's frantic voice rang in his ears, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Celebrimbor! There was her voice again, faint, though she appeared to be shouting. Will you wake up before you cause an incident! Celebrimbor!

The rock before him began to blur.

Ghivasha, wake up now! This is getting out of hand!

He gasped and shivered and found himself on the floor in their dwarven dwelling, cowering on a rug beside the bed. Several dwarves were hovering by the door, axes at the ready, identical looks of alarm on their faces. Before them stood Maglor, sword in hand and glaring at them.

"No," he cried when the situation became clear. "Maglor! They mean no harm."

At the sound of his voice Maglor lowered his blade and dropped to his side. "Tyelpë, Tyelpë," he said urgently. "I'm here. No one will touch you."

There was a commotion by the door as Dís walked in, clad in a dressing gown and clutching a heavy sword. She glowered at everyone in turn, then fixed her gaze on him in a manner that reminded him very much of Durin and the incident with the misaimed snowball.

He pulled himself together and bowed his head even before he was addressed.

"Forgive me for causing trouble, daughter of Thráin. I am sometimes plagued by nightmares. I did not mean to alarm your guards."

Dís frowned, then exchanged a few words in Khuzdul with the other dwarves. They looked dissatisfied, but left the building until she alone remained with Noni, the guardswoman who had brought them here. Celebrimbor climbed to his feet and sat heavily on the bed. Belatedly he realized that he was clutching Maglor's hand, but he did not let go; he was not ashamed for taking comfort. Maglor noticed his gaze and attempted a smile. He looked shaken.

Dís walked over towards the table and dropped onto a chair.

"I am familiar with nightmares," she said after a long pause.

Celebrimbor rubbed his free hand over his face. "I'm sorry."

"Life has not been kind to us." She reached into her pocket and drew out a flask. "Here. Try this."

He caught the bottle in mid-flight and took a deep swallow. It burned his throat and reminded him of better days. He managed not to choke on it, and when he met Dís' scrutinizing gaze, he understood that he had passed the test. Good thing he could drink and swear like a dwarf - he would demonstrate the latter too, if she liked.

"Good stuff," he said approvingly. "Thanks."

Dís waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "I would like to see your forge-work tomorrow, " she announced.

Celebrimbor paused, then closed the lid of the bottle very deliberately. "With pleasure."

"I shall meet you after breakfast." The dwarrowdam shuffled to her feet. "Now see if you can get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll ask our healers for some soothing herbs, if you need them."

He bowed his head in thanks. Dís opened the door, but halted in the frame. "Oh, and one more thing..."

"Yes?"

"You called a name while you were in the throes of the dream." Dís looked at him intently, as though she was trying to read his thoughts. "Who is Narvi?"

The air around him sparkled with sudden tension.

Careful now, Narvi's voice muttered inside his head. She might not believe you if you...

"She was my wife," he declared.

You are an idiot, Narvi informed him. Dís' eyes widened slightly, yet she said nothing. Maglor's hand twitched, and he gripped it tighter.

"But," he added, "she was so much more than that. You must have heard of her - Narvi Norisul of the Broadbeam clan? She was a genius among your folk. She made the doors of Durin, on which I had the honour to draw the signs. The great throne in Durin's Hall was created after her design. She devised a new plumbing system for the outer districts, and the retractable railings on the second landing of the minor treasure hall were..."

"That will suffice," Dis interrupted him with a wan smile. "I know of her; indeed, her work is still praised in our songs. And I'm inclined to believe you." She gave him an odd little bow, like someone who did not usually bow to anyone. "Welcome to the Ered Luin, Silverfist, friend of the Khazad," she said. "Your name is well-known among us."

They were silent for a long while after Dís had left. Celebrimbor had been about to return to bed when Maglor beside him leant his forehead into his hands.

"I'm sorry," he said very softly.

"For what?" Celebrimbor inquired, for while there were many things a son of Fëanor might justifiably be sorry about, none of them made sense in the present context.

"I forgot," his uncle whispered. He sounded utterly miserable. "I lingered for so long, but I never thought... to me you were still Curvo's lad. You were supposed to be safe. I never doubted it."

There was nothing to say to that. Celebrimbor put a hand on Maglor's arm, knowing full well that it was insufficient comfort.

"I don't blame you," he said, when he suspected that Maglor's mind was getting lost in the past again. "You didn't know."

"I thought I was keeping you safe!" Maglor dropped his hands and began to peel the skin off his nailbeds. It looked painful. "I thought you shouldn't be associated with us. It would only bring you grief, like it did us... Curvo understood that, too. It was our curse, not yours. Never yours!"

Celebrimbor smiled, though he could not muster any real joy. "And it wasn't," he returned. "My curse was of my own making."

Codswallop, snorted Narvi, we all know whose fault it was.

There was a long silence, while Celebrimbor turned over the thoughts in his mind that had been bothering him for so long.

"Uncle," he managed eventually. "I heard others tell about... what happened after I left. But I could never ask Father. I could never ask any of you..."

"The stories are true." Maglor averted his eyes. "I do not remember all. But that much, I know."

"But why?"

"I can give you many answers, and none," his uncle returned cryptically, and the closed expression on his face warned Celebrimbor not to pry any further. He still pondered what to say when Maglor looked up at him with a wry smile.

"Is it true you married one of the Naugrim?"

I was just beginning to like him, groused Narvi, and Celebrimbor rolled his eyes.

"Don't call them that," he advised, not unkindly. "And yes."

"Why?"

"Because I loved her." He shrugged. "Why else should one marry?"

"I don't know. Perhaps, if one is so disgusted with one's own folk..."

"I didn't marry her because she was a dwarf," Celebrimbor interrupted, harsher than he intended. "She's... she was the companion of my heart. She was brilliant and kind and honest. Her thoughts were like mine, only she was stone and fire where elves are light and air. And," he added bitingly, because he remembered all too well what had puzzled his kin in the past, "she was beautiful. Had she been blessed with the form of Lúthien, I wouldn't have found her as fair."

Maglor watched him for a long moment. Then a hesitant smile crossed his features.

"I have learned that love and loss are intertwined," he said, "and so I mourn with you, for she is gone. But you loved, and were loved; that is a good thing."

Narvi did not speak, but Celebrimbor felt her affection trickle through his mind, like a summer rain that caressed his thoughts and warmed him from the inside.

"You need not mourn for my sake," he said gently. "She is not gone from my heart."

She damn well hopes so, she muttered, and he knew she meant I love you.

Maglor smiled still, but unhappiness emanated from him like a soft, misty cloud. "Go to sleep," he said, and then rose to fetch the large bundle that he always carried on his shoulder. As the fabric cover fell away, Celebrimbor recognized it as the same ancient harp his uncle had played since Valinor. It evoked his earliest memories: a room full of silver light, a window to the gardens, and colorful beads in his mother's hair; and there had been music, clear notes of unearthly beauty that caught his spirit and made it soar, evoked by slender hands that slid over harp strings in effortless artistry. He had been sure, at the time, that the harp was enchanted and uncle Makalaurë was a magician.

The same artist now played once more, a haunting tune both unbearably sad and yet strangely beautiful, and he thought that perhaps he had been right.

Dís met them the next day in front of the entrance to the caves. Maglor had not, strictly speaking, been invited, but had apparently decided not to let his nephew out of his sight again. Not for the first time, Celebrimbor was slightly unnerved by his uncle's silent single-mindedness. The Makalaurë he had known had been kind and considerate, a clever diplomat, a voice of reason.

And yet he had become a kinslayer. Perhaps Celebrimbor had never truly known him at all.

In any case, Dís had spoken of forge-work and Celebrimbor, having awoken early, had spared the matter some thought. For the first time since the fall of Eregion, he would create again. The prospect filled him with elation, because this was what he loved, what had been his joy and purpose for so long; but he feared it all the same, for his own works had been used for evil. He remembered the mechanics of his craft, but would he ever feel the spirit again, the deep sense of a thing's true form that only his dwarven friends had understood? It was too early to tell.

The forge was located in a large building just outside the entrance. Undoubtedly there were better facilities inside the Mountain, but he would not be allowed to enter even if Dís believed his tale, not after a mere day in their acquaintance. It was not their way.

As he had anticipated, the material he was offered was simple and practical. The tools were rough but of decent make, designed to make pans rather than jewelry, and there were few gems, most of them of moderate worth, along with bars of iron, steel, and silver. Steel, he had already decided, was a suitable material, well-fitting to the general style he had seen in the colonies' inhabitants.

"I thought about a bracelet," he told Dís as she donned her own apron and offered him another, "if you would allow me to make you one. Here are some designs." He grinned apologetically when Dís looked at his sketch and raised her eyebrows. "I shall have to make a few adjustments to allow for your specific tools, but it can be done."

Dís took the sheet of paper from his hands and stared at it for a long moment. Not his best idea, surely, but suitable as a warm-up, very dwarvish in style, loosely inspired by the runes on Durin's favourite staircase in Khazad-Dûm. It would not take him more than a day.

"Impressive," she said eventually, and he knew enough of dwarves to understand the high praise. Then she nodded and gave the room a critical overview. The fire was already alight, and two more dwarves were working in the back rooms, though the noise they made would not let them overhear a private conversation. One of them Celebrimbor recognized as Varli, Dís' blonde kinsman whom he had met the day before. The dwarrow smiled and waved, and Celebrimbor felt a surge of gratitude.

You'll be happy for a while, I assume, Narvi chimed in. I'm going to have a look around.

He gave her a slight nod and took up a bar of steel to weigh it in his hand.

The instant he touched the metal, his concerns and fears ceased to exist. The deep, simmering magic that had been sleeping within him for so long now awoke again, and his spirit sung with the joy of creation, the endless possibilities inherent in the raw form. Each movement flowed as freely and precisely as if it had not been four millennia but four minutes since last he had spent every waking moment at work. Soon nothing mattered beside the weight of his hammer, the smell of smoke, the rhythmic clang of metal on metal, the sharp hiss of hot steel slaked in water. Under his hands evolved a heavy band suited to encircle a dwarven wrist: thick steel to match the bulging muscles of Dís' forearm, stylized runes that evoked the depths and secrets of Khazad-Dûm, and among them the stars of the Mirrormere to honour her royal heritage.

It was well past midday when a familiar voice interrupted his concentration.

It is good to see you work again, ghivasha, said Narvi, but Dís wants to talk. And so do I, for that matter.

Sure enough, Dís lowered her own work when he straightened up. She had been in the process of modelling a pattern into the hilt of a dagger; he had not noticed any of it.

"I had doubts before, I don't now," she said into the silence. "You must be one of the great elven smiths of old. And there was none who knew us as well as Silverfist of Eregion."

"In my time, there was friendship between our people," he conceded. "It was not all my doing."

She continued to watch him with a very strange look in her eyes.

"I have heard legends tell of reborn elves," she said, "but I never believed any of those."

"They are true." Celebrimbor brushed a strand of sooty black hair out of his face. "Though we don't usually return to Middle Earth. But we are bound to this world, and we can never leave it." He paused and met her eyes. She watched him, calmly, waiting for him to continue. "Some call it a blessing. I don't. Would that I could forget what happened. Would that I could erase those memories and fall into oblivion."

"Do you think that's what happens to us?"

He thought of Narvi and smiled. "No," he admitted, "I don't think so."

She took up her tools again, and for a while they worked in silence. She was skilled in her craft, and the metal yielded under her touch into forms of intricate harmony. He almost felt at ease for the first time since his world had been set on fire. Working helped to keep the darkness out, at least for a while; but a lingering tension in the back of his mind told him that something was bothering Narvi. He wished he could ask her in public.

"I am very grateful that you chose to trust me," he said eventually. Dís threw him a sideway glance. He pretended to be focused on the closing mechanism he was shaping with a tiny pair of tongs. "I am aware that your folk don't trust easily."

She watched him for a moment. "Perhaps I do so because it suits my purpose," she suggested. Celebrimbor frowned, though he had expected no less.

"That's a dangerous reason," he warned. "I lost my life to it once."

"Others might call it folly. I call it a risk worth taking. We must take many risks, these days." Dis blew away a little metal swarf and examined her work. "There is something you can help me with, if you will. It suits us both."

"I'm listening."

"I don't know where the Ring of Durin is," said Dís, "but my father does. If you find him, he could lead you to it." Her smile showed rather too many teeth. "I need not tell you that he would never bow to force."

"I thought you believed me that I am a friend."

"I wouldn't tell you otherwise." She shrugged. "My father has been missing ever since the battle of Azanulbizar, eighty years ago. Lately we heard rumors that he was seen in Dunland, but they amounted to nothing. We could not find him. He might be dead." She raised an eyebrow. "Or not."

"He might not want to be found?"

"I don't see why, unless he is not in his right mind." Dís sighed heavily. "I realize that I can hardly ask you to search for him, but if you want to find the ring of Durin, this is what you will have to do."

Celebrimbor picked up a small brush to polish the edges of his bracelet.

"I know where Azanulbizar lies," he said. "Khazad-Dûm is orc-land now. If they have taken him, then he is lost - and the ring as well."

"Perhaps." Dís pondered her next words for a moment. "Call it a hunch. Call it a connection with the people we love. I've lost loved ones before, but I don't believe my father is dead. Neither does my brother."

It was possible, he knew. He had felt the death of his mother on the bloody sands of Alqualondë, though he had not been there, being too young to join the fighting. It had hurt just as badly when Curufin's presence had been torn from Arda, long after Celebrimbor had tried to snuff the last of his love for his father from his heart. And when Narvi had been lost... but he could not think of that, for it would only lead to black thoughts of guilt and despair. Useless, she would say. He wondered if she knew the whole truth.

We need to start somewhere, she told him now. But you can't enter Khazad-Dûm. And while I'm at it, now would be a good time to ask her what happened to their kingdom.

Much as Narvi had felt the urge to explore the Halls of the Ered Luin, she had not done so until Celebrimbor was absorbed in his forge work for Dís. The recounting of his tale the prior night had brought him a series of violent nightmares, after which he could not return to sleep. Eventually he had taken out his sketchbook to draw, while Maglor continued his eerie harp-play, his eyes unfocused as though they were looking into a world no one else could see. Narvi had felt uncomfortable in leaving them to their own devices, and so she had stayed.

What a bunch of misfits we are, she had thought bitterly as she watched over them, two shabby elf-lords lodging in a sparse chamber that belonged to a descendant of kings. It is not just these dwarves who are a shadow of their glorious past.

The following morning she left Celebrimbor and his uncle in the safety of the small workshop to finally investigate the caves inside the mountain.

There was not much to see.

She had told herself not to expect a second Khazad-Dûm. It had been folly to think that the buildings on the plateau were only an outpost, that the depth of the mountain was home to a splendid kingdom which befit the heirs of Durin. And there were halls, aye, made by skilled craftspeople. There were homesteads and forges, better than the one outside, and mines that held iron and coal. The dwarves who lived here were not less skilled, less dedicated, less dwarven than their ancestors. But the conditions they lived under were appalling.

She had seen treasure in her dreams; where had it gone to? Was there another realm that housed the line of Durin, one, perhaps, with a more direct claim to the crown? Yet even if these lords were a of lesser branch, how could they not even have the most basic standards in tools and forge-craft? Why were their tunnels dark and their quarters humble, why did all their goods look self-made with little evidence of trade, where were the precious metals and gemstones they needed for their craft - and was the small chamber filled with books and scrolls all that was left of Khazad-Dûm's library?

Panic seized her as she wandered the halls, ever searching for a hidden gateway that concealed all the wonders she recalled. She found none. Eventually she had to admit that she was fooling herself: These people were poor, and nothing in their attire suggested otherwise. The glory of Khazad-Dûm was truly gone.

And gone with it were the people she held dear. Every single dwarf she had ever known was long lost. Her parents had died before her own life had ended so suddenly, but there had been her brother Northri with his bright smile and shrewd wisdom, and Nyr, his wife, who had carried the gilded axe of Durin's guard, and their children, barely of age as she last recalled. There was her best friend Jari, who had offered a very decisive opinion on her taste in bedfellows and given Celebrimbor some trouble that was not wholly undeserved. Regin and Vit, who had worked at her side for many decades. Buri, the black-haired healer who had broken hearts both male and female. So many names, so many faces, an entire lifetime of memories.

Their names forgotten, the work of their hands lost, their tombs covered by the dust of four thousand years.

"If the Ring of Durin is in your father's keeping," Celebrimbor asked Dís sometime later in the forge, "then I assume he is his legitimate heir? You are a member of the royal family, are you not?"

"It seems that I am not the only one who takes risks." Dís leant against her workbench and glowered at him. "That doesn't concern you in the slightest."

"Forgive me. It is merely my wish to understand what happened. Khazad-Dûm was dear to my heart, but I know of its fate..."

"In which your people took no interest, as it were."

"I am truly sorry." Celebrimbor looked distraught. Narvi remembered vague images from her death-dreams: Shadow and flame that arose from the depths, warriors who faced it and were trod underfoot, fleeing dwarrows, a dying king. Surely the elves must have done something?

"Eregion was no more, or we would have come to your aid," Celebrimbor said quietly. "But it cannot be undone. It has fallen to the orcs now... and the other one, the golden mountain in the East..."

Dís face darkened, and for a while she stared straight ahead, caught in bitter memories.

"Erebor was my home," she said, shortly. "We lost it to a dragon. This is all we have left." Her lips twisted into a hard, bitter smile. "Our elven neighbours came and watched," she added. "They did not help us. We had lost our home and all our possessions; we needed food and medical aid. But we were left to fend for ourselves."

So it was true.

Had her people not suffered enough when a demon of Angband had driven them from their home? The glory of Khazad-Dûm had been crafted for ages beyond count, back in her days when the crystalline lights of the realm had been undimmed, when marvels were forged in the depths and mithril glittered in the mines, and music rang far and wide beneath the mountains. Now all that was left was a handful of caves, sparsely inhabited by a grim and bitter folk.

Celebrimbor opened his mouth to speak, but found no words. He closed his eyes with a pained expression before he looked up and straight at Narvi. Oh, how she wished to be alone with him now! The comfort of his body was denied to her, but to talk to him now, to share the burning grief that must consume them both...

For a moment she believed he would address her without any regard for privacy, but a soft voice interrupted him before he could speak.

"A dragon?"

All turned to look at Maglor, whom they had entirely forgotten, for he had been quietly occupying a chair in the corner of the forge and not uttered a single word all morning. Now he was staring at Dís with wide eyes.

"I remember a dragon," he whispered. "It came in the night. We were not prepared, there was no time to evacuate. Our fortress was engulfed in flames... there is no telling how many burned with it."

Dís drew a sharp breath. "Our tunnels were crushed when pillars on the upper levels were knocked down the greater stairways," she said softly. "There was smoke everywhere, and choked cries, and my father and brother were missing..."

Dust in her lungs and rock crashing from the ceiling, her ears ringing from the explosion - Narvi reeled as a wave of her own memories hit her, then Jari screamed and she tried to run, but...

"The air smelled of burning flesh," said Maglor, "and the beast itself was a living nightmare, worse even than a Balrog..."

"Our guards tried to fight it, but they were burned alive! My mother tried to shield me, but I saw."

"I was the Lord of my people, so I fought among my warriors. I don't remember how I survived... there were so few of us left, and we fled to -."

Maglor broke off with a pained sound. For a moment dwarf and elf stared at each other, not in sympathy but incredulous understanding, while the horror they remembered filled the room with a phantom scent of smoke and char. Then Dís blinked and shook her head, as if pulling herself from a reverie. The metal beads in her beard jingled softly.

"Who are you, kinsman of Silverfist?" she wondered. "You look like a hermit, yet you say you were a Lord."

Maglor's face twitched as though he had tasted something bitter.

"That was long ago," he evaded. "It is better that I am forgotten."

"You never reclaimed your home, then?" There was compassion in her voice, and longing. Maglor laughed, a short, joyless sound.

"No, Master Dwarf," he said curtly. "I have no home."

Dís made a quick, aborted gesture, as if she wanted to grasp his wrist in kinship but thought better of it. Her thick fingers flexed in thought before she picked up a piece of wire which she bent and twisted absently. Narvi was distracted from her own lingering horror by the distress that flooded the room and made her head spin. She heard a voice, wailing, terrible in its anger and grief, and there was a presence - she was sure she had felt it before... Bewildered, Narvi reached out with all of her senses, but it had already slipped away. No one else in the room seemed to have noticed. Maglor had slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands, while Celebrimbor stood by his uncle's side and was rubbing his back. Her husband was talking in the old language now, urgently, but she could not understand him.

Dís looked from one to the other, clearly pondering the unexpected revelation.

"Better days may come for us yet," she said eventually, but there was no mirth in her words. "For all of us."

A dragon, then. Somewhere the glorious halls Narvi had seen in her death-dreams still stood, abandoned, filled with the stench of the beast and the burned remains of those who had died in its flames. Somewhere at least some of the treasures of her people were hoarded, jealously guarded by a creature of evil.

Tell them about Khazad-Dûm , she bade her husband, when she found the heart to speak. Tell them all you remember. They have a right to know what wonders their ancestors wrought. They should hear the tales we knew and shared.

For hours they sat by the fireplace in the underground room where they had first been introduced to Dis, and Celebrimbor talked until his throat was raw: of the founding guilds of Khazad-Dum, of mining lore and the treatment of mithril, of ancient songs and stories long lost in the mists of time. With painful longing Narvi listened as his voice evoked the mighty halls that were her home, ornate pillars that held a golden ceiling almost too high to behold, floors of silver that glittered in the crystalline light of a million lamps, mighty forges in the deep where the hands of her people wrought mithril and ruby and diamond into artifacts of nameless beauty. Lost they were now, but not in memory; it was fitting that he gave them back to their people, so that they knew of their heritage. And listen they did. At first it was only Dís and her kinsmen, but as word seemed to spread, more and more dwarrows filled the room until there was hardly any room left to sit on the floor. Some had brought their craft to work as they listened, others scraps of parchment or slates on which they scribbled down what they heard. A barrel of ale was opened when the hour grew late, bread and dried meat made the round, and someone took a fiddle off the wall to play again an ancient tune no-one had heard for thousands of years. Only Maglor said nothing, but sat quietly on his chair and watched his nephew with sad, thoughtful eyes.

The sun had long set when the travellers returned to the dwelling that had been appointed to them. Celebrimbor had been almost cheerful during the gathering, but sobered immediately when the crowd dispersed. Narvi could tell that something was weighing on his mind, and she did not have to wait long to hear his concerns.

"Do you regret that you chose to return?" he whispered when he was curled up in his dwarven bed, hidden under several blankets. Little privacy they were granted these days, and Narvi missed their casual conversations, but lately Celebrimbor had begun to talk to her regardless of Maglor's presence. Maglor pretended not to notice. In turn Celebrimbor ignored his uncle's low mutterings deep in the night, though surely he understood more of them than Narvi.

Narvi took a moment to consider his request.

No, she admitted then. I pledged myself to you, and by that I stand. But I'll admit that I never expected this much ruin.

"Neither did I," he said unhappily. "Do you think it was the ring, Narvi? Do you think they could have..."

Could you be silent about the rings for one moment , she cut him off, irritated by his ever-present guilt in the face of her sorrow. You heard Dís. It was a dragon. There are more demons in this world than yours.

He turned his face away from her, just the way he had when they had been engaged in petty domestic arguments. She fumed silently for a moment, as had been her usual reaction. But this time their battle of wills was cut short when he deflated in a long breath that sounded like a sob. "Forgive me," he whispered. "So much of what we knew is gone. I am not sure of our place in this world. But," and she could hear the smile in his words, "we will see what we can do, won't we? We will find Dís' father. We'll destroy Durin's ring, and then maybe we can..."

He broke off with a frown, digging himself deeper into the blanket. "Find..." he said very softly, "and destroy..."

A prickling feeling of unease itched in the back Narvi's mind. She pushed it away. It was only natural if he was a little preoccupied with those rings right now. There was no reason at all to worry.

They remained in the settlement for a week: seven days filled mostly with forge work, under the scrutinizing gazes of silent and distrustful dwarrow-folk. Narvi had many ideas to improve the settlement's comforts, and under her tutelage Celebrimbor made sketches and tools for the craftspeople to implement. Thus even those who liked him little began to respect him, while Dís, once, remarked in wonder that there might well be a dwarf somewhere in his lineage. His bashfulness at the compliment was very fetching and a slight consolation to Narvi, who had never longed so bitterly to touch the living world with her own hands. Oh, if she could remain here for a few years, to make detailed plans and supervise the work!

At night, Celebrimbor still tossed and moaned in his sleep; and often, when there was not work nor tales to distract him, all cheer faded from his soul and his eyes became haunted and empty. But being in the company of a folk he loved dearly lifted his spirits, if only temporarily. He basked in the goodwill of those who were forthcoming toward him, especially Varli, son of Borli, who bore little resentment and great curiosity for his teachings. "For a dead man, you have a damn steady hand, Master Elf," he told Celebrimbor once in the forge. "How did you say you get that steel so thin?"

Both elves were guests in Varli's home on the last evening they intended to impose on the hospitality of the dwarrows. The Broadbeam blacksmith was no Erebor dwarf, but native to the Ered Luin. His family owned small but cozy chambers in the living areas inside the mountain. Usually, he explained to Celebrimbor while he led his guests through the tunnel system of the upper levels, he shared them with his younger sister and her partner, but both were away to trade their wares. The dwarrow was a cheerful soul who knew many a tale and song; and some of those, as Narvi noted when the first tankards were emptied, were not intended for polite company. Celebrimbor appeared to enjoy himself immensely, while Maglor sat on his bench, stiff as a mattock, until he spotted a fiddle in the corner and asked to be shown its use. Not much later Dìs walked in without knocking, kicked off her boots and demanded an ale. She gave the fiddling elf a doubtful look, but refrained from commenting.

"I can't convince you to stay longer?" she asked instead.

"Your hospitality is greatly cherished," said Celebrimbor, "but no, we must be on our way. I told you about the purpose I have... it's a quest, if you will. I shouldn't abandon it so soon."

"Everybody is going on quests these days," Varli grunted, carelessly dunking a piece of bread into the honey pot. "Except for those who have to keep things going around here."

Dís shot him a withering glare. "Some of them don't know when to keep their mouths shut," she growled.

"Aye, aye." Varli shrugged, not looking particularly apologetic. "Just sayin'. Could have gone on a quest myself, if it hadn't been for the stubbornness of…"

"Give our guest another ale, will you?" Dís shoved Celebrimbor's tankard at him. "And don't bore him with stuff that doesn't concern him."

There was a story behind this, Narvi knew, and not one the elves were meant to hear. The uncomfortable silence that followed was broken by a sharp snapping noise.

"I am terribly sorry," Maglor said in his slow, accented speech. "I seem to have broken a string."

Varli jumped to his feet to help him, while Dís stared into her tankard and slowly shook her head.

Both dwarves proved great stamina when it came to dwarven beverage. Narvi had only slightly begun to worry about Celebrimbor when Maglor dragged him off to bed, mumbling about elflings who couldn't hold their liquor, and how no one should expect him to clean the consequences off the floor, he'd done that often enough. Perhaps Celebrimbor's drunken poetry had offended his uncle's artistic sensibilities. Varli, on the other hand, had been delighted. Back in the days of Khazad-Dûm, Narvi thought morosely, he and her dwarf-loving husband would have been fast friends.

They departed the following morning, well stocked in supplies and fed with a generous breakfast. Dís awaited them at an entrance to the caves that connected the settlement to the outer world. It was not the same they had used before, so they hoped to slip away without alerting their foes.

"Farewell, Silverfist," she told Celebrimbor, "may our paths cross again." And she gave him a scroll, which, when unrolled, revealed a detailed map of the lands between the Ered Luin and Erebor. It also provided an overview concerning present-day borders and alliances, including the human settlements with which the dwarrow had traded. "Should you be captured by fell things," Dís said with a gleam of humour in her eye, "I shall expect you to either eat this or bleed thoroughly over it to obscure our paths and ways."

Celebrimbor grinned back and affected a flourishing bow of old. "With my heart's blood, master dwarrow!" he affirmed. "And we shall do our utmost to find your father. Until then, may your mines be rich and your beards be blessed."

She nodded and turned to Maglor, who had been watching silently. "Take heart, Lord from the West," she said. "Our story is not over, and neither is yours."

Maglor blinked a few times, clearly at a loss. Narvi began to suspect that he had not received such friendly words in a very long time. When he found no reply, Celebrimbor put an arm around his narrow shoulders. "I should hope so," he said. "But now we must be going. Farewell, my friend." And he took his horse's reins to follow their guide into the tunnel.

The wild apple trees were in full bloom when they reached the river Baraduin, which would lead them North-East towards the gentle hills of the Shire. Narvi had not paid much attention to the passing of the seasons before she had met Celebrimbor, but being married to an elf, even a Noldo, meant regular exposure to lyrical talks about nature and the beauty of creation. Celebrimbor had loved the fresh buds on leafless trees, the first crocuses painting the glades of Eregion yellow and blue, and the birdsong that heralded the end of winter. They were a reminder, he used to say with a distant look in his eye, that new things can grow from a world that is barren. Now he hardly paid any heed to it. Perhaps it was hard to think of renewal with memories of torture still bleeding into his mind.

They followed the river upstream through rolling hills and ancient forests, across wide open plains and sweet sunlit glades. Never in her life had Narvi travelled so far, nor had she seen such a changing landscape as she beheld during their journey. It was not the way of the Khazad to find beauty in the things that grew, but even she would admit that some of the views were inspiring. Strangely neither of the elves seemed interested in their surroundings. Celebrimbor's joy was little more than a mask, even if his demeanor might have fooled one who did not know him intimately; Maglor did not even try. Narvi was not inclined to force a conversation on her moody companion, so what might have been an instructive journey turned into a string of oppressively silent days. It did not help that they were still striving for secrecy. The wraiths had not attacked again, but their shadow loomed over them and snuffed out the sweetness of springtime.

One evening several weeks into their journey Narvi and Celebrimbor were resting by the fire, alone for once, though Maglor was likely not far. Celebrimbor had unrolled Dís' map and was scribbling on it in a way that would have made Khazad-Dûm's resident librarians sharpen their axes.

"If my calculations are correct, we should reach the ford tomorrow," he mused. "We'll cross the Baraduin here -" he circled the spot, ignoring the blotted ink, "- and travel north of ... that is to say, we'll cross the Downs on our way to Imladris. If we make good time, we might reach it in a month. We have to take care, though," he added, chewing on the end of his pen.

Narvi leaned over his shoulder to study the map.

But Dís said her father was seen in Dunland, she remarked. That's here - many miles south of Imladris.

"It's only a rumor. I'd like to speak to…" Here he paused and quickly looked around before he continued in a much lower voice, "I need to see Elrond. If anyone can help us in this, it is him."

Narvi gave him a sharp look. And what do you think you'll invoke if you speak his name aloud?

Celebrimbor chuckled softly. "Let's just say I'm not going to tell Maglor. But I'll drag him there bound and gagged if I must. I owe an old friend."

Not a mutual friend, I gather?

"Very much a mutual friend, if he would allow himself to have friends." Celebrimbor returned his attention to the map, frowning slightly as he added a few notes in the region that was named Mirkwood (" Elvenking" - Oropher or descendant? Proceed with caution! ). Narvi noticed that his left hand covered Eregion and Khazad-Dûm with a carelessness a little too casual to be coincidental.

They would have to cross Celebrimbor's former lands if they were to travel from Imladris to Dunland, but there was no need to point it out, for he already knew. They would face that problem when it presented itself. So instead she fell silent and watched him as he pored over the parchment, deep in concentration, chewing on his lower lip, twirling a thin black strand between his long fingers. She rarely saw him so unguarded these days. The Ered Luin had been a welcome distraction, but since they had left, his memories seemed to plague him anew.

At least Narvi hoped it was only the memories.

He tried very hard to mimic his old, cheerful self, but the attempts were wasted on Narvi. She could see the fragile shards of his soul in the way he curled into himself, the way his smile was too bright when Maglor was watching and mostly absent otherwise, and it never reached his eyes. Maglor could likely see it too, in the way one damaged soul sometimes recognized another. Perhaps, Narvi thought as she ran a translucent finger across his arm - insubstantial, but one could at least pretend - perhaps there was something Lord Elrond could do for them. He was, after all, a healer of renown.

They made good progress over the course of the next weeks. The open territory, while not ideal for concealment, allowed them to ride for the most part. Bumblebee did not object to Maglor's additional weight, so they often rode double, the horse's longer stride speeding them over the flat ground. Most of the time clouds shrouded the sky in a dull white blanket, and now and then a sharp wind carried a bout of rain, but they had traveled together under worse conditions - a long time ago, in a different age.

Several days before, according to Dís' map, they were to reach the River Mitheithel, a band of orcs ambushed them at the border of a small forest. They gave the elves little trouble, but Bumblebee stumbled and strained her knee, and a dagger pierced Maglor's shoulder from behind. It bounced off his shoulder blade, resulting in a wound that was inconvenient but not dangerous. Maglor bore it with little more than a wince.

"If dying was that easy, I would have managed long ago," was his only comment when Celebrimbor checked the weapon for traces of poison. Seeing that he possessed the accelerated healing abilities inherent in only those who had seen the light of the Trees, Celebrimbor was inclined to agree with him.

Even without being poisoned, elf and horse needed a few days to recover. Celebrimbor produced a large amount of inferior carving work, checked the patients' bandages until he could have sworn even Bumblebee rolled her eyes, and calculated the expected time of arrival in Imladris in twenty-six different ways, allowing for various hypothetical obstacles.

If you could carry them all the way, I'm sure you would, Narvi chided him one afternoon while Celebrimbor sucked on his bleeding thumb. He bit back a curse. So his knife had slipped, what of it? It happened now and then if you weren't a dwarf who could carve with a blindfold. Maglor, stretched out on his side to take weight off his shoulder, gave him an appraising look.

"By all means we can proceed tomorrow," he said. "I'm ready to travel as soon as our four-legged friend is sound."

"She's not what I'm worried about," Celebrimbor groused, dabbing his wound with a piece of cloth. Both the cut and Maglor's comment stung. If he was perfectly honest with himself, and he knew he could count on Narvi to ensure that he was, he was not overly worried about Maglor either. His companion merely needed rest and basic medical aid. Narvi was right; if they could fly to Imladris on the wings of the Eagles, it would not be fast enough. The land was sweet and gentle, but to Celebrimbor it felt like an ill-constructed tunnel: oppressive and dangerous, and he could already see the pillars bending inwards. They were not safe here.

"I have told you that I am well enough." Maglor picked a few blades of grass out of his hair. "Where are we going, anyway?"

Just like in the Ered Luin, Celebrimbor thought, he doesn't really care. He probably hasn't cared where the road took him for thousands of years.

"To see a friend of mine," he said aloud. "He lives in a small settlement near the Misty Mountains. He'll be able to help us."

Maglor's fingers, still tangled in the thick mass of his hair, went very still.

After a long pause, he asked calmly: "A settlement of the Eldar?"

"Noldorin, mostly. Probably a few Sindar by now."

"I won't go there."

"Nonsense." Celebrimbor smiled, inwardly bracing himself for battle. "No one will recognize you."

"Nevertheless."

"It's been six thousand years since you last walked among your kin," Celebrimbor said gently. "They have forgotten your face. Most have likely forgotten your name."

Except for the one who would never forget. They had not spoken much of the sons of Fëanor, he and Elrond, but for once in disagreement, when in fact it was the same grief they shared. We shall remember their deeds, Elrond had said, but let us also remember their love, so that something good will prevail. Celebrimbor had tried not to think of his father's smile, nor the expression of incredulous hurt on Curufin's face when Celebrimbor had refused to follow him.

Only in death had they met again.

"Keep to yourself, if you like," he said now, using whatever means of persuasion came to his mind, "but come with me, uncle. We shall not stay long if you don't wish to, but this is a place I must visit. You have chosen to follow me this far; would you abandon me now?"

Maglor frowned and looked up sharply. For a long moment he studied Celebrimbor's face, as if searching for a thing he had long lost, and the anger in his eyes faded to something much softer and sadder. He looked almost disappointed. "I won't go," he repeated, and rose to walk away.

Let him go, said Narvi. If he leaves his harp behind, he'll come back.

For over an hour they saw nothing of Maglor. Celebrimbor did not mind at first. For a while he and Narvi spoke about their journey, from which they moved on to map-making, geography, and the advantages of using small-scale models in architecture. But the evening drew close, and his worries would no longer be suppressed.

He had almost made up his mind to search for his uncle when the bushes behind him rustled, and Maglor appeared at his side again. He looked drawn and tense.

"Something's coming," he said without further ado. "The land is unsettled, I can feel it. Take arms."

"Could you be a little more concise?" Celebrimbor rose to his feet and reached for his weapons. "Have you seen something?"

"I saw-". Maglor stared into the woods, frowning. "This was once Elven country, was it not? I found stones set to to mark the road that were crafted by the Eldar in ages past. Perhaps that's why the land is still sensitive to evil presence."

Celebrimbor's hands stilled for a moment. "No," he said then, slowly. "My lands were further in the South. But the path that connected Eregion to the Great East Road- that's probably what you found. I walked there too, in my time."

"Your lands?" Maglor touched his hand briefly. "I am sorry."

"It was long ago," Celebrimbor said. Still the memories came unbidden: of many-pillared halls flooded with light, marble fountains and statues amidst holly trees, - and barbed whips flaying the skin from his back. He closed his eyes and swallowed down the bile, trying to get a hold on himself.

No time to grieve now, Narvi reminded him. He spoke of evil?

"Orcs," he asked then, "or worse?"

"Worse," said Maglor grimly, "and it is too late to flee. They will be here soon."

So Celebrimbor stretched his limbs and readied his swords. Maglor pulled his bandages a little tighter. Narvi's presence between them became sharp and focused.

They did not have to wait long. No branch moved in the cold breeze that heralded their foes. All around them the shadows of dusk grew denser. Bumblebee stomped and snorted, but did not try to escape. Celebrimbor almost wished she would.

The wraiths approached on foot, their foul blades held before them in a mocking salute. From all sides they came; they must have surrounded the clearing before they moved in on their prey. Beneath the hoods, Celebrimbor could see their true forms, for they were not faceless at all: raw flesh and bone and empty eyes, the shattered husks of the people they once were.

Maglor stepped lithely to stand back to back with Celebrimbor, swift and graceful as a mountain cat. His presence gave Celebrimbor strength, and so did the faint light that shimmered around them. Narvi did not speak, but he could feel her determination. He clutched his blades. Eight there were, and they carried...

They carried something he recognized, something that resonated deep in his mind.

Celebrimbor's breath caught in his throat. He did not remember how to move, how to think, had forgotten where he was and why he was there. All else ceased to matter but -

- voices calling out to him, singing to him as bright and sweet as blood -

"I know what you are," he whispered. The memory of Annatar's laughter, the bite of the barbed lash, returned so strong he could almost feel blood trickling down his back. Colour drained from his surroundings and his field of view narrowed as the unnatural creatures circled closer. There were no allies, no kin, nothing but these fragments of a nightmare and the alluring power they held... With a cry he raised his blades and charged at the nearest wraith.

They came at him with their swords raised high, but he pushed them back, burning with a wrath he had never felt before. There was a screaming in his ears, his skin hurt as they shrouded him in dark magic, but they could be beaten, could be destroyed, and he would see it done -

Behind him a cry of distress cut through the noise of battle. He blocked a blade and whirled around to see Maglor stumble to his knees. For a second Celebrimbor's fury gave way to blank horror. He watched, helplessly, as one of the wraiths raised its blade to kill - he was too far away to reach it, he had foolishly left his position - but before the blow fell, a blinding flash of light made the creature shrink back. Maglor caught himself smoothly and surged back to his feet, snarling. He seemed to be surrounded by a bright glow, which was strange, because now Celebrimbor heard Narvi's voice shout into his ear and turned around to parry a blow. She still tried to shield him, though he had attacked so ferociously that he had almost left her behind.

Go back to him! she bellowed. Help him, I can't reach you both...

But they were separated now, and while it was apparent that the wraiths were trying to take Celebrimbor alive, for Maglor they had no such care. Any wrong move could be his last.

Or not. The realization swept through Celebrimbor like scalding lead, liquid and glowing and dangerously beautiful.

"I know who you are," he cried. "You are the Nine, the servants of the Dark Lord. You are bound by the power of his rings. But that power," he added triumphantly, "is also mine!"

And he called to the rings that combined his own magic and Sauron's, intertwined to create something beautiful and terrible, and they answered to him. The wraiths screeched and recoiled, confused - he ripped the power of the rings away from their undead forms, it surged through him like a vortex that devoured all else - those rings were his , and he would not surrender -

But the strength of another opposed Celebrimbor's, and his hold slipped. The shadowy creatures withdrew, weakened, barely corporeal. He stumbled back, refusing to let go - they attempted to flee, but he could not let them -

Stop it, roared Narvi, you're killing yourself, and then Maglor was by his side, shaking him violently and shouting into his face. Celebrimbor broke to his knees while their foes vanished in the woods.

"I will find you!", he screamed after them. "I will destroy you! By Eru, I will-"

"No!" Suddenly Maglor's face was very close and terrible to behold. His eyes were cold with ancient fury, and there was a light, another presence around him -

"You will not swear," his uncle hissed. "You will not. I will hurt you before I allow it."

You will not swear, a voice echoed in his head. It was not Narvi's, but still it felt familiar.

For long, agonizing seconds Celebrimbor felt the presence of the rings drain from his mind. All strength he had left faded with it. His sight blurred, and he swayed, trying to hold himself upright. Something tickled on his upper lip, and his fingers came away bright red; he stared at the blood, trying to make sense of it. Strong arms caught him and eased him gently to the ground. He heard Narvi swear in Khuzdul, and Maglor seemed to answer her, though Celebrimbor could not understand the words. Then he knew nothing else.

The stars in their eternal dance were the first thing he saw when he came back to himself. Their light was as faint and pure as it had been on many a clear night in Eregion, when he and Narvi had studied the reflective properties of ithildin depending on its density, only he had mainly studied the way her muscles flexed when she lifted a hammer. He wondered idly if she had noticed. Then he found that he was stretched out on his bedroll, wrapped in a warm cloak, his head cushioned by a bundle of cloth. Maglor was sitting at his side, turning towards him as he stirred and groaned.

"How are you feeling?"

"Headache," Celebrimbor managed, then paused to fight off a wave of nausea. A slender hand brushed a strand of hair out of his face.

"I've been talking to your wife," Maglor informed him. "We both concur that…"

"What?"

"She is a sensible woman, if a little strong-worded at times."

Don't tempt me, elf, said Narvi. He means to say that we agree on certain issues, one of them being that we worry about you.

Celebrimbor struggled to his elbow. "You can hear her? Since when?"

Maglor shrugged. "A while ago. It's been getting clearer all the time. She's not exactly subtle."

I'm a dwarf. Narvi sounded mildly annoyed. Ghivasha, what he's trying to tell you is that he'll come to Imladris with us.

"I said I would consider it. But you should go, at any rate. You need more help than I am able to give you."

Celebrimbor sat up and rubbed his throbbing temples. He did not recognize their surroundings, or as much as he could see of them in the pale moonlight. Maglor must have moved their camp. Bumblebee was dozing beside them, apparently unharmed. Narvi's translucent shape was seated on a log, her thick fingers fiddling with the braid that fell over her shoulder. She did not smile as Celebrimbor met her eyes. He wished he could take her hand and hold it in his own.

He still remembered the texture of her calloused fingertips on his skin. Then he remembered how she had been taken from him, and why.

"I want to go after them," he said viciously. "To turn the hunters into the hunted! But I am not yet strong enough. Perhaps -, perhaps the Lord of Imladris knows where they have their lair…"

Probably in Mordor, Narvi interrupted him sharply. Be glad that we are rid of them for now! We have a dwarf king to find, and besides - She looked pointedly at Maglor. Do you think, Master Elf, that others can hear me too? It would be just my luck, to be able to talk to a bunch of elves but be denied the company of my own people.

"I cannot tell," said Maglor, "But it may be that he who listens always is more likely to hear."

Now what is that supposed to mean?

Maglor smiled, but his eyes did not. He shook his head and would not reply. Celebrimbor leaned back and tried to banish the fury that still simmered underneath his thoughts. "Maker, you belong with us", he recalled grimly. Be careful what you wish for, Annatar.

They used the ancient stone bridge on the East Road to cross the Mitheithel, for it was marked as the only viable crossing point; but after that, they avoided the main path as well as they could. No further incident delayed the travelers as they pushed through the wild forest that covered the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and the trees offered cool shade from the first hot days of late spring. From the Ford of Bruinen they followed a narrow elven road, which after a few more miles led them into a sunlit valley that seemed to be the home of summer.

Glittering water cascaded from rocks that rose into steep heights beside the road. The air tasted fresh and sweet. On the gentler slopes grew wild thickets of bushes and trees, and an elven settlement was perched on the cliff face. Celebrimbor's heart ached when he saw it.

The buildings imitated the style of Eregion.

These dwellings were much smaller than Ost-in-Edhil, though no less fair. Círdan had told Celebrimbor that Imladris was a place of healing, where worries dissolved in the dust between the pages of ancient books, in the tune of a merry song, in the stillness of quiet contemplation. Celebrimbor knew why it was so. Here, at least, his work had not been turned to evil. He had crafted Vilya to heal and preserve, and by the hands of Elrond it was used in wisdom and kindness. No better guardian could he have chosen for the ring that should have been his own. He wondered how many of his people had lived to find peace in these halls, something he had tried so hard and yet failed to give them.

Some of them he might meet again. He had never learned what had become of Erestor, his chief advisor in Eregion and one of his closest friends. They had parted in anger, or rather Erestor had been furious with him, because Celebrimbor had ordered him to lead the civilians out of Ost-in-Edhil instead of fighting by his side. Knowing him, he had probably joined Elrond's ranks as soon as he could. At the thought of Elrond Celebrimbor rejoiced, even though they had not spoken since the forging of the rings. They had a lot to talk about, and much of it was not pleasant. He had yet to thank his friend, too, for coming to Eregion's aid, under the King's command but undoubtedly per his own wishes.

It was also very likely that he had seen Celebrimbor's mutilated corpse hanging from a pole.

Bumblebee's soft muzzle nudged his ear. Celebrimbor swallowed and gripped the reins tighter. Only when he led his mare on towards a narrow bridge, he realized that Maglor remained rooted on the spot.

"I don't belong here," his uncle said reluctantly.

"They will not know who you are," Celebrimbor coaxed, confident that in this case the end justified the means. "If you would just..."

Did running away always work well for you? Narvi scoffed. Seeing as you've been at it for thousands of years.

Maglor froze in his tracks. For a moment, a strange expression flitted over his face - distant, haughty, coldly dangerous. Celebrimbor had seen it before, and it made him shiver. "We don't know each other that well, Master Dwarrow," his uncle said darkly, but then he stalked off toward the settlement. Celebrimbor released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"You shouldn't have said that," he murmured.

You're welcome, said Narvi, sounding very pleased with herself.

A small group of elves in formal attire was already gathered to greet the travellers before the two large statues that marked the entrance of Imladris. Celebrimbor recognized a few faces - there was young Lindir of Gil-Galad's staff, and Idriél the harpist, both staring at him like some sort of apparition - but most he did not. They were polite, professional, mildly curious. Then Maglor beside him gasped, and his long fingers clenched painfully into Celebrimbor's shoulder.

Descending the steps in his familiar agile stride, tall and handsome, was Elrond Peredhel.

He looked magnificent in his auburn robes of finest silk trimmed with silver. A splendid lord he was now, Celebrimbor thought, more dignified than he himself had ever been, and on his finger -

He averted his gaze. The sight of Vilya had come too suddenly, too sharply to bear; he was not prepared.

Elrond looked over to them, no doubt intending to offer some well-chosen words of greeting - how his people had informed him of their arrival, surely the journey had been tiring, and he would be delighted to call them his guests. Celebrimbor could see all those words in his smile before it dropped, and Elrond froze.

Celebrimbor offered him a apologetic grin.

For a moment no one spoke. The Lord of Imladris stared at them, too shocked to adhere to the rules of courtesy while his gaze drifted helplessly from one to the other. Celebrimbor felt Maglor tremble beside him. His uncle began to back away, nervous like a trapped animal.

Celebrimbor grabbed his arm and drew him closer.

"No," he said quietly. The word echoed in the silent courtyard. "Stay."

The words seemed to break Elrond out of his stupor, and his features softened in sudden understanding. He approached them slowly, cautiously, his eyes fixed on Maglor's face. Only for a second did they flicker to Celebrimbor, shining with joy and gratitude. Maglor shuddered beneath Celebrimbor's touch. He did not fight against the hold, but his face was as pale as if he were standing before the Valar, awaiting their judgment at last.

Unshed tears shimmered in Elrond's eyes, yet his hand was steady when he brushed a strand of tangled hair behind Maglor's ear.

"Finally," he whispered. "I have waited so long."

And he ran a gentle hand across Maglor's jaw, cupping it in his palm as he might do with a frightened child.

"I'm just as tall as you now, you see," he said softly. "You can no longer carry me on your hip."

Very cautiously Maglor lifted his own hand and placed it over his foster son's.

"Elrond," he breathed, and it sounded like a plea. "Your name is Elrond."

Elrond's gaze flickered to Celebrimbor again, alarmed, but he caught himself quickly. "So it is," he affirmed, "and you are the guardian of my youth, whom I have dearly missed. Will you stay with me now?"

"But," Maglor's hand clenched around Elrond's, "Where's your brother? Where's Elros? I'm sure you were together when I last saw you..."

"Oh, my poor friend," Elrond said, and his voice shook ever so slightly. "The child you raised has long become a man, and aged of his own free will. Elros chose the path of Men. He has been dead for many years."

"Dead?" Maglor looked around forlornly. "But you weren't supposed to... I thought..."

I thought I was keeping you safe, he had told Celebrimbor.

Elrond hesitated for only a moment before he drew the soul-worn elf into his arms. Maglor collapsed against him and buried his face in Elrond's shoulder, his thin body shaking with sobs. Elrond held him close, rubbed his neck and kissed his hair and spoke softly into his ear. When he noticed the curious stares of his attendants, his glower would have befit a dwarf lord.

"I will thank you for preparing the guest rooms adjacent to my quarters, and food for three - no, make it four," he barked. "The very best of what the kitchens can provide! And someone see to that horse, clean and remove her baggage, I'm sure there's work enough to keep everyone occupied. Celebrimbor -" here he softened a little, "Lindir will show you to the bath, and don't you think for a moment that I'm finished with you."

The slabs on the bathroom floor were warm underneath Celebrimbor’s feet. At first, he wondered if Elrond had implemented an ingenious mechanism to heat them from below, until he found that their temperature varied depending on their relative position in the room; so, more likely, they were of a variety that was very efficiently heated by the sun. Its light must have flooded the room for several hours, for large windows offered a breathtaking outlook towards the gardens and further down the valley.

I appreciate the view, Narvi informed him, but it seems a waste to have you walking around naked while all I can do is watch. I thought you wanted to take a bath.

“Heat-retaining slate, Narvi,” he returned, though he did rise and walk towards the large stone basin in the corner beside the door. “I have spent too much time in your company. Usually I would have been more interested in the design of these brass taps…”

Which are inferior.

“Solid.”

My point.

“You can’t compare this to Khazad-Dûm.”

I know you agree with me.

He did and so, instead of answering, said no more but slid into the water. It was warm and calming, soaked the dirt from his body and soothed his aching muscles, and for a while he simply watched the colorful sparks of light that danced across the ripples and flitted over the marble ceiling.

Heat-retaining slate. Narvi’s voice sounded resentful. I should like to know how it was manufactured. Curse this form, that forbids me to touch!

Celebrimbor sighed. He felt her predicament, for it was in her nature to to pry apart, investigate, analyse, and then to create better. He knew how much she missed making from the way her fingers clenched and her eyes tracked across every piece of clever stone- and smithy-work she passed.

“I would rather have this form with me than none at all,” he mused. “But I know what it means for you, and I appreciate the sacrifice. You shouldn’t have to be here at all.”

She did not answer at once. Instead he felt a short stab of pain, like a memory that was quickly suppressed.

I would rather be with you in this form than not at all, she echoed his words. But it is irksome. Not to mention that there are other things I cannot touch, and Mahal, they are tantalizing…

Her voice was very close to his ear now, deep and sensual. Celebrimbor ran a hand over his upper arm as he felt his skin prickle into gooseflesh, and found himself unexpectedly self-conscious, unsure of how she appreciated his new body. He had avoided nakedness in the wild as far as the basic needs of hygiene allowed. Being exposed had made him feel vulnerable in a way he had never felt before. But now, in the safety of Elrond’s home…

“I have been longing for you too,” he said softly, watching his own fingers run over his damp skin, imagining that they were broad and rough like hers. He was beginning to look like his old self again, he supposed, even in the absence of forge work. She had always liked the strength of his hands, the tone of muscles in his forearms, the long black hair that curled around his biceps now, looking like…

… like blood streaming from slashed skin while a hand at his throat cut off his breath, and there was a guttural voice in his ear, the foul stench of orc that almost made him faint but raw pain kept him awake…

No. Narvi’s words seemed to come from far away, sharp, demanding. Don’t think of them. Think of me, Celebrimbor. Hear my voice.

He tried to breathe but choked on liquid. The blood had a strange, bitter taste to it, and the pain was gone, or perhaps he was merely beyond feeling. He thrashed instinctively as his breath bubbled out of him, and then Narvi’s voice cut through his thoughts, Sit up, you fool, I can’t drag you out! , and his fingers found the rim of the tub so he could pull himself upright, coughing and spluttering.

There was no blood, only a bathtub full of water that smelled of violets and tasted of soap.

Don’t let them have this , ghivasha, Narvi urged. Think of us. Remember what we used to do in your private bathroom in Ost-in-Edhil…

- before that body was ripped to pieces –

… imagine I was here with you now. Imagine I could touch you. I would just hold you if you wanted, or worship your body so you would think of nothing else…

Celebrimbor let his head sink back against the stone and let out a shuddering breath. Instead of death and rot and agony he tried to remember strong, tattooed arms wrapped around his neck, a thick braid coming undone under his hands, heavy thighs sliding over his own. It helped a little, but not enough to replace the horror with pleasure. “Talk to me,” he whispered. “Just don’t leave me alone. Please.”

Who said anything about leaving ? Her voice sounded mildly vexed. I’ve been floating around all these months to keep you company. You are so brave, my love. We cannot change what they did to you, but in time you will heal.

“I hope you’re right,” he muttered; but when he looked back at his arms, he saw unbroken skin, and wet dark hair that did not look like blood at all.

For a long while Celebrimbor listened to Narvi as she spoke whatever came to her mind, which were chiefly the geological characteristics of the Hidden Valley. Warm water and the familiar rumble of her voice eased the tension in his limbs, and patterns of sunlight on sandstone bricks slowly dispersed his memories of torture and death.

He was idly engaged with the idea of giving carnal pleasure a try when a commotion outside the room arrested his attention.

"… don't care what he's doing in there, I'm going to see him now …"

"Ah." Celebrimbor quickly moved his hand away from what it had been about to do and scrambled to his feet, slipping on the tiles and sloshing water all across the floor. He knew the raised voice well enough to know that the speaker would not be withheld for long. It was a wonder to hear it at all, he thought as he climbed out of the tub and quickly donned a bathrobe. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. So he was truly here, one of his dearest friends, his…

"You have ten seconds to get dressed, you troll-brained excuse for a Lord!"

… his wise and respectable counsellor and steadfast brother-in-arms.

"Come in, Erestor!" he called. And then his friend came bursting into the room with an inherent vigor that, in Celebrimbor’s day, had usually been kept under tight control. It had been an age since their last bitter argument, but Erestor’s appearance had changed little: his narrow face still smooth and unscarred, the long auburn locks braided with painstaking accuracy, neither stain nor crinkle tainting his elegant robes.What did surprise Celebrimbor was how his friend's hands were shaking as Erestor gripped the hem of his coat, as though to hold himself in place. He stared at Celebrimbor for a long moment before he crossed the room in a few long strides, and then they were in each other's arms, laughing and crying at the same time.

"I don't believe -" Erestor wheezed, "I knew it was going to end badly, why did you send me away, I saw what they did to your body , and now…" he gathered Celebrimbor's wet hair to brush it out of the way, "Now you're dripping all over me! By the Valar, you're a nuisance!"

"So you've always told me. It's in my nature, I can't help it."

"I couldn't believe my ears when they said you're back." Erestor gripped Celebrimbor's shoulders. "Are you well?"

"As much as can be expected," Celebrimbor admitted, a little more somberly, "but well enough for now. You're looking fine, Erestor."

"This is a fine place to live." His friend let go of him and made a vague gesture toward his surroundings. "One of the few left in Middle-Earth. Get dressed, so I can show you around."

Upon closer inspection, Imladris differed enough from Ost-in-Edhil that Celebrimbor’s initial impression of walking in a memory faded quickly. The steep rock was more challenging to an architect than Eregion’s gentle hills, and in consequence Imladris’ design was a complicated arrangement of multi-storied buildings, archways and staircases, bridges, and balconies. But the most striking difference was Imladris’ age. Though it had been founded after Eregion’s fall, a time which was still recent and raw for him, this place had been in existence for thousands of years. He had been a stonemason’s husband long enough to recognise how architectural features had been repaired and replaced over time. Weathered blocks of marble had been carefully reinforced, cracks in old stonework fixed many times over by skillful hands. This settlement, built after Celebrimbor’s death, had existed far longer than his own ill-fated city.

He and Erestor had fallen into step again with the familiarity of many centuries. Narvi’s presence trailed along beside him, silent and, knowing her, probably judgmental. His friend talked animatedly about his home, dwelled with pride upon its comforts and rich history and gave a detailed overview about the current political situation, which was, as ever, his main field of interest. They did not speak of the things they needed to speak about: of guilt and distrust and bad decisions, and what it had meant for Erestor to watch Eregion burn. The unasked questions slithered like snakes into Celebrimbor’s thoughts, writhing and hissing in the back of his mind.

“… and thus,” Erestor informed him enthusiastically, “we are acting as a haven for those who are lost, so that they may find their way again, preferably on this side of the Mountains. Thranduil isn’t fond of visitors and Galadriel… ah, well. You know Celeborn. They are a little isolationist these days.”

“I wonder what gave them the idea,” Celebrimbor muttered.

“Doriath,” Erestor said unapologetically. “Old habits die hard. It’s only been six thousand years.”

“I would have thought you, of all people, would have some sympathy. As a citizen of Gondolin -”

“Don’t you even try.” Erestor leaned on the railing of a balcony and gave Celebrimbor a stern glance, the effect of which was diminished by the joyful twinkle in his eye. “You know full well I never wanted another Gondolin. Eregion was our vision. Maybe Imladris isn’t quite the scope we dreamt of, mellon, but this-” he made a grand gesture to include the whole settlement, “this is the spirit we were looking for. You’re going to like it here.”

“I already do,” Celebrimbor admitted, and he meant it. His mouth curled slightly as he remembered their old partnership. He might have been a visionary, but Erestor was the gifted politician who could evaluate his ideas and and set the feasible ones into practice.

“Lord Celebrimbor?” One of Elrond’s attendants had walked up to them, almost unnoticed in her quiet demeanor. Celebrimbor opened his mouth to object against the title, but she ignored him. “And Master Erestor. My Lord Elrond sent me to ask if you would dine with him. Everything has been arranged in his private quarters.”

It’s good to see the old nitpicker again, Narvi observed as both friends turned to walk towards Elrond’s rooms. Even if he still looks like he has a poker up his...

“I’m truly glad to see you again, Erestor,” Celebrimbor said, perhaps a little too quickly, but entirely heartfelt.. Erestor returned his grin, and if he could hear Narvi’s words, he gave no sign of it.

Evening light slanted low through the open windows of Elrond's private chambers. It painted orange patterns on the walls, warm and radiant as the smile that lit up Elrond’s face when he turned towards his guests. He gathered Celebrimbor so tightly to his chest that breathing became an issue. “There are no words,” he declared, “in any language I can master, to express the joy you have brought me today.”

He held Celebrimbor at arm’s length, and his his eyes were alight with happiness. “Long ago, I lost the one I loved like a father,” he said, “and then, much later, a dear companion. Today both are returned to me. I’m curious to hear the story that led up to this reunion; but first let me thank you with all my heart.”

“It was not my doing,” Celebrimbor protested. “Not for the most part. And I’m afraid I do need your help with a matter of importance.”

“I can see at least one.” Elrond threw a quick glance towards Maglor, and a shadow of worry passed over his face. His foster father was seated on a large, luxurious cushion, looking stiff and still and entirely out of place. He, too, had bathed, and was now clad in elegant, silvery robes that probably belonged to Elrond. But his face was paler than Celebrimbor had ever seen it before, and his eyes were red and unfocused. Perhaps he had been crying, or Elrond had given him something to help calm him

“Let us dine for now,” the Lord of Imladris decided, “and all else will be solved in time. Erestor, this is Maglor Fëanorion, beloved guardian of my childhood. Maglor, this is my chief counsellor Erestor, who was Celebrimbor’s friend before Eregion fell.”

Erestor’s eyebrows almost met his hairline. Celebrimbor kicked his ankle, but it was hardly necessary, for Maglor did not even raise his gaze.

“Don’t,” Elrond warned when Celebrimbor made to crouch before his uncle. “Give him space. You must be hungry, help yourself to some food.” He gestured to an arrangement of exquisite dishes on a low table. “Afterwards you can tell me all about your return. Were I not hosting Glorfindel as well, I would not believe my eyes.”

“It is a long story,” Celebrimbor admitted, “but I suppose we have time.”

Elrond’s kitchens proved excellent, and after many long weeks on lembas and roasted fish, the dinner served that night seemed like a feast to Celebrimbor. They passed the time with idle talk about art and history and common acquaintances; only Maglor said little and barely touched his food. Eventually, after all were sated and the topic could no longer be delayed, Celebrimbor began to tell his tale.

Long he spoke, while dawn fell over the valley, while the birds ceased in their song and the voices outside grew rarer. From somewhere in the gardens, a concert of flute and harp carried over the ever-present rush of the falls. Flickering lamplight illuminated the faces around Celebrimbor: Elrond’s, silent and thoughtful, patiently listening to hear the full story; alert and focused Erestor, his sharp mind already turning over each new piece of information as though it were a piece in an intellectual puzzle; and Maglor, distant and self-isolating, a living ghost who had never been meant to see this day and age. He could see Narvi too, a faint blueish figure leaning against a pillar beside him, watching the proceedings with a frown.

“And so I mean to find the rings, and destroy them,” Celebrimbor concluded. “One trail leads towards the missing dwarf king, who may be somewhere in Dunland if he wasn’t lost in Khazad-Dûm. Another…” He paused, suddenly reluctant to reveal what exactly had transpired during their last confrontation with the ringwraiths. “I’m quite certain that the Black Riders who attacked us carry the Nine,” he finished carefully.

Elrond and Erestor exchanged a long look.

“Celebrimbor,” Erestor declared at last. “This is the most harebrained idea I’ve ever heard from you. And your ideas ranged from brilliant to outrageously insane on a regular basis.”

“I did not hear you protest all that often,” Celebrimbor retorted, unexpectedly stung. Erestor’s eyes narrowed, and so quickly they were at the brink of all those unsaid things, still raw and hurting after so many years. Elrond sighed and shoved a dish of confections towards his counsellor.

“Have a biscuit, Erestor,” he offered. “We are not here today to challenge Celebrimbor’s ideas. But the story has been very enlightening, to say the least.” Absently he traced the rim of his goblet with his index finger. It made a clear sweet resonance, which caused Maglor to suddenly raise his head and look at his foster son. Elrond did not notice.

“We were aware that the enemy is not defeated,” he continued. “But this level of activity is alarming. He must have sensed your return, to send his minions after you so quickly.”

“I dreamt of him,” Celebrimbor admitted. “I knew he was searching for me. There must be some sort of connection.”

A bond through the enchantment of the rings, which answered to them both alike. He would need but a little more practice, and then he would be able to…

Elrond met his eyes, calm and searching, and Celebrimbor felt like he had been caught in dealing with something forbidden, a captivating power that tasted of metal and blood. But his friend did not pry further. Narvi’s presence prickled in the back of his mind; she was worried and unsettled. He gave her a fleeting smile which she did not return.

“We never forgot what he did to you,” said Erestor, “and to so many others as well. But the world has changed. The elves are few now, the kingdoms of men diminished. The dwarves are scattered and distrustful. Should the enemy return now, we would be ill prepared to fight him.”

“We always knew it would come to this,” Elrond admitted.

“I am merely stating the facts.” Erestor shrugged. “As your advisor, I recommend a meeting of the White Council. They should decide on what must be done next.”

Elrond nodded. “Agreed. I will send messengers to Isengard, Rhosgobel, and Lothlórien. I’m not sure what Mithrandir is doing lately, though he sent a rather enigmatic message, announcing his impending visit… in his usual way of not saying what he wants.”

“But surely…” All turned to Maglor as he spoke up, slowly, as though unsure of his own voice. “Elrond. Are you telling me that Morgoth’s most powerful servant may return, and the world is not prepared ?”

“I’m afraid so.” Elrond turned his goblet in his hands, frowning. “We did what we could, but the influence of Imladris is limited. Even the elves are divided among ourselves. We each have our own realms that hold our allegiance above all others. It has never been easy to preserve the peace among the free races, as it is. To unite them all against one threat…”

“You did it before.”

“Gil-Galad did, and situation was different. There was open war. Now we have been at peace for so long that the mortal races have all but forgotten…”

“My brother did it before.”

There was a long, awkward pause.

I see what you’re getting at, Narvi said at last, but tell me why the Khazad should ally themselves with those who are content to leave them to ruin and dragonfire.

“Yes,” Maglor muttered, “I wonder whose idea that was.”

Elrond and Erestor both stared at him.

It’s not like you were there to tell them otherwise, Master Elf, Narvi pointed out. You were too busy flagellating yourself in the woods, though to what end I cannot fathom…

“Círdan made only brief mention of the White Council,” Celebrimbor interrupted loudly, as Maglor drew a sharp breath. “I was not in a state to question it at the time. I gather it is a congregation to watch over Middle Earth, but who exactly is involved? The wisest, I assume, of all races?”

Elrond shifted in his chair.

“Only of the elves,” he admitted. “And the Istari - the wizards. You would not know of them; they arrived after Eregion’s fall.”

“Not the dwarves and men?” Celebrimbor frowned. “Why would they be left out? The Khazad, at least, won’t let their fate be ruled by elves and...” He paused, considering the second part of Elrond’s statement. “What are those wizard creatures?”

Elrond and Erestor exchanged an uncomfortable look.

“They are Maiar,” said Erestor, “sent by the Valar to aid us in the protection of the land.”

Celebrimbor felt the hair rise at the back of his neck. The breadstick he was clutching broke in his grip and crumbled onto the fine blue silk of his tunic. He brushed it aside with shaking hands.

“That sounds familiar,” he said quietly.

“These individuals are among the wisest creatures in Middle Earth,” Elrond elaborated. “They have been guiding us for many centuries. Mithrandir is a dear friend.”

“That, too, sounds familiar.”

“Calm yourself, my friend.” Elrond placed a hand on Celebrimbor’s forearm and gently massaged the clenched muscles. Celebrimbor forced himself to relax his fingers, so that they would not tear holes into his sleeves. “You cannot base your judgment of all Maiar on the conduct of one.”

“And you cannot trust every one of them just because they say so!” Celebrimbor snapped. “How do you know they won’t betray you? How can you tell they aren’t biding their time, using your goodwill and knowledge, until… until…”

“Celebrimbor…”

“And now you place the fate of the entire world in their hands, instead of entrusting it to those whom it concerns!”

“But the lives of the mortal races are short,” argued Erestor. “They struggle to understand the greater picture…”

“They are no children!” Celebrimbor was shouting now, but he did not care. Blood was pounding in his temples. Oh, he had heard them before, sweet words that promised aid and protection. A fool he had been to believe them.

By the overflowing goldmines of Belegost, Erestor, have you forgotten Durin? Narvi complained, unheard by the one she addressed. Or has an age in this place addled your brain?

Elrond pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“It is not so easy,” he said. “The world today is not as you left it. There is no Numenor, no Khazad-Dûm…”

“But Celebrimbor is right,” interrupted Maglor. “You need an alliance. A… a union. Strong enough to withstand Gorthaur.”

Erestor laughed softly, as a man who holds little hope. Elrond slowly shook his head.

“Those are fancies, Maglor,” he sighed. “We have no means to achieve such an aim. But I assure you that we are not idle. You will learn more once you’ve stayed here for a while. For now, I would rather have you worry about your own recovery.”

“I am not injured,” Maglor muttered and looked away. Elrond reached out to touch him, but aborted the gesture, instead running his hand over his eyes again. Just for a moment he looked as old and tired as Elros had done when age had begun to catch up on him.

Not much longer did they talk that night. Celebrimbor’s heart was not in it, and neither, it seemed, was Maglor’s, for he simply walked out at some point and did not return. Elrond watched his retreat with a frown, but did not try to call him back.

Celebrimbor excused himself soon afterwards. He would not retire yet, for he felt restless and unsettled. Instead he hurried down the long, winding staircase into the gardens.

“I need to take a walk,” he informed Narvi when he felt her question like a physical pressure in the back of his head. Her spirit state strengthened the faint empathic bond they had shared ever since their marriage, but right now he wanted to shut her out of his thoughts.

No doubt, she countered, unimpressed. If I stuck you in a quenching bucket right now, you'd steam off all the water.

He did not grace her with an answer. Instead he strode along a narrow path that wound between jasmine bushes, illuminated by moonlight and iron-wrought lanterns, in the vague hope that the peace of his surroundings would calm his spirit. It did not seem to be working.

Will you tell me what upsets you, or do I have to guess? Narvi inquired after a while.

“Oh, I hardly know where to begin,” he snapped, turning his anger upon her as the most convenient target. “Maybe, for a start, you could tell me what grievance you hold against my uncle? That was an incredibly rude thing to say, and even you must see that he’s on the verge of collapse!”

He’s hardly a wilting flower, Narvi scoffed. And I have no grievance against him. He’s an odd fellow for sure, but he aided us, saved your life, and he’s quite … She shot him a defiant look. I’m fond of him.

“You sure don’t treat him thus!”

How so? I’m honest with my friends. They deserve no less.

“You call this honesty?”

Think about it. None of you will tell him what he needs to hear. And then, after a pause: Do you think he’s angry with me?

Celebrimbor bit his lip. “I cannot say,” he said, softer than he intended. It would not do to be cross with Narvi for behaving as a Khazad, not one of the Eldar. “He probably thinks you hate him.”

He thinks that everybody hates him. Are your people really that unforgiving? You always call us the stubborn ones.

“What he did…” Celebrimbor shivered, trying to keep the ancient demons out of his thoughts. “It’s not easily forgiven.”

Least of all by himself. Narvi hummed in agreement. For a while they moved on in silence. Celebrimbor tried in vain to open his mind to the beauty of a summer night, to the rich fragrance of elder blossoms and moonlight reflecting in the spray of the falls.

“It’s the wizards,” he admitted eventually. “They frighten me. I’m prepared to fight Sauron, as much as I can be. But if there are more of them…”

You don’t know they are like him.

“We don’t know they aren’t. And I don’t trust myself to tell the difference.”

She did not comment on this, wisely, for he needed no reminder that his trust in Annatar had not been universally shared. Before he could follow the disheartening line of thought, the road they followed widened to a small clearing.

Only a few feet away, on the rim of a large marble fountain that shone white in the dim light, sat Maglor.

He looked like a statue, perched still upon the ledge, his unbound hair concealing his features from view. Only his left hand was moving through the water in oddly repetitive circles. He did not notice the intrusion.

Celebrimbor knew he should withdraw from what was clearly a private moment. Yet before he could turn and walk away, he heard his uncle speak. It sounded like his usual mutterings, and yet not; for those were mostly disconnected thoughts and memories intermixed with poetry, so soft that they were barely audible, and he could rarely make sense of them. Now the words were clear and carrying, and they rang with music simply because this was the gift of Maglor’s voice.

“I am walking in a dream,” he said. “And I fear it may be a nightmare, for all blessings may vanish and leave me with less than before. For so long in this world of shadows, all that remained real was you. All else was lost to me, and now I dare not tell what is true and what is not.” Maglor shivered, though the air was warm. “I wonder now what we could have done. There is life in this place; do you feel it?”

Celebrimbor shifted on his feet, unsure. He had just opened his mouth to answer when Maglor said, simply, “I miss you.” And he bowed his head to watch the water ripple under his fingers.

For only a moment Celebrimbor thought he saw something luminous flit across Maglor’s cheekbone, gentle as a caress. A reflection of moonlight in the waves, surely; yet Celebrimbor suddenly felt he had no right to witness the scene. Quietly he turned and walked back towards his quarters, and Narvi followed him as a pensive shadow.

The steps that led from the guest quarters down into the gardens needed fixing. They had been tampered with a few decades ago, apparently because the marble had splintered in several places. The result was aesthetically pleasing as far as elven tastes went, but had produced a slight imbalance that shifted the steps further towards the right. The resulting asymmetry was highly dissatisfying, at least for a dwarven artisan who was deprived of the means to work on it. But they remained the fastest way into the gardens, and so Narvi swallowed her frustration as she brushed an insubstantial finger over the railing.

From the balcony in Elrond's room she had glimpsed the entrance to a cave behind one of the larger waterfalls: it was challenging to access, but being a ghost had some advantages. At least it meant that this place was likely a retreat for one who sought to evade elvish company for once. The low humming of rock welcomed her, solid presence of stone beneath the light and fanciful buildings of Imladris. She minded those less than another dwarf would: for the love of an elf, she had grown attached to his world, if more reluctantly than Celebrimbor who had already been Durin's friend when they had met. Still, nothing soothed her mind and calmed her spirit like being underground.

Except that now another presence intermingled with the song of stone. It was not quite as ancient as the rock itself, fainter and darker and unstable as all animated things must be.

Good day to you, Master Elf, she said, and dropped down beside Maglor who sat cross-legged against the wall, watching the rush of water with half-closed eyes. I did not expect you here.

"Narvi?" Maglor's eyebrows rose, though he did not turn to look at her. "Why are you not with Tyelpë?"

Why should I be always? she retorted. He's doing fine without me right now.

"I see."

He's in the library with Erestor. Earlier they walked the gardens with another re-embodied elf named Glorfindel. He and Celebrimbor were stiff as statues around each other. Celebrimbor can't be polite if his life depends on it, he must have given poor Erestor a headache... Me too, if I could still get one.

A slight smile tugged at the corner of Maglor's mouth.

"It runs in the family, I'm afraid."

Ah, you'd know. She leaned back against the rock, waiting in vain for the reassuring touch of stone. What brings you here?

He gave no answer. This happened sometimes with Maglor, and was not to be taken as a sign of rudeness. For a while they sat in silence, both watching the steady flow of water. The bright midday sun made it sparkle like a thousand diamonds.

Celebrimbor thinks you might be angry with me, she said eventually, remembering their conversation in Elrond's rooms. Or that you might think I hate you.

Maglor's long fingers traced patterns onto the moist ground. They looked vaguely familiar, but lacked the balance and ingenuity of Celebrimbor's work.

"How am I to know?" he sighed. "I am not a very good person. People hate me for a variety of reasons."

Murder, was it? She regarded him thoughtfully. Kinslaying, he said. Never told me the full story. I just know that his father was involved as well.

"Oh, Curvo." Maglor's smile did not reach his eyes. "Yes, I am afraid so. He was proud and cunning, my brother Curufin, and he loved Father most of us all." He closed his eyes and leant his head against the wall. "My father was not evil. Not when it all began. But who is to say when bad things start to grow, before they end in senseless slaughter?"

Narvi shrugged. Surely you didn't go on a murder spree without reason! Else I could not see why Elrond loves you so. Celebrimbor too, though of course his judgment has not always been sound. But whatever you did, it sure cannot compare to the devilry of Annatar!

Maglor pondered that for a moment. "It seems wrong to weigh one evil against the other," he returned then. "Elrond! He should not love me. We burned his home to ashes. We killed all who stood in our way, even our own soldiers as they tried to stop us! They screamed and pleaded, but we showed no mercy, not after one of them slit Amrod's throat..." He fell silent, his eyes staring blankly into the abyss of his own memory. Narvi shivered. Horror wafted through the cave, clawing into her mind like physical agony. Briefly she saw the flash of a blood-stained blade, black smoke that filled her lungs, an elven warrior cradled in her arms, dying, sooty red hair mingling with her own - and there was Maglor, his face and armor splattered with blood, screaming -

A white glow at the throat of a dark-haired woman, a touch of salvation so close within their reach, but then it fell and all ended in despair.

Maglor smiled, hard and joyless. His eyes glittered with a strange light. "We are doomed, in such a way that even my innocent nephew paid for it in blood. Would that I could have taken his place! But I must wander the world to fade into a shadow of regret, as it was foretold."

Narvi tapped a finger against her ghostly boot, considering what she had seen. My folk knows the punishment of expulsion, she said slowly , though I have always found it a useless way to pay for a crime. It does not fix anything! But to make a person suffer for sins they had no part in? Any dwarf would find that barbaric.

"Elrond has opinions about it too." The faint lines around Maglor's eyes softened, which immediately made him look less weary. "And not only because of Celebrimbor. But I doubt the Valar would listen to either of you."

The only Vala I know is Mahal. He loves his children. He would not doom anyone he loves.

"In this case we are less fortunate than you. It only grieves me for the those who did not deserve their fate when Beleriand drowned." He held out his right hand. Spread across his palm and fingers was a ragged web of scars, long faded remnants of a horrible wound. "This is what the Valar think of me."

Narvi stared at it for a moment. Unconsciously she reached out, almost touching the twisted tissue, before she remembered that she could not. But it is healed, she said then. It does not impair you any longer.

"It is a reminder."

Narvi shook her head. Elvish thinking is so awfully fatalistic. Celebrimbor always rebelled against that... which I would be all in favour of, only now he believes that Sauron's wrongs are his own. A shovel load of bat droppings, if you ask me.

That earned her a broken chuckle. Maglor wiped his hand at his trousers and inspected his splintered fingernails.

"On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East," he said softly. "Among all the things I have forgotten, the words of Mandos burn hot inside my mind; that, and the memory of our cursed Oath. Thousands of years in grief and regret have done little to ease the pain. But Tyelperinquar was innocent. It was unspeakably cruel not to spare him."

Sauron is cruel, Narvi said curtly. He murdered Celebrimbor and ravaged Eriador, not you, nor the Valar. And he wasn't destroyed! That means this entire world is built above a mine of faulty structure. The question is not if it is likely to collapse, but when. It will not be upheld by guilt and self-pity.

Maglor gave her a searching look. It revealed without doubt that he could see her shadowy form.

"I only sought to spare the word my presence," he said, "though I found that I did not deserve to leave it fully. But for some crimes there is no repentance."

That is not my place to judge. Unless - Narvi hesitated, beset by uncomfortable thoughts of Tumunzahar - any of it went against my own people? Surely Celebrimbor would have told me.

No, he probably would not.

The troubled lines on Maglor's face relaxed. "I think not," he conceded, "which is a small mercy. I bear no grudge against your folk. Little did I know of them in those early ages, but my brothers had good dealings with them. Especially Carnistir! Once, I recall, he brought me a strange instrument from Belegost...", and he launched into a tale that involved dwarven musicians, a primitive saxophone, and a younger brother who clearly had no sense for the fine arts. Narvi did not ask what had become of him.

Long they sat like this, taking comfort in each other's company. Eventually even the shadow around Maglor became less grim, and its ancient grief, for a while, softened into gentle melancholia.

The passage of time seemed to be altered in Imladris. It was a refuge, a place to halt and catch one's breath while the days flowed around it like water in a pebbled riverbed. It must be ten days, or maybe fourteen, that Narvi and her elven companions dwelled undisturbed in this summer garden filled with bird song and music and poetry. Celebrimbor met several acquaintances from Eregion, and found to his surprise that they revered him as a hero. Long he stood before a statue that held on a platter the shards of a broken sword, and his face was wet when he turned away; then he told Narvi of Elendil and the One Ring, and that night he found no rest. Maglor wandered the house almost as silently as Narvi herself, shunning all company except for Elrond and Celebrimbor. Narvi saw the ungracious looks he received from many sides, heard the whispers behind his back - monster, child-stealer, demon from the ancient days - and wondered a little about them. But Elrond was fiercely protective of him, and Elrond's daughter and sons treated him with kindness and concern.

Their rest was interrupted on the same day Celebrimbor first brought himself to explain Vilya's power to Narvi.

"I made it for Eregion," he said. "All Three have the power to protect and to heal, but Vilya is the strongest. When I forged it, I had a hunch that we would need it... and we did, but by the time he came, he had found a way to control it." Celebrimbor shuddered and turned a little on his couch to face Narvi. A warm breeze brushed over their secluded little balcony, rustling in the potted orange trees and moving gently through Celebrimbor's hair. Narvi reached out to run a hand over it, pretending to touch, recalling vividly its texture and the way it had slid through her fingers. In Eregion, he had often tamed it in beads and clasps, pretty little baubles that had been a delight for him to make. Now he mostly wore it loose, or pulled it into a simple braid when he needed it out of his face.

But not now , she prompted when he made no effort to continue.

"Not without the One. Here, it serves the purpose I always meant it for. Imladris receives its enchantments from both Elrond's powers and those of mine that are channeled in Vilya. Obviously, it is a beneficial combination."

Sometimes I forget how powerful you are, Narvi mused. Or how ancient. It is a good thing that you are so inherently decent.

Celebrimbor's smile looked like a grimace. "Oh, I know," he said. "Together, he and I would have been unstoppable. He told me that, repeatedly, while he was still relying on verbal means to convince me... mostly verbal, anyway." The grey in his eyes had faded into an odd translucent colour. They still shone with the light of Valinor, which now made him appear like a wraith, while his fingers clenched und unclenched in the luxurious silk of his blanket. With sudden, sick clarity Narvi remembered that his corpse had not been left with fingers. Both his beautiful, strong, dexterous hands had been chopped off above the wrists.

"But he might find those powers inconvenient when they are turned against him," he now continued darkly. "I did not know how to use them then. But I am still the grandson of Fëanor!"

He was only a tale to Narvi, Fëanor of the eight-rayed star that adorned Durin's Gate. As a master craftsman he was known among the Khazad, and often his unspoken presence had loomed invisible over Celebrimbor's shoulder while his grandson attempted to surpass his skill in the forge. He had been one of the ancient kings who led the elves across the sea in days of old - including the elf-lord she had allowed into her heart and her bed. Also it was told that the Jewel of Doom was designed by his hand, the one that was later stained with the blood of the Khazad of Tumunzahar; but Narvi had learned no more from Celebrimbor, and, in respect for his privacy, had not consulted with the lore-masters of her house.

Maglor had spoken of senseless slaughter. Perhaps she should have been more inquisitive.

You have never claimed that as a boon, except in the forge, she observed.

He blinked, and a confused expression flitted over his face. Then he reached out so that his hand passed through the shadow of hers and rested inside it, the only means of hand-holding that was left to them.

"Do not be cross with me, Narvi," he begged. "With you, I am the person I wish to be. The Khazad, and you most of all, give me the joy and purpose I have always craved. I told you that when I asked you to marry me... both times, I believe."

You were persistent enough. Narvi gave him a shrewd look. But you're changing the subject. I married Celebrimbor the jewel smith. I am not sure what to make of Celebrimbor the grandson of Fëanor.

"And yet you wedded both," he said, his dark brows drawn together in thought. "My grandfather -" He broke off when quick steps crossed the room behind them. Erestor appeared in the open doorway and leaned against the frame with a wide grin.

"We have guests," he announced. "A company of dwarves. I thought you'd like to know."

Just because Celebrimbor and Maglor were not invited to the feast, Narvi decided, it did not mean that she was excluded herself. It would be rude not to allow her the company of her kin. Since Elrond was unaware of her existence, this oversight was to only be expected. In fact, only Elrond himself and a few personal attendants were invited to join, likely because the Lord of Imladris feared a diplomatic incident.

Upon inspection, Narvi decided that the precaution was a testament to Elrond's wisdom.

They sure know how to enjoy themselves, she reported to Celebrimbor who sulked outside, sitting on the rim of a marble fountain and splashing his feet in the water. And how to hold a tune! But Elrond's people aren't used to our ways. You should have seen Lindir's face - remember that time Gil-Galad accompanied you to the Midwinter feast in Khazad-Dûm?

"Yet he may attend, and I must wait outside," Celebrimbor complained. "Tell me more about them! I saw some from afar - don't look at me like that, I happened to pass by when they were shown to their quarters - but all I can tell is that these are not traders. An unusual bunch, and not all of the same clan..."

Broadbeams and Longbeards, thirteen of them. Their leader is clearly a descendant of Durin! I wouldn't be surprised if he's related to Dís, they look very much alike. And there is a creature I have never seen before. Looks like a small man.

"Ah, but I must speak to them! Though perhaps not in front of outsiders, when it comes to Durin's Ring. Still, I wonder why Elrond did not want me there. I am the foremost expert on dwarves he will find in this house." Celebrimbor began to toss small white pebbles into the fountain. His indignation might have been amusing, had the answer to his question not been so awkward. Narvi carefully weighed the options and decided on brutal honesty.

They have a wizard, she said.

Celebrimbor froze. A pebble slipped from his hand and dropped into the water with a soft splash.

You knew that one of them is Elrond's friend. Surely this is not a social visit, but he didn't say what he wants... Ghivasha, you must not be rash. You're right to be wary, but what if he truly is on our side?

Celebrimbor leant his face into his hands. For a long moment he remained like this, his expression shrouded by a curtain of black hair, shoulders shaking with the effort to breathe. Narvi waited. Eventually the rigid lines of his back relaxed, and his hands fell into his lap.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice slightly rougher than usual. "Perhaps he is. I wish I could tell."

A roar of laughter sounded from the dining hall, then a raunchy, musical voice launched into another tavern song, this one a lot dirtier than the occasion allowed. Narvi grinned despite herself.

Listen to that, she prodded. The singer is a fine dwarrow. Good-looking too! He reminds me of my brother.

He smiled a little blandly, but his eyes when he gazed far off into the valley remained solemn.

She still considered the most promising route of distraction when footsteps sounded on the stairs behind them. Celebrimbor drew a sharp breath even before he turned around.

"I prefer to speak aloud," he said curtly.

"As you wish." The wizard smiled as he walked up to them, and bowed deeply. "Elrond told me I would likely find you here. I have been looking forward to this meeting ever since I was informed of your return, Celebrimbor of Eregion - and Narvi the Stonewright, I believe?"

At your service , she answered, surprised. Celebrimbor's eyes narrowed. "I have been at the service of the Ainur already," he said. "And at their mercy. It is not an experience I wish to repeat."

"You have seen the worst of us," the wizard nodded. "I know, and cannot fault you for mistrusting us. But your enemy is also mine. I have been given many names, though most know me as Gandalf: the elves call me Mithrandir, and the Khazad Tharkûn. My Lord Manwë sent me to aid Middle Earth."

"Since when are the Valar interested in the lands beyond Tol Eressëa?" Celebrimbor retorted with a venom Narvi had never heard from him before. "Honestly, I am surprised they do not simply let us all drown, as it happened with Beleriand and Numenor! It is their usual way of dealing with their rotten kin, without mercy for all living things that perish in the floods."

The wizard sighed and settled beside him on the rim of the basin. He fumbled in one of his many pouches, and after a moment produced a long-stemmed pipe. "I don't suppose I may offer you a pinch of tobacco? Old Toby from the Shire is my favourite nowadays, but I would be happy to share my supplies."

"No," Celebrimbor returned stiffly.

Tharkûn made an elaborate effort to lighten his pipe. "I regret not being able to extend the offer to you, Master Dwarrow. I hope you don't think me unkind if I indulge."

Out of the many things I care about..., Narvi scoffed. I reserve my judgment. It is my husband who has grievance against your kin.

"Mistakes were made," the wizard said kindly, "and acknowledged as such. They happened in desperate times; and yet, perhaps they could have been avoided. We shall never know." His eyes under the bushy white brows were of an unusual light blue, and now they turned towards Celebrimbor in a look that was both knowing and sorrowful. "I wept for Beleriand, and for Numenor," he said, "and I came to Middle Earth for the love of the land and its creatures."

Celebrimbor actually bared his teeth. " He told me that, too," he snarled. "He claimed that the Valar had not forgotten us, and would help us build our world anew. Fool that I was, I believed him! But they did not help us. They threw us to the wolves and watched them rip us apart! My family was doomed for less!" His face twisted into an expression so filled with fury and loathing that Narvi longed for a physical body to restrain him, but the wizard watched him, unmoved. "And now," the elf seethed, "you show up here with same sordid tale and you carry one of my rings !"

"Ah." Tharkûn lowered his pipe, suddenly looking even more serious. "I do. Círdan gave it to me."

"What possessed him?"

"Celebrimbor, you have been grievously wronged," Tharkûn said quietly, "and badly hurt, and you have every reason to be angry with us. But I am not your enemy. We're fighting the same war."

Celebrimbor pressed his lips together. Fury and pain and terror were radiating from him in waves.

"I received the ring as a weapon against him," the wizard continued. "And that is its purpose now, as it should be! I do not ask you to believe me; but please, give me the benefit of doubt."

"Excuse me," Celebrimbor muttered. He rose abruptly and hurried up the stairs towards his quarters, taking two steps at a time. Narvi hesitated long enough to meet the wizard's eyes.

"I suppose this was to be expected," Tharkûn admitted. "I meant to ask if the two of you would accompany us on our quest. But we will speak of it another time. I apologize for causing him distress."

I reserve my judgment, she repeated, and followed Celebrimbor back into the building.

Narvi had conceived a very sensible strategy for Celebrimbor to approach the dwarven delegation. First, according to her instructions, he inquired of Elrond their identities and purpose. This rendered interesting results, as Elrond not only confirmed that Thorin Oakenshield was indeed Dís' brother, but also the exiled King of the Lonely Mountain. His company was rather less illustrious than his status suggested, with few warriors among them; also their clothing had seen hard wear, with no small amount of patching. They were accompanied by a halfling, a creature foreign to Narvi and Celebrimbor, whose folk, as Elrond explained, valued comfort and hated adventure. By the time they had approached Imladris, they had been pursued by a horde of orcs.

Unfortunately, Thorin being King required a rather complicated protocol. You will need a written formal introduction, Narvi told her husband, twirling a braid around her finger as she tried to recall the exact procedure. On parchment, three copies, two to be sent to the person acting as Thorin's seneschal, that will be Balin from what Elrond has said, you will keep hold of the third. Each document will need to be no less than a foot long in black ink with all titles of both yourself and Thorin in red ink. Be respectful, show your interest but do not overstep boundaries...

“Look,” interrupted Celebrimbor, pointing at four dwarrows gathered on the far end of the plaza before the long bridge, “they’re playing dice! Let’s see what we can make of this.”

Narvi swore as he strode off towards the group and asked - in faulty and entirely inappropriate Khuzdul - to be included into the next round. Sometimes, she thought sourly, insolence did pay off, for these unfortunate fellows were too gobsmacked to refuse. All four eyed him warily as he as he dropped to the floor beside them, but then one of them - Narvi recognized the Broadbeam with the fine singing voice and the pretty brown eyes - grinned and handed him the cup. By the time Thorin the King approached the group, Celebrimbor had lost two iron beads and one silver earring he had crafted in the Ered Luin, won a small stack of coins, and acquainted himself with Bofur, Nori, Ori, and Fíli.

Thorin placed himself beside them, not interfering but rather impressively impersonating a thundercloud. To his left and right hovered two more dwarves: one a huge warrior, scarred and tattooed and overall bearing a striking resemblance to Narvi's sister-in-law, the other a white-bearded scholar. All three wore the insignia of Durin's line.

Remember to mind your manners, Narvi hissed as Celebrimbor looked up. He had just removed one of his bracelets to offer it as a wager, and was now holding it rather awkwardly between two fingers. Still he flashed the King his most winning smile, rose in one fluid motion, and offered a formal bow.

"I am deeply honoured to meet Durin's Heir, the rightful King Under the Mountain," he said. "Celebrimbor Curufinion at your service, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. May the bards continue to sing of your deeds and your beard be adorned with mithril!"

Thorin gave him a very strange look.

"May I ask, Master Elf," he growled, not trying very hard to sound polite, "what interest you have in my kinsmen?"

"Dice, Your Majesty," Celebrimbor said cheerfully, "and a general liking besides. I lived in Eregion when Khazad-Dûm prospered. Among your folk I was known as Silverfist."

All seven of them stared at him, clearly incredulous. The white-bearded dwarf to Thorin's right drew a hissing breath.

"Not to be disrespectful," he drawled, "but Silverfist is long dead. The times you speak of are faded pages in the history tomes of our people."

"So I observe," Celebrimbor returned, "and it grieves me greatly to see the how relations between our people have suffered. Lord Elrond will confirm my words, or…", he hesitated briefly, "your wizard, if you are inclined to believe him."

Manners, snapped Narvi.

Ori and Fíli exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Nori eyed the beads in his hand with renewed interest. Thorin's frown had only deepened, while his companions exchanged a few fleeting signs in Iglishmêk: liar, no believe, what purpose gestured the warrior, answered by the scholar with wizard, ask. Celebrimbor's sharp eyes followed the movements, but for once he held his tongue.

"That is an outrageous claim," Thorin stated the obvious.

"Of course." Celebrimbor had grown serious, and Narvi understood that he knew precisely what he was doing. "I thought it better to be direct and honest. I would like to make the acquaintance of your fellowship, not least because I have a great liking for your kin."

"So there are other reasons."

"That matter I would prefer to discuss in a more private setting. I also do really like to play dice."

Thorin gave him a long, cold look. His clear blue eyes were familiar in an unsettling way. It was not hard to imagine him in the throne room of Khazad-Dûm, with beads of diamond fastening his braids, the silver strands in his hair reflecting the light cast by a thousand crystal lamps. Instead his thick dark locks were dried and frazzled by the summer sun. These dwarrows were terribly out of place, here in this airy elven realm, and consequently even less approachable than their kin in the Ered Luin. Narvi wished she could reassure them.

"We will take council," Thorin growled eventually. "Fíli, go and help your brother with the weaponry. The others can do as they will, but I expect all of the company at lunch." Thorin fixed an eye on Nori, who had been regarding one of the distant buildings speculatively. "All of the company."

"Wouldn't want to miss that," Bofur said cheerfully, twinkling in response to the stern glance his king leveled at them. Fíli rose with a reproachful look at Thorin, but followed him obediently back into the building. Nori had already plucked the dice up and was now dancing them across the back of his knuckles.

"Who wants to play another round?" he inquired, giving the bracelet in Celebrimbor's hand a casual overview.

"Is it true, though?" young Ori chimed in, while Celebrimbor nodded and placed the jewelry before him. "The old tales say he was murdered."

"Yes; and it is a long story," Celebrimbor admitted, "but let your King make up his mind first! Then I will gladly share it with you. Now, my dear dwarrows, I have shown you my offer; let me see what the game is worth to you!"

"I don't know what they want," said Erestor, carefully picking a few crumbs of peach tart off his immaculate sleeve. "But if I had to take I guess, I would say it has something to do with Erebor."

"The Lonely Mountain." Celebrimbor shifted in his wicker chair. From the way he was eyeing the low table, he was fighting the impulse to put his feet on it. There was no one here to mind, in this remote part of the gardens that provided a marvelous view towards the Misty Mountains, but apparently, he considered such a behaviour disrespectful towards Elrond's hospitality. "But there's a dragon in it, isn't there? The folk of the Ered Luin weren't exactly forthcoming with information."

"It is a tragic tale." Erestor looked honestly aggrieved. "A recent one, by our standards. I once saw the Golden Kingdom, back when King Thrór had brought it to splendor. It was like the gems they dug from the earth: Covered by rock, but of stunning beauty within. You would have loved it."

"So did the dragon, apparently."

"His name is Smaug. He came upon them with fire and death, almost a hundred and fifty years ago. Thorin must have been a young prince at the time. The dwarves fled, or those who survived." Erestor narrowed his eyes at Celebrimbor, looking unusually hesitant. "Some say it was Thrór's lust for riches that attracted the dragon."

"Some have always said that, about the dwarves."

Some of your folk, you mean to say, Narvi interjected drily, stirred out of mind-numbing boredom by the change of topic. Up to this point, the two elves had been discussing the political implications of isolationism in the late second age, and she had very nearly left to retreat into the cave again.

"True enough," admitted Erestor, "but some say that there was something wrong about it. Something unnatural. Like a sickness."

Celebrimbor speared a piece of tart onto his silver fork. Narvi regarded it wistfully.

"They wonder if it is hereditary," continued Erestor.

"They always do."

"Have you heard of the battle of Azanulbizar?" When Celebrimbor nodded, his friend continued: "Thrór fell there, and Thorin's brother. His father just disappeared; gone mad with grief, most assume, and probably dead by now. That's why Thorin is generally accepted as King."

Celebrimbor leaned back in his chair, idly letting the fork spin between his fingers. His eyes found Narvi's for a moment, before he asked: "But does he call himself such? His sister does not believe in their father's death."

"I don't know," Erestor said, surprised. "But you see the implications."

"Oh yes." Celebrimbor's voice had taken an unusually sharp note. "I know all about hereditary madness."

"I didn't mean that…"

"Nevertheless. Mad grandfathers who bring doom upon the family! Descendants who are always questioned, always mistrusted, no matter how valiant they prove themselves…"

"Celebrimbor…"

"Until one day they break -," he snipped his fingers, violently, "and those who have always known were right all along!"

"You don't have to shout at me." Erestor shook his head, absently dissecting the remains of his tart into tiny pieces. "I am your friend. And in any case, as you very well know, I wasn't talking about you."

Besides, said Narvi, who had followed the conversation with rising interest, you have company.

"Sorry to intrude," said the blonde-bearded youngster who appeared from where the path emerged behind a large, green bush. "Just heard your voice and wanted to talk to you. I wasn't trying to be quiet."

He really wasn't, Narvi supplied when both elves stared at Fíli as though he had materialized out of thin air. Trampled through the bushes like a young boar. You have a loud voice, my jewel.

"Never mind," said Celebrimbor with a fleeting smile. "Erestor, let me introduce to you Fíli of the company of Thorin Oakenshield. Fíli, this is my friend Erestor. Would you care for a piece of tart?"

"Nah, I've eaten." Fíli eyed the cake with longing, but remained standing. "At your service. So, are you really Silverfist? Tharkûn says it's true."

"I said so, didn't I?" Celebrimbor dropped his fork and leaned back in his chair. "I take it that Thorin finds it hard to believe."

"What would you say-," the young dwarf broke off. "No, you're probably used to it. But it has been - gosh - how many thousand years? And our stories say he died. They're really gory, by the way. Like how Sauron used his body as…"

"Yes, thank you, I remember," Celebrimbor interrupted. He had suddenly lost all colour in his cheeks. "That wasn't the worst part. If you're dead, they can't hurt you anymore."

Fíli shoved his thumbs into his belt and eyed Celebrimbor critically. He did not seem intimidated, Narvi noticed with approval. Also, he looked a little like their new friend Varli. They were probably related, even though Fili's beads showed the pattern of the Line of Durin.

"Yes, I died," Celebrimbor admitted. "I was sent back. It happens to us, sometimes. Now I'm trying to undo some of the damage that my rings brought upon this world." He took a deep breath. "It is the subject I most need to discuss with your leader."

"Thorin is my uncle." Fíli's gaze had softened a little, but he did not look entirely convinced. "I'll talk to him. But I warn you that he doesn't like elves. Not since those of the Woodland Realm left us to our own devices after the dragon came."

"I heard." Celebrimbor exchanged a quick gaze with Erestor, who had watched the conversation with rapt concentration.

"Thranduil?" his friend chimed in. "Anything else would have surprised me. The wood elves have fallen on hard times, and he had a pretty exclusionist strategy even before… also, he's from Doriath." His smile had a slightly bitter note. "If my friend here showed up in his realm, he'd be lucky to be ‘left to his own devices'. He'd probably be sent straight to the dungeons."

"I wasn't involved in Doriath!" Celebrimbor protested.

Erestor shrugged. "You look like your father. You see," he continued towards Fíli, "elven memory goes a long way back, and we were never as united as we like to pretend nowadays. Still aren't, in fact. It's downright embarrassing."

Fili nodded slowly. His gaze travelled back and forth between the elves, always gliding right across Narvi, oblivious to her presence. For a brief moment she was tempted to jump up and shout into his face. In the Ered Luin she had always restrained herself, but now the frustration returned: they were so close, those of her folk, and she longed to be among her own, to talk and laugh and feast with them and share in their perils. But as the tools of her craft passed through her fingers, they remained forever out of reach.

"I'm not saying I believe you," said the young dwarf. "If you are the one you claim to be, you'll understand that and won't be cross. But... somehow, I'd like it to be true."

From somewhere afar a deep voice called Fíli’s name, and he smiled briefly before he turned and walked back the way he came. Narvi watched him for a moment, then rose and followed him.

The crescent moon painted shadows onto the floor when Narvi returned to the guest rooms. For long hours she had lingered with the dwarves, feeling like an intruder even though she had kept her distance and avoided private conversations, but still oddly comforted by their presence. She had hoped to find Celebrimbor and Maglor asleep, or at least one of them, as sometimes they fought each other's demons with soothing words and gentle songs. It was why they had chosen to share their quarters. But Maglor was nowhere in sight; his harp leaned, uncovered, against the wall beside the door. Celebrimbor sat huddled on his bed, shivering, his hands clenched in the unbound waves of his hair. Before him lay his sketchbook, held open by a piece of broken charcoal. Several pages were torn out and scattered on the cushions around him.

Narvi rushed to his side. Celebrimbor, she called to him, calm down! I'm here now. You are in Imladris, you're safe!

He looked up at her with large, unfocused eyes.

"Narvi?" He reached out to touch her face, his hands heavily smudged with charcoal. In the dim light the black marks looked like charred flesh. "Narvi, will you help me? I must find them. They are mine. He took them from me!"

Ghivasha! She moved away from his touch, unsettled by his strange behaviour. You aren't properly awake. Come to your senses!

"He took them all. But they are calling to me!" Celebrimbor twisted his fingers into his hair again. “I must take them back...”

Narvi cursed softly, and then she saw his drawings, raw sketches of forms that were horribly familiar. Worry swept through her like flood water churning through a tunnel. There was something wrong with the flickering light in his eyes, the unguarded feelings that radiated from him - fury, anguish, horror, want -

Where is Maglor when you need him? she groused. Come on, Celebrimbor, get back to your usual self and stop the theatrics!

But he said nothing more, just cowered in the darkness, consumed by a power she did not recognize. She pushed against it and plunged right into its pull as she reached out to him, and for the first time she felt his thoughts, his mind, his fëa brush against her own - glittering mithril taking shape in his hands, Ost-in-Edhil lit by thousands of candles for the midsummer feast, Narvi, grinning, throwing her thick braid back over her shoulder as she worked - a foreign landscape bathed in silver - beads of coloured glass in the brown curls of a woman whose eyes sparkled like his own, and beside her a man who had to be... - but something dark and dangerous pulled at him, and the touch scorched them both. Narvi held on regardless, but he was slippery like a freshly oiled cogwheel. Perhaps, if she went deeper still, she could merge her thoughts with his own - possession by a spirit was said to be a harmful thing, but surely, to draw him out of this state...

"Celebrimbor!"

The door to their quarters slammed open and Elrond strode in, Maglor following on his heels. The Lord of Imladris hurried to Celebrimbor's side, took his face in his hands, and began to speak intently in the strange language of Valinor. There was power in his words that made the darkness recoil. Celebrimbor collapsed into Elrond’s embrace. When Narvi tried to hold onto his spirit, something else touched her mind: a rush of power, bright and pure and benevolent, that pushed her gently from her husband’s thoughts. Enough, it seemed to whisper in Celebrimbor’s voice. He is safe.

She drew back, confused. The ring on Elrond’s finger sparkled in the moonlight. For a long while there was no sound beside Celebrimbor's shaky breathing and the steady rush of the falls in the distance.

"You must sleep now," Elrond said, and Celebrimbor slumped against his shoulder. "We can talk tomorrow." With his free hand he took the sketchbook to look at it, then snapped it shut with an expression of disgust. Alarmed, he turned to meet Maglor's eyes, but Maglor was looking straight an Narvi, tight-lipped and frowning. "Yes," he said, and she understood that he addressed her as much as Elrond. "So we should."

Celebrimbor slept soundly until the sun had climbed high over the mountaintops. Narvi approved, for he still found too little rest at nights, even though she knew that Elrond had a hand in it. Maglor had hovered beside his nephew for some time, then fetched his harp and plucked out disjointed tunes, like drops of water from a cavern ceiling that ripple on an underground lake. His ghostly shadow prickled with nervous energy, which was more unsettling than Narvi cared to admit. As they waited together in the sunlit rooms, she wondered who it was, and why it could not manifest itself the way she did. But Maglor would speak of it if he chose to, or he would not.

Her husband was in good spirits when he awoke, if a little puzzled by the charcoal smudges on his hands and face. Elrond arrived shortly after, carrying a tray with spiced eggs and mushrooms. He, too, hovered beside the bed in what he likely believed to be a casual way. Celebrimbor’s gaze travelled to each of them in turn while he chewed on his food.

“Fine,” he said at last. “I’m sure there’s a reason you all think me unfit to leave my bed for breakfast, although I am perfectly capable to do so.”

“You were unwell last night,” began Elrond. Celebrimbor shrugged, not looking particularly concerned.

“I often am. I do appreciate the mushrooms, mind you, but…” He broke off and smiled at Elrond. It was the sort of smile all three of his friends recognised: it usually meant his verbal opponent, unless a dwarf, had already lost their case. Elrond shook his head fondly.

“We worry about you, my friend,” he admitted. “You spoke of Sauron’s rings, and you were not lucid. Maglor fetched me when you became agitated – and you drew these…” He opened the newest page in Celebrimbor’s sketchbook. Celebrimbor’s face went blank.

“You know of my nightmares,” he said. “Surprising as it may be, they often involve rings.”

Surprising as it may be, you are not surrounded by idiots, Narvi informed him. I know your nightmares when I see them. This was something else.

He narrowed his eyes at her. The look was achingly familiar, though in times past it had usually involved the distribution of laundry duty or the whereabouts of her favourite tool set.

“A hallucination, then,” he said obstinately. “Not unheard of, either.”

Elrond crossed his arms, frowning. “Apparently not,” he conceded. “Celebrimbor – I don’t need to tell you how dangerous these rings are. You have told us of your plans, and we mean to help you in any way we can, but I fear you’re playing with fire.”

Celebrimbor grimaced. “You are the one who’s hosting a Maia.”

“If you would trust my judgment for once…”

“I just want them gone.” Celebrimbor waved his hand, a quick, elegant gesture. It reminded Narvi of heated discussions over blueprints and dinner plans and charming strangers with mysterious knowledge. “The world will be a better place for it! You worry too much, my friend.”

“I heard that from you before,” Elrond said curtly, “and it was the last time I saw you alive. Would you not be concerned if you stood in my place?”

“But you need not be concerned this time.” Celebrimbor smiled, but his smile was too bright, too cheerful, and did not reflect in his eyes. “Getting tortured leaves you a little shaky. I need to recover, that is all.”

“I wonder,” said Maglor slowly, staring at his nephew as if trying to read his thoughts, “how badly I failed my little brother. I see his face when I look at you now - only he would have lashed out with scathing words, not laughed at his own pain. How desperate he must have been...”

The spoon clattered to the floor.

“Excuse me,” Celebrimbor spluttered, quickly bending to retrieve it and, Narvi could tell, to hide his burning face behind a curtain of hair. “I am not like him! Everyone always said we were different…”

“I wonder,” Maglor repeated softly. He sounded tired and sad. ”If only we had seen behind his elaborate lies.”

Celebrimbor frowned and stared at his food. Elrond placed a light hand on Maglor’s arm, a gesture of comfort and affection, but neither of them spoke. Once again, Narvi observed, the mention of Maglor’s brothers resulted in awkward silence.

Senseless slaughter, sins beyond redemption. Maybe it was time to ask for the full tale.

Her musings were interrupted by heavy footsteps in the corridor outside, followed by a knock that made the door rattle in its hinges. Elrond strode to answer it, while Celebrimbor, demonstratively avoiding Maglor’s eyes, slid into a morning gown. He looked around wildly for his slippers, but had only located one of them when Elrond led Thorin Oakenshield and his white-bearded advisor into the room. Maglor, apparently prompted by a habit established in ages long past, quickly gathered his nephew’s hair and fixed it with a clasp.

“I apologize,” Celebrimbor said smoothly, as if it were not even slightly embarrassing to greet a dwarven king half-dressed, uncombed, and wearing only one shoe. “We were so involved in our discussion that I completely forgot the time. Oh my, is it midday already? But I am overjoyed that you are willing to talk to me… would you like something to drink? I can send for coffee, or maybe a strong blend of tea, if you prefer it.”

Thorin Oakenshield observed him coolly. His companion gave the resigned smile which, combined with a desperate little headshake, universally conveyed disapproval with the declining morals of today’s youth.

“No, thank you,” the dwarf king returned, not sounding particularly courteous. “This is my kinsman Balin, son of Fundin. We would speak to you in private.”

“Of course,” said Celebrimbor. “If you would excuse us, my friends…”

I won’t, Narvi chipped in, amused despite her worries, and don’t think you’ll get out of this so easily!

Maglor’s lips twitched, but he touched Elrond’s arm, and both elves left the chamber with a few polite words. Celebrimbor offered his guests seats, which they declined, before settling into a comfortable chair himself and waiting for King Thorin to speak.

“Gandalf says you tell the truth,” Thorin stated. “He also says that you are accompanied by the ghost of the great stonewright Narvi, daughter of Noris, the chief architect of Durin III. I have heard him make many outrageous claims, but this must be the largest stone to swallow. Still, my folk have never known him to lie - who then should I believe? The words of a wizard or my own common sense?”

“I will not advise you on your dealings with wizards,” Celebrimbor said a little stiffly, “but in this case, he is telling the truth. Narvi is here by my side. Very annoyed, I might add, that she is unable to speak for herself.”

You know me well, my heart, she sighed. At least they don’t reject my existence at once!

Thorin watched him through narrowed eyes, then inclined his head a little. “If that is so, well met, Narvi Norisul,” he said reluctantly. “I shall not pay insult to one of our famous forebearers out of disbelief; though surely she would understand, given the circumstance! Some legends claim that you were bound in marriage.”

“We are.”

“It is hard to imagine.”

“It is uncommon, but times were kinder when we met.”

Thorin fell silent for a while. Celebrimbor knew enough of dwarves to meet the scrutinizing gaze with calm composure.

Tell them I am honoured to meet them, and very happy to see a few proper beards around here, Narvi suggested, when the silence threatened to turn into a stand-off. And for the love of all that is holy, don’t be more secretive than one of us. Tell them your story and see what they make of it.

Celebrimbor’s mouth twitched. “I am to tell you that my wife is delighted by the sight of your beards,” he said. “She wishes to convey cordial greetings to you both, and admonishment to me. Apparently it would be a wise idea to say my part and leave the judgment to you. Do I have your permission?”

The dwarrows exchanged a quick glance before Thorin nodded. Celebrimbor drew a deep breath, and told the painful tale once more. This time, among her people, he spoke long of Narvi, of her brilliance and wisdom and the delight of finding a kindred soul. “It is well to remember her name,” he said, “but the works of her mind were lost to the enemy, and so you cannot know her spirit, for that only shows in the things she wrought.” He told them of spiral staircases that defied the laws of gravity, of halls that seemed larger from within than the section of rock they were built in should allow, and of the splendor of Durin’s throne. When he spoke of their gate, his words evoked the bright glow of starlit ithildin.

Those had been good times. For all that came after, we must remember what we had, Narvi said, when he paused to steady his voice. We were happy then. We can be once again.

“Melmenya,” he muttered, before he moved on to the part that was much harder to tell.

He spoke of a handsome stranger, the allure of knowledge, the promise of divine grace. The dwarves, ever mistrustful of those they could not place, had been wary. But then Narvi had gone to inspect a building site and never returned, and her voice of caution had been silenced. Bereft, he had turned to others for guidance and inspiration, one above all whose true allegiance he had seen too late. He had hoped for a way to heal the wounds left by an age of war and loss, and make his people thrive again; but the powers he had trusted in were poisonous and not his to command.

Betrayal, torture, death. Durin had helped to save the survivors of Hollin; there were few.

A long silence followed when Celebrimbor had finished. Unable to draw him into a soothing embrace, Narvi settled on the armrest of his chair and placed a weightless arm across his shoulders. Thorin’s expression was hard to read; he looked very much like his sister had, while she had been trying to judge their worth. Balin Fundinul sighed deeply.

“I have never heard an elf speak so favorably of our kin,” he remarked.

“You rarely will, nowadays, from what I have heard” Celebrimbor admitted. “The elves of the wood do not understand the ways of the dwarrow-folk. My folk, the Noldor, we were students of your Maker! We built in stone and were skilled in the forge. Our two people had much in common, back in those days… But now only few of my kin are left, and most would rather forget about us altogether.”

Thorin gave a soft, bitter chuckle, drew up a chair and sat down. Balin followed his lead.

“Gandalf says you were sent back with a purpose.”

“I have no idea what the wizard knows of me, or wants from me,” Celebrimbor said, a little too sharply. “Frankly I would prefer him to stay out of my business.”

This time Thorin chuckled freely. “I share the sentiment. But he is helpful... on occasion.”

Celebrimbor’s lips became a thin line.

“You wanted to ask something of us, I recall,” prompted Balin, who was watching him curiously.

“Aye,” Celebrimbor admitted. “The rings we gave to the dwarves; they were corrupted by an evil hand, and do no favours to their owner. I wish to destroy them. Especially the one I gave to my friend Durin, for it holds the most power.”

Thorin’s expression became guarded. “No one knows where Durin’s ring is. Most likely it is lost, along with the others.”

Celebrimbor sighed. “Most likely,” he agreed.

Well done for now, but you can’t expect too much of them at once, Narvi reminded him when she felt his disappointment. Give them time. He acknowledged her with a slight nod.

Both dwarrows remained silent for a long moment, exchanging meaningful glances, as though they were engaged a wordless debate. Balin’s hands twitched; apparently he had to control his impulse to switch to Iglishmêk. But Thorin shook his head and rose from his chair.

“We are honoured to meet you and hear your tale,” he said. “Perhaps we can speak further during our stay. If you will excuse us for now, we need to return to our company.”

Ghivasha, Narvi interjected when the king and his advisor turned to go. I would formally request permission to visit the company for a while. It is not right to do so without their knowledge.

Celebrimbor smiled and leaned his head towards her, almost as if he was resting it against her shoulder. “King Thorin,” he said softly, “My wife asks if you would allow her to join your company for a bit. It is hard on her at times, being among elven kind only.”

Both dwarrows turned, and Narvi rejoiced to see their eyes soften in sympathy. They must not think the story so ludicrous, after all.

“It would be a great honour, Narvi Norisul,” said Thorin Oakenshield. “We have matters to attend to now, which we should keep among ourselves. But if you would join us for dinner, I shall ask Bofur to recite a few ballads that are too salacious for elven ears!”

Narvi laughed, and Celebrimbor gave her a fond look. “I can say with confidence,” he smiled, “that your invitation is enthusiastically accepted.”

You aren't listening to a word I say.

Celebrimbor dropped his quill and looked up into Narvi's face. She had settled, weightless, on the edge of his desk. He opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. "I’m sorry," he said. "I am a little preoccupied with this map. You were speaking of the dwarven feast…"

I was talking about linguistics, she informed him. I also quoted the larger part of Bofur's song. You've been staring out of the window for the past ten minutes.

Celebrimbor brushed a strand of hair behind his ear and leaned his chin into his hands. "Tell me, then. I'll listen now."

She said nothing for a long moment. Instead she watched him with a frown, which meant that they would not be discussing linguistics any time soon. He ached to place a hand on her leather-clad thigh as a reassurance to them both.

You worry me, she said at last. Elrond and Maglor too.

"I’m recovering well! Far better than I did in the Halls of Mandos."

I see that. Her eyes flitted over his arms and shoulders with clear appreciation. In body.

"I have not had so many nightmares of late! And less… that is to say, what happened did not return… quite as often as it did in the bath."

She nodded, undeterred. Aye. But the thing that happened the night before? That was no nightmare. I touched your mind.

He ran a hand over his face. "I’m not sure myself."

It had something to do with the rings.

Narvi was no fool. Trying to keep things from her would not work, and yet he felt loath to speak to her of this. It felt intimate, seductive, and terrifying, and she would hate it. She would ask him to let go of it.

He was not sure he could, or even wanted to. Imladris was a haven of peace and quiet, protected by powers he himself had evoked; yet something tugged at the edges of his mind, spoke to him in his dreams in whispering voices that echoed in ripples through the depths of his soul and made him restless.

"Something, yes," he conceded, because she would not forego an answer. Her intent, once set, was as implacable as the jaws of a ratcheting clamp locked closed. "That seems to be my fate, does it not? It is tied to these cursed things, which is why I need to get rid of them - that's one reason," he added quickly. "Thorin has said nothing more?"

Since I cannot ask him, no, she said patiently. What are we going to do?

"Dunland is here," Celebrimbor jabbed the end of the quill into the map, "and here is Azanulbizar. Mordor is not on this map, but it would be over here -," he gestured towards his water goblet on the right side. "I asked Elrond about the wraiths. He knows of them in rather more detail than he would like. They are Sauron's most dangerous servants, and one of them once led an army against Imladris. It was besieged, but did not fall. He thinks their stronghold is likely Dol Guldur, over here in southern Mirkwood, but it will be well protected." Celebrimbor chewed on his bottom lip. "They were only eight when we met them," he added. "There should be nine. I believe that the leader was missing - the witch king of Angmar."

Sounds charming.

"Doesn't it?" He grimaced. "So, the options we have are to search for Thráin, perhaps Thorin can tell us more about him, or…"

The touch to his thoughts was gentle, but he dropped his quill.

He knew this mind. Bright and sharp as a mithril blade, deep as the mines of Khazad-Dûm, light as a blackbird's song in the first hours of dawn: liege, mentor, rival, friend. He had called to her in his last moments, and she had cradled his soul in comfort and grief.

Now the fleeting brush of her thoughts burst into a song of joy.

Celebrimbor rolled up his map. "Galadriel is here," he said, shoving it into his bag. "I had no idea she was coming! Let's go and find her."

Galadriel? Narvi's voice brightened. You were somewhat at odds when we last met.

"I was a fool," he admitted. "We were both fools, but in hindsight I was considerably worse!"

He strode out of the library and rounded two corners, and there she stood in the entrance hall: frozen amid a group of people, her eyes wide and sparkling. Tyelperinquar, sang her thoughts, and he threw himself into her arms. "I'm sorry," he choked into her shoulder, and she held him tight, engulfing him in a wordless rush of jubilation. "You're back," she whispered at last. "You live! And you have brought…" She turned towards Narvi and smiled, radiant. I did not think I would see you again, namadith.

Narvi bowed low, grinning. Ever at your service, my lady, she said. You come in an hour of need!

You must tell me all, Galadriel urged, and she took Celebrimbor's face into her hands and kissed his forehead. The touch of Nenya hummed against his cheek. "You have always been with me in spirit," she said gently. The ring speaks with your voice, sometimes.

Narvi crossed her arms and growled softly in the back of her throat. Celebrimbor bowed his head.

"It is a small comfort that my legacy was not all evil," he said. "It brought more than enough ill to Middle Earth! That is why I am here."

Tell him it was not his fault, said Narvi. He refuses to believe me.

Celebrimbor winced. Galadriel's eyebrows rose, and a sombre expression crossed her face. "We must talk, Tyelpë," she said. "Elrond requested I make haste, but I expected worse tidings! Still, I feel that it is not only good news you carry."

"And I am not the only one who brings news," he said, looking over Galadriel's shoulder at her entourage. The fifteen elves were all unfamiliar to Celebrimbor. They stood clad in the garb of Lórien chatting with several elves from Elrond's staff, all apparently waiting for the Lady's signal to disperse. Galadriel turned and watched them by his side but made no further conversation until Elrond arrived a few minutes later. He greeted his mother-in-law cordially, invited everyone to refresh themselves, and ushered Celebrimbor and Galadriel to his private quarters.

"You could have told me about them!" Galadriel said, sounding uncharacteristically reproachful. It was rare for her to admit that she was surprised, and perhaps a sign of how deeply Celebrimbor's return had affected her. "I am aware that there are issues that make a meeting of the White Council necessary. Mithrandir is here. But to see my dear friends returned is a matter of the utmost joy."

The wizard, again. Celebrimbor clenched his fingers around the goblet Elrond had pressed into his hand.

"Your friends?" Elrond raised both eyebrows. "I am pleased to hear you deem it so. I have not seen - him - all morning; in fact, I wonder if..."

"I was in the library," Celebrimbor interrupted him quickly. "Your collection of maps is outstanding, so I rather forgot the time."

Elrond gave him a sharp glance.

"Fine," said Galadriel, settling on the most comfortable corner of the sofa. "I believe we have matters to discuss. Be so good as to start at the beginning."

"It is of no use to talk of guilt," Galadriel told him later when the two of them shared a bottle of Elrond's finest wine on the balcony of her quarters. Narvi squatted, cross-legged, on a stone bench beside them and fiddled with the buckles on her boots. It was an uncommonly warm night, even for midsummer, and in the olive bush behind him a cricket chirped loudly over the ever-present rush of the falls. Back in Eregion, this would have been an evening of idle talk and pleasant company. Now the shadows of the past crept into every thought. "I remembered you in grief, not in anger," Galadriel continued, sounding uncommonly gentle. She reached out and clasped Celebrimbor's hand. It was not a thing she would have done in his first life. "You remained strong for us. Lothlórien and Imladris would have dwindled long ago without your enchantments to protect us."

"Without me he would never have risen to such power," Celebrimbor objected unhappily. He twisted out of her grasp, but surely she could see how much he was trembling "I was a fool. I should have listened to you! If I had not let him blind me with all the things he offered..."

"He would have found another way."

"I doubt it."

"Besides, there was a reason why he approached you." She leant her chin into her hands and studied him thoughtfully. Even after all these ages, the starlight still caught her hair and glittered in sparkles of gold and silver. It reminded Celebrimbor of the Mingling of Treelight before the doom had come upon them. "You were vulnerable. For no one else his offers were as valuable as they were for you. He knew you would jump at the chance..."

"Gil-Galad turned him down."

"Gil-Galad did not feel he had to make up for a family of kinslayers. He had no interest in crafting, and was never close to mortals."

"Narvi never trusted him."

"Of course." Her luminous eyes turned towards Narvi, and Celebrimbor drew a sharp breath, because he could tell from the look on her face what she was going to say and he could not stop her. "That's why she had to die."

Narvi's hands stilled. Her eyes were huge when she raised her gaze to meet Galadriel's, then turned to Celebrimbor. He forced himself to look at her. "I knew," he admitted softly.

For a few heartbeats there was only silence.

How long have you known this? Narvi demanded in a low, dangerous voice.

"He told me when I was... when I..." He broke off. Slow breaths, grounded in the present - to drown out the memory of the whip on his naked skin, the hand on his jaw forcing him to look into a smiling face, too close to his own, golden eyes turned red -

A wave of light flooded his fëa, the clear brightness of Galadriel's spirit blazing against the darkness. He reached out to Narvi, but his hand passed through her knee and dropped onto the bench.

"He gloated," Celebrimbor managed. "I never suspected him. It looked like an accident... there was no reason to think..."

There were thirty-three Khazad in that cave, Narvi said in the same ominous tone. Among them my best friend - and my apprentices, they were barely of age -

"Do you think he cared?" His voice sounded shrill to Celebrimbor's own ears. "What matter to him if a few dwarves got slaughtered, he didn't like them anyway, mistrustful bunch, hard to manipulate - unlike me..."

Galadriel reached for his hand again and pressed it hard.

"It was a brilliant scheme, he was proud of it! He told me every detail - revelled in how I had danced to his tune all along, how he murdered my wife right under my nose and then caught me in his web like a fly, naive and brainless..."

"Sssssh, little one." Galadriel's thumb caressed the back of his hand. "It’s over now. The one you dealt with was far beyond your power. A master of cunning."

Celebrimbor wiped his eyes with his free hand.

"How can you say that, after I cast you out?"

"Though you bade me go, it was I who chose to leave." She gave him a wry half-smile. Her presence was warm and bright, not coldly furious as it had been on that damned afternoon when she had turned on her heel and left him alone in his marble hall. "I should have stayed. I thought we would have more time! We had plans, Celeborn and I, to find out what he was and convince you to break with him. But the spies we sent to the borders of Mordor and Dol Guldur did not return... We never meant to sacrifice you, or them. And certainly not Eregion."

"You did not sacrifice me."

"It felt so when you gave me Nenya. When I watched you leave Lothlórien to return to your people, and we both knew what awaited you."

"Nothing I did not deserve."

Say that one more time and I'm off to find someone with a brain, snapped Narvi. Useless elven self-deprecation. It was in fashion when I lived and it is in fashion now. And they say the Khazad are slow to change.

"Celeborn will tell you that it is always wise to listen to you wife," remarked Galadriel.

Speaking of your wife... Narvi waited until he turned to meet her eyes. Her features were calm, and her eyes to him looked as deep as they had in life, when they had been dark and thoughtful and never revealing all that passed through her thoughts. Often he had wished to open his mind to her, to share with her more that the faint sense of empathy that was the most a dwarven mind could offer. She had become more tangible to his fëa since she was a ghost, but now that had faded again, as though she had taken a step back.

Why did you not tell me that I was murdered?

"We never talked about your death," said Celebrimbor.

It did not occur to you that I might wish to know?

"Yes," he admitted. "It did. I'm sorry, melmenya. I was not sure..." He broke off, because he could not lie to her. It had never been the point whether or not she was ready.

You blame yourself. Again.

"It would never have happened if I had not welcomed him."

Mahal curse your head of stone, she snapped. Can you lay off your own guilt long enough to think about me? I died in that cave. I was crushed under a mountain of granite! But it wasn't quick. Dwarven skulls are thick, you see. I can't compete with you when it comes to the most gruesome death, but the worst was knowing they would never find me, or Jari, or anyone else, because we were buried under a mountain and slowly choking our lives out. Curse him! Curse his smooth ways and treacherous tongue!

“I’m…” He broke off. She would not accept another apology. “What do you need?”

Her face twitched, and she looked away. For a long moment she stared down into the gardens, where the tiny lights of fireflies flitted through the cherry trees. Celebrimbor watched her, torn between grief and desperate gratefulness that she was with him at all. He tried not to imagine the scene she had described.

I need to be alone, she said at last. Abruptly she stood and walked away, her figure quickly fading from view.

“She’s right,” said Galadriel.

“I brought that onto myself, I know.” Celebrimbor leaned his head into his hands. “I should listen to her, trust her to understand. But I don’t see how anyone can. He took everything I loved, and then – I cannot forget what happened. Even now I’m not free of him!”

A shadow passed over Galadriel’s face. For a brief moment an image flared up in her mind, so brightly that Celebrimbor could see it also: a laughing man with clear blue eyes, his blonde hair braided down his back, the circlet on his brow adorned with the golden flower crown of Arafinwë’s house.

“I do understand,” she said softly. ”You know he murdered my brother, too.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be foolish. I wish Finrod was here with us. He would know what tortures you.”

“I thought of him often, when I was… held captive. How brave he was, and how kind. But he was released from the Halls before I got there.”

“I like to imagine that he and Celebrían are sitting in my father’s yard right now, drinking wine and disagreeing on politics.” Galadriel smiled, but her eyes were serious. “But let them enjoy it! They both did more than enough already. As did you, by the way.”

“Enough damage, indeed,” said Celebrimbor bitterly.

Galadriel shook her head. “My poor friend! Narvi’s view is not obscured by guilt. You should listen to her. I am very glad she is with you.”

“It is a mercy.” He laughed shortly. “I never expected the Valar to be merciful with us.”

“They surprise me sometimes.” Galadriel leant back in her chair and turned the glass in her hand. “Surely Elrond has introduced you to Mithrandir? He and the head of his order, the white wizard Curunír, will attend the White Council tomorrow at first light.”

“Another of them will come here? And you will ask them for council?” Celebrimbor’s voice was shaking, however much he tried to steady it.

“Mithrandir is a gentle soul, and a very dear friend. He was a student of the Lady Nienna.” Galadriel reached out and gently pried Celebrimbor’s fingers out of his sleeve. “You need not be afraid of him.”

Celebrimbor wished he could believe her.

When Celebrimbor returned to his quarters that night, Maglor’s harp and bundle were missing. Elrond, when informed, went pale and quiet, and told Celebrimbor to go to sleep. Through the window Celebrimbor could see him rapidly walking down the staircase towards the gardens, gazing left and right as if he expected his mentor to hide behind the rose bushes. Celebrimbor lay awake for long and worried. Of Narvi’s return he was sure, but if Maglor had found out about Galadriel’s visit, he might have left to return to his life of solitude. Likely he did not even realize how much it would hurt those who loved him.

He had nearly fallen into reverie when Narvi’s shimmering form appeared beside his bed. Automatically he shifted aside, and she stretched out beside him as she had done so often.

“I’m sorry,” he said before she could speak. “For not telling you.”

She nodded. It still bothered him how the movement of her beard did not rustle in the sheets, and the bed beneath him was not moved by her weight.

I hate him, she said simply. I never wanted to hate.

She lifted a hand and ran her transparent fingers across his temple, then along a thick black lock that fell over his shoulder. It felt like a breath of air.

“I know,” he returned quietly. “It is another of his crimes that he turned us into this. One of so many that it hardly matters.”

It does to me.

He almost reached out to pull her against his chest. Instead he shifted towards her, so that their faces were almost touching: intimately close, yet separated forever by the nature of their races. A single strand of her hair, once dark brown and warm to touch, fell over her cheekbone and had gotten tangled in her beard. He wished he could untangle it and wrap it around his finger. It would be coarser than his own, slightly curly, carrying the faint scent of her favourite oil. She followed his gaze, but did not smile.

He did this to us, she said. He did. Not you.

Their fingers rested next to each other on the pillow: hers broad and strong, his long and slender. It hurt that he could not join them. Abruptly he reached out to her with his fëa, to see if he could find the mind that so resolutely remained out of his reach. He had attempted it often when they had first grown close, used as he was to mind-speak, but he had never felt her as he could feel those who were dearest to him. Maglor did not allow him inside his mind now, fearing, perhaps, what he might find; but Narvi had touched him once, and he was yearning for more. She had tried to hold him back that night when the call of the Rings had become too strong, and like a rock in a rushing stream he had sensed hard granite, bottomless depths in the heart of the mountains, the heat of a forge fire, the rustle of parchment, the starlit glow of ithildin. It was there now when he reached out, but very faint, and when he tried to move closer, it slipped away again. Another time, perhaps.

“Does your death haunt you?” he whispered. “We have only been talking about what happened to me. I should have asked earlier.”

Sometimes. Narvi shrugged. It was horrible, but I believed it to be a misfortune. We always know it can come to this, we who dwell beneath the rock. You and I would have been separated still, even if you had watched me age! But if it was his doing, that changes everything. I could only live once, and he stole decades of that life from me. She watched him for a moment, her dark brows drawn together in thought. Don’t you dare to apologize, she said. Don’t you dare to wish you had never met me.

“I couldn’t, if I tried.”

Good. Her ghostly fingers brushed along his own, as if to curl around them. Amralizu.

“I love you, too. In all the ages of my life, you were the best thing that happened to me.”

Flatterer.

“My life wasn’t very good.”

Her eyes widened. He had never told her much of his past, and she had not asked. Since she did not ask now, he did not need to elaborate. Not yet.

There was another thing she needed to know, and it was a good one.

“Not all Khazad in that cave were killed,” he told her. “Three of your companions were close enough to the entrance, so that they were not entirely crushed. Jari was among them.”

Narvi propped herself up on an elbow. Jari?

“They lost a leg. But they lived to be almost three hundred! We met now and then for a drink and a chat.”

You did what?

“Aye, the old bastard liked me and you know it. Besides, you would have met with Erestor too if it had been me. We missed you.”

Only if I’d missed being bored out of my mind. A smile tugged at the corner of Narvi’s mouth. Jari. That’s… that’s good news, ghivasha.

They were long dead, the engineer who had possessed unmatched knowledge on hydraulics and wits as sharp as a dagger blade. But they had gone in their own time. It was a comfort not only to Narvi.

Celebrimbor considered telling her that Jari had not lived to see the fall of Eregion, but thought better of it.

“Have you seen Maglor today?” he inquired instead.

No, she returned. But I saw the dwarves again. I believe I could make myself known to one of them. Have you met Bifur? He suffered a head injury and speaks only Khuzdul. He addressed me twice, and I think he heard me too. She frowned. Thorin and his advisor met with Elrond, and I believe they plan to leave soon. Have you considered going with them?

“Thorin has not asked me to.”

What if he did? She watched him thoughtfully. Or Tharkûn?

“You know how I feel about Tharkûn. But if Thorin asks…” He bit his lip, considering. “I still need his help to find his father. We could accompany them for a few days, maybe cross the Mountains with them. But we shall see what is decided in the Council tomorrow.”

Her features relaxed into a smile.

The faint mist rising from the valley was coloured orange by the morning sun when Celebrimbor and Elrond ascended to the domed rotunda high above the falls, where the White Council was set to take place. The view was breathtaking, even more so than it was usual in Imladris, but Celebrimbor scarcely had eyes for it. His mind was on the three people who were already seated around the stone table: Galadriel, Mithrandir, and beside them a tall bearded man dressed entirely in white. He looked sterner than Mithrandir and resonated with power. Celebrimbor found the very sight of him terrifying.

Narvi, beside him, trudged on in silence, a short, stocky figure among the elves and wizards. She had not been invited, but there was no one to stop her going where she pleased. Now Celebrimbor took satisfaction in the fact that she ignored all polite conventions, especially since he and Elrond had vocally disagreed on how and why Thorin Oakenshield was not included. Elrond had been apologetic, but insisted that he deemed it unwise. Celebrimbor had very nearly refused to attend himself, until Galadriel had informed him that, since he was a topic of discussion himself, he should have a say in these matters. She did not elaborate on which “matters” she referred to.

“The Council is assembled,” she announced when Celebrimbor and his companions had stepped under the domed roof. “The Valar have sent us Celebrimbor the Ringmaker, who knows more about the Enemy and his weapons than any of us. Celebrimbor, this is Curunír, who is the Head of this Council. He has long studied the Rings and the secrets of their power.”

“The maker of the Three.” Curunír inclined his head. “How interesting. I wonder what the Valar mean to achieve by sending you here.”

“It all comes together, does it not?” Mithrandir, undeterred as ever by Celebrimbor’s disregard, gave him a warm smile. “I am very glad to have you here with us, Celebrimbor, even if I fear the topics of this council may not make you very happy. I would rather have presented you with a world that was rid of your old sorrows… but as it is, we can fight them together.”

“You speak of fighting,” said Curunír. “That is a grave exaggeration. We have been at peace for many centuries. The Enemy was vanquished. He lost the One.”

Mithraniír shook his head and leant back in his chair. He let his gaze glide over Galadriel, standing behind her chair, waiting, then to Elrond, whose brow was furrowed, until it rested on Celebrimbor.

“You don’t agree with this.”

“Indeed, I do not,” Celebrimbor confirmed, slightly annoyed to find himself and Mithrandir on the same side of the argument. “Ever since I left the coast, I have been hunted by his creatures. They tried to capture me. He knows I am here, and his mind is not idle.”

“The Nazgûl are afoot,” said Elrond. “This is a bad sign.”

Curunír shook his head. His deep-set, dark eyes scrutinised Celebrimbor in a way that made his skin crawl.

“We have come together at Elrond’s request,” said the White Wizard. “It must be decided if, and how, Celebrimbor’s reappearance results in a shift of powers that changes the status quo of the peace we have held for so long. We also need to speak about your recent activities in regard to that Dwarven kingdom, Gandalf. You take a great risk, and you did not consult us first.”

Celebrimbor could have sworn he saw Mithrandir roll his eyes. Galadriel placed a slender hand on the wizard’s backrest. Her gaze was unfocused, which probably meant that she was engaged in a mental conversation. Mithrandir’s beard twitched, and he inclined his head, as in acknowledgement.

“Indeed,” he said, “though those two matters are closely related. I have long been worried about Smaug. We all remember the great dragons of Melkor. Can we risk to give Sauron the advantage of so mighty an ally, should he ever rise to power again? I think not. The dragon could be turned into a terrible weapon against all who dwell in the East.”

“But if your dwarves wake him,” said Curunír, “he will turn on them also!”

“I am planning to prevent that. We will proceed with stealth and cunning.” Mithrandir folded his hands. His bright blue eyes focused on each of them in turn. “I believe that our time is running out,” he said, “and I think the Valar feel it also. Celebrimbor’s presence here might give us the advantage we need. We should attack Dol Guldur. It is the most likely place to find…”

“We have been over this,” huffed Curunír. “It is folly!”

“Folly it is to leave him to his designs!”

“I remember the long years of peace after the Dagor Aglareb,” said Galadriel. “The elves thrived in Beleriand. We believed that our siege could hold Morgoth at bay. We were wrong.” Her eyes found Celebrimbor’s for a moment, and he nodded. He remembered those times all too well, ancient as they were to the world today, and the assault of horror and flames that had followed.

“But this is precisely the point,” mused Elrond. “Should we attack, if we do not know his strength? What we need is more information. Much as I am loath to say it, we must send spies again before we plan an attack. People who are brave and experienced enough to…” He broke off and frowned, as if a sudden, unpleasant thought had crossed his mind. Both Gandalf and Galadriel looked at him curiously as he leant back in his chair, his mind shuttered so tightly that Celebrimbor felt the barriers from afar.

“It would be a useless sacrifice,” said Curunír. “Resulting in certain death for the unfortunate spies – perhaps worse, which is not without risk to us.”

“So what is your suggestion?” Celebrimbor had watched the conversation with mounting unease, and now could keep still no longer. “You do not wish to disturb the dragon. You do not want to confront Sauron. Do you think they will leave the world alone of we ignore them hard enough?”

Curunír met his eyes. At least this time, Celebrimbor thought grimly, there was no flattery or pretence of friendship. There would be no love lost between the two of them.

“Who would profit from an ill-advised attack that weakens our forces?” demanded the wizard. “Sauron could come out strengthened from it. You know this. There have been precedents… in your family, I believe.”

Celebrimbor grit his teeth. From the corner of his eye he saw Narvi crossing her arms, and a bright tendril of Galadriel’s thought touched his mind. Mithrandir shook his head and leant his elbows on the table.

“Now, now, there’s no need to get personal,” he said. “I do concede that spies are essential. But we must not wait long. I shall finish the business with the dragon, but then I plead we act without delay. Celebrimbor’s return at this point gives us an advantage, yet has also drawn Sauron’s attention…”

“Unfortunately,” Celebrimbor muttered.

“But what sort of advantage has it given us?” challenged Curunír, his bushy brows drawn into a deep frown. “Is the maker of the Rings an asset to us, truly?”

“I do hope so,” said Celebrimbor sharply.

“I do not mean personal offence,” said Curunír. “We must look at this from a purely reasonable side. The last time the grandson of Fëanor encountered Sauron, their joint powers brought doom over Eriador.”

Celebrimbor rose abruptly from his seat.

“That was not his fault,” Galadriel cut in before he could speak. Her mind had acquired a sharp edge, like a polished diamond.

“I am not suggesting he did it on purpose. But the power he wields is held together by a mind that could not resist Sauron before.”

“You have no idea,” said Celebrimbor very quietly, very much in control, “how much I resisted.”

“I am merely pointing out that it is a risk. We cannot afford to rely on friendship here.”

Abrâfu shaikmashâz, said Narvi very loudly into the silence that followed. Descendant of rats!

“Let me make sure I understand, and I want Celebrimbor to hear this,” said Elrond at last. “You believe that he is a liability?”

“I am merely suggesting caution.” Curunír’s eyes had not left Celebrimbor’s face. Celebrimbor bared his teeth. “All cards must be on the table now, else this council cannot fulfil its purpose. What are your plans, Ringmaker?”

“I have already told Elrond and Galadriel,” Celebrimbor said, still standing. “I mean to find and destroy as many of the Rings as I can.”

“That, to me, sounds like an even more improbable and dangerous undertaking than Gandalf’s journey with the dwarves.”

“Oh? How so?”

“There seem to be few possible outcomes to this,” said Curunír. “The chance of success is negligible. We know that all but one of the dwarven rings are lost; however, they cannot be your priority, as they were not of much effect -”

Celebrimbor had not known this, but his momentary distraction was short-lived.

“The Three are all gathered around this table, and I doubt that you wish them destroyed - indeed, it is to hope that you do not claim them from their current owners. The Nine are carried by the Nazgûl, who you have no hope of overcoming; you would, indeed, play into his hands if you try, for they would overwhelm you and submit you to his will.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Elrond calmly.

“As to the master ring,” continued Curunír, “it is better to be lost. Who would want it in the hands of the last Fëanorian?”

The world around Celebrimbor went very still. The ever-present sound of the falls in the distance faded, the song of birds ceased, and Mithrandir’s mouth moved but there were no words. Only a shrill, high tone pierced his thoughts, and with it rose a wind that shrouded his mind in shadow. For a moment he could see himself wielding the One, felt the rush of absolute power in his blood, elements and souls bending to his will, a web of control that rippled through Middle Earth from the Mordor to the Ered Luin. He saw the dark shape that had once been Annatar squirm beneath his foot, desperate, full of hatred, and he used the powers of the Ring to rip it apart until nothing remained.

When his vision returned to the present, he saw for a moment the formless shape of raw power behind the image of the white-robed wizard, radiating fierce intelligence, thirst for knowledge, contempt, greed. Greed.

“You want it for yourself,” Celebrimbor whispered. “You want them all for yourself.”

“Celebrimbor!” Elrond had risen to his feet, alarmed, but Celebrimbor did not wait for his opinion. If this creature held the trust of the wisest people in Middle Earth, there was only one thing left to do.

His ears rang as he stormed down the steps toward the gardens, back into the building, up another staircase and towards his chambers. With shaking hands he pulled his clothing from the wardrobe - travelling gear, heavy cloak, boots - the jewellery he had made in the Ered Luin -

What do you think you're doing? demanded Narvi, who had appeared in the doorway more quietly than a dwarf ever should.

"Packing," he snapped. "Leaving. This is urgent."

Let me get this straight, she growled. You want to run off and go - where?

“Dol Guldur. I must get there before he does.”

Have you lost your mind? Narvi strode up to him and crossed her arms. You said yourself that it will be well defended. We need a plan!

“The Nazgûl are there. I can control them; I know I can! The Rings will answer to me, I helped make them -“

They nearly killed you last time!

“Only because I was surprised! I’m better prepared now.”

This is madness! She reached out to grab his shoulder, then dropped her hand again. Celebrimbor, something is not right with you. Wait for Elrond – wait for Galadriel –

“They will tell me to trust the Maia! They are my friends, Narvi, but they do not see as I do…”

What about Maglor?

“I don’t know where he is. Perhaps he left already. Elrond knows, but he will not speak of it.”

He stuffed Dís’ map into his pack and rose to fetch his swords, which were resting in the corner by the door.

Didn’t you want to help the dwarves? Narvi asked, loudly.

“I can’t.” Both swords were freshly oiled and in good shape; he slid them quickly back into the sheaths. “I need to go after these rings now.” The thought of them in the hands of a wizard was unbearable. Mithrandír he did not trust; of Curunír’s ambitions he was sure.

It always comes back to the rings! Narvi intercepted him as he turned to grab his bundle, daring him to walk through her transparent form. They have been dormant for millennia! Even Tharkûn deems it wise to help Thorin before he goes after the Ringwraiths.

“Do not speak to me of Tharkûn!” he snarled. Unease stirred in the back of his consciousness, reminding him of Dís and his promise, but there would be time for that later. Nine rings were likely in Dol Guldur, and no one else had a right to them –

No one else has a right to them echoed another voice in his memory. He remembered Father brandishing his sword, swearing an Oath that should never be sworn, and Mother in armour, grim and determined, kissing his forehead one last time. No one else has a right to them!

But that had been something else entirely.

Narvi backed off, wide-eyed. Ghivasha, she said sharply. Wait a few hours at least. I’ve never seen you like this.

“There is no time! I must go as soon as I can be ready. Are you coming?”

For a long moment she stared at him, then she faded from his vision without another word.

Celebrimbor cursed her thick dwarven skull in several languages. For over an hour he held himself back, pacing, brooding. She did not return, and no one else came to see him. When the sun had fully risen over the top of the mountain, he could wait no longer. She would be back. Even if she was too stubborn to show herself, she would not abandon him.

Bumblebee rested her head upon his shoulder when Celebrimbor stepped to her side. He leaned his face against her reddish fur, savouring her warmth and the distinct smell of horse. He had seen her often, but given her less exercise than she would have liked, and so she was eager as a filly when he fixed his bundle behind the saddle and led her out of the stables.

Maglor waited for him outside, holding the reins of a tall brown mare.

“Elrond gave her to me,” he said by way of explanation. “Her name is Nightingale. We are ready to leave when you are.”

“I am glad you go with me.” Celebrimbor drew his uncle into a one-armed hug. Maglor froze in his embrace, looking surprised but pleased. It was a great relief to see him, though it could not fully disperse the feeling of unease in Celebrimbor’s heart.

“Have you seen Narvi?” he asked hopefully.

“Perhaps,” said Maglor, unblinking. “She will find us if she wishes to.”

That was not what he needed to hear, but he pushed the doubts away. She would come. It was inconceivable that she might not. “She would never let us go alone,” he said. “And you?”

“I have been waiting for you to leave.” A brief smile flitted over Maglor’s face. “Come now! Let us be on our way.”

They had left without her.

For a long moment Narvi remained rooted to the spot. Horses dozed in the lazy calm of a summer morning in Rivendell’s stables, swishing their tails at the flies that buzzed around them, but Bumblebee was missing, her bridle taken from the wall. Narvi had hurried to catch up after she had realized that Celebrimbor’s belongings were already removed from the guest room; too late. Too long she had lingered near the council, waiting in vain for Galadriel.

They had left without her.

She knew their general direction. It would be possible to catch up; she could move fast and needed no rest. And yet.

The plaza before the bridge was bustling with activity. The Company of Khazad was assembled, fastening their backpacks, making sure the weapons were ready: they were clearly preparing to leave. Thorin was giving commands, Balin and his warrior brother conversed in low voices, Bofur whistled a marching tune.

“Where are you heading, my lady?” someone behind her asked in Khuzdul. “Would you care to join us?”

She turned to see Bifur looking directly at her, expectantly, as if he did not find her strange at all.

For a moment, she wished that it could be so. She longed be with her own again. She would share their songs and stories, march along to wherever the road took them. There would be no ancient, unforgotten evil. She would not have to watch the man she loved slowly slipping into madness -

Celebrimbor.

No, she told Bifur. I wish in my heart that I could! But my husband is not well. I must find him.

“The crafting elf from the holly-land.” Bifur nodded. “Thorin minds him less than the others. Perhaps he can come too.”

He left already. I fear for his safety.

Bifur’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Why?”

Narvi considered the question for a moment. We were both betrayed and murdered, and his hurt is still a gaping wound. When we started our quest, he wanted redemption. The guilt was not even his to bear! But now I believe he seeks revenge .

“Against?”

Against Sauron the Deceiver.

Bifur whistled softly between his teeth.

“Do you know why there are only thirteen of us?” he asked. “Fourteen, if you count the hobbit.”

Narvi shrugged.

“It is because our quest is foolhardy too,” he explained. “We are heading towards the Lonely Mountain. We mean to take it back from the dragon.”

You want to fight a dragon with thirteen warriors.

“We mean to take it back,” Bifur repeated, unruffled. “Oh, we’re not all of us warriors. Miners, traders, craftsmen. I’m a toymaker myself. I used to be a fighter before…” He gestured towards the axe in his forehead. “But does that mean we should not go? We cannot leave the Mountain to Smaug. He has no right to it. If we do not try, no one will.”

Thirteen dwarrows, a ragged band of campaigners, led by the son of a missing king. There was little hope for them to survive their quest, but Narvi could see why they went regardless.

May the blessing of Mahal be with you , she said.

“And with you, daughter of Khazad-Dûm.” Bifur gave her a little bow. “Find your elf and help him. Maybe then your path will lead you to Erebor after all.”

Someone called his name, and he gave her a wink before he turned and joined his cousins. Narvi stood and watched as the Company marched across the stone bridge and strode along a narrow path into the Misty Mountains.

Withered white stones with engraved Tengwar signs marked the ancient path that led from Imladris into the deserted land of Eregion. The entire day Narvi headed South, passing through rough, barren country once she had left the sweetness of Imladris behind. The merciless light of a midsummer day almost blinded her, even now that she had no living eyes to shade. Celebrimbor had planned to cross the Misty Mountains at the Gelion pass, which was located several hundred miles south of Imladris. They would need over a week to reach it even if they travelled at a quick pace.

She did not feel Celebrimbor’s presence when evening fell, so she continued through the night and the following day. There was not much to see beside thickets of thorn bushes and huge boulders of pale grey rock, sometimes surrounded by patches of heather in violet bloom. Once, after ascending one of the steeper slopes, she saw in the distance the outline of mountains that had once been her home. But there was no time for heartache: she needed to find her companions first.

When night fell again and she ploughed on through the darkness, she felt the first twinges of worry. Celebrimbor would not have forgotten her. No matter what powers had taken hold of him, no matter if it was the Rings calling to him or the legacy of an ancestor she should have asked about, there was no doubt that his love for her still held true. He knew she was close behind. He should have lagged, should have waited, hoping that she would catch up soon. And even if by some evil fate his mind had clouded so suddenly, Maglor knew that she was following them. But she had seen no trace of her elves.

In fact, it had been long since she had seen one of the elvish stones that marked the way. They were set far apart and often in places that likely made sense only to elves. Still, the right course had been obvious even without the markers.

At least she found it obvious: heading straight towards the pass, it offered shelter in rocks and bushes while avoiding woodland, and the breathtaking view towards the Misty Mountains resonated deep inside her soul. Any dwarf would have been drawn towards this route. But dwarves had not made the path she was meant to follow.

Realization dawned. She sat down upon a rock and clutched her braid in frustration.

There was no way to tell when she had departed from the elven road, but it had to be over a day. Celebrimbor and Maglor must have noticed by now. Were they waiting for her, or did Celebrimbor believe she was trying to force his return to Imladris through sheer obstinacy? He would not take it well.

To locate him in the Wilderlands north of Eregion was akin to finding a fallen diamond in a coal mine. Turning back would delay her further: surely, he had not done the same. The only way to go, then, was onwards. She would meet them at the base of the Gelion pass.

Onwards, for many miles and days. She missed sleeping, if only because it interrupted the endless string of hours and thoughts. Dwarves were not made for a solitary life, least of all for walking alone in daylight without even the soothing touch of rock. The mountains, closer now, had not changed in millennia. Her heart was drawn towards them, though she knew what it would find there. Often she thought of Celebrimbor as he had once been, a spirit bright and ancient and unyielding, and of what had been done to him; and she feared, Mahal, she feared that it could happen again.

Beside a shallow stream that whirled around pebbles under grassy banks, she saw the first holly tree. She went towards it and put her transparent hand upon the stem: old it was, very old, but not one of those that had grown in Celebrimbor’s time. But this meant that Eregion was not far. The landscape would soon change from bushland to sun-filled woods, bright groves and clearances with summer flowers, and the rock… but she could not touch the rock anymore. Now she could not even f eel the bark of the tree, as she had when she had strolled the woods near Ost-in-Edhil with Celebrimbor.

And just as she remembered, through the night air came the sweet sound of elvish singing.

She had never found to be sweet until now . Elven music was floaty and strange and made no sense to her ears. But as she stood alone on the border of the ancient elf-land, the melody called to her in a wordless cry of beauty and sorrow.

Maglor?

Narvi turned and walked along the river towards the sound. It stopped for a moment, then began anew, louder this time. Sadness wove a gentle net around her, so that she could hardly remember a time when she had not been sad and lonely – not drifting, for millennia…

Maglor! Narvi shouted, although she began to understand that it was not him. The sorrow that engulfed her almost made her howl, and she was overcome with yearning for another soul, anyone to ease her endless solitude. Memories were dragged to the surface, in a way she could neither comprehend nor control : Her parents’ happy faces when they saw her first designs; Northri, beaming, showing off the diamond earing that was Nyr’s courting gift; Jari with a pint of ale in one hand and a quill in the other, arguing about blueprints; Celebrimbor’s naked body under her hands, muscles flexing as she drew him close to join him in pleasure; the same body dangling from a pole, mutilated, pierced with arrows, lifeless eyes wide open in a last echo of terror…

No! Narvi tried to pull out of the spell. These are my memories! Keep out!

But a distinct presence engulfed her and held her tightly in place, and the terrible singing filled the air, full of longing, full of power. The voice was female, Narvi realized, and there was no darkness in it, but still it threatened to tear her apart, like the current of the waterfall that does not hate the droplets it hurls into the deep.

Let me go, Narvi roared. Let… me…

Now she saw Ost-in-Edhil, elven homes amidst fountains and holly trees. A summer night turned into an inferno: the city burned, fire, blood, save them all, and there was Erestor in armour with fury in his eyes – the Lord was lost, they were fleeing, but the orcs came after them – running, running, for days, and there were armies but they could not get through. Orcs. Orcs.

Narvi gathered her strength. She had used a shield against the dark wraiths, but they had not invaded her mind. Now she needed a different sort of strength. She conjured up granite to shield the core of her being, and ithildin to glow in the darkness. The warmth of a hearth to drive off the cold – the faces of her family to remember who she was -

The voice wavered.

Let me go, Narvi urged. Then we can speak!

But as the grasp of the presence slipped, the singing dissolved into a low wail and died. Not even a brush of wind moved the night air. Narvi looked around.

Who are you? she called.

But there was no answer.

She did not search for the spirit. Perhaps she would have found her, perhaps not. She pitied the unhappy soul who had to be one of Celebrimbor’s own people, but the risk was too great.

Without further incidence she reached the base of the Gelion pass. From there she followed the elven path, clearly marked at this point, back into the direction of Imladris. Her friends could not be far behind, but Bumblebee needed rest and surely they had spent some time waiting for her, which gave her a lead. The path wound through rolling hills sparsely wooded with holly trees. Broad rays of sunlight reached the ground and made the dancing midges shimmer like bright spots of gold.

But it was not only midges that floated in the summer breeze. The flakes of ash were few at first, but as she moved on the drift became denser. She quickened her pace. These were not the light, fragrant ashes of a wood fire.

In a small clearing she found the source, and it brought her a visceral memory of sickness. A pile of bodies had been burned beside the road. Greasy smoke hung in the air, but the fire had died: not long ago, surely, or the wind would have dispersed the smoke. The bodies were orcish, ten perhaps or twelve, judging by the charred remains. No elves, she noted with cautious relief. But where were the elves?

A battle had taken place, that much was clear from the blood on the grass, from broken branches and trampled ground. But what had happened next? The woods were as silent as they had been before, with birdsong and the quick rustle of animals in the bushes the only sounds. The brambles all around the clearing were torn and crushed. This is work for a hunter , she complained to an unreadably churned patch of ground . Whose idea was it to send an architect upon this quest?

She was still examining the bushes when she felt the brush of a familiar presence. It was like Maglor, yet not entirely so. Grief, ancient and unspeakable, paired with raw power that did not belong in the world as she knew it: Maglor possessed both, but he was not the only one.

Narvi whirled around. Hello?

The vague shape of a person glimmered against the smoke, pale like the reflection of lightning against clouds.

I know you. You are Maglor’s companion, are you not? Narvi Norisul, at your service.

The figure shone a little brighter, which seemed to take great effort: it made the apparition flicker like a blue candle-flame. Narvi recognized the reedy outline of an elf, likely male, judging by the form. She felt the pull of his spirit. He wanted something. He was angry.

Have you seen them? Narvi stepped closer. Where are they?

He pulled again, then moved off the road and into the forest, and Narvi followed his lead.

For a company of this size, the orcs were remarkably quiet. Narvi heard little of them before she reached their camp in a valley nearby. Seventeen of them had survived the skirmish. They had posted guards, and some were gathered around fires to roast game, but many rested, for it was daytime and they seemed to have little fear of an attack.

Celebrimbor and Maglor were sitting with their backs against a large holly tree, both bound on hands and feet. Gagged too, Narvi noted, likely because the orcs had not known which of them was the infamous bard. Celebrimbor’s face was streaked with blood, but his eyes were watchful. Maglor leant against him, either relaxed or injured; knowing him, it could be both at once. But they were held not far from the Southern border of the camp. Narvi could not see their baggage, except for the swords and Maglor’s harp, which were piled in a careless heap among orcish cooking gear and spare weapons, beside a small brook. Bumblebee was nowhere in sight.

It shouldn’t be hard to free them, Narvi mused. But a body would be helpful.

Her guide hovered beside her, quivering, as though even this faint shadow demanded all his strength.

A body.

Narvi let her gaze wander through the orc horde. Two soldiers squatted beside the prisoners. One was carving a piece of wood with inexperienced hands, the other idly throwing leaves into the fire.

It was forbidden. Moreover, it was utterly repellent. These were orcs . The mere idea made her sick.

But it might be possible . She told herself it was not curiosity that made her consider the idea. Likely it was the only way to save her friends. Narvi turned towards her companion.

Have you ever tried to possess another being?

He recoiled a little.

Neither have I, but let’s save the qualms for later. If we can cut them free and distract the orcs… they’re both good fighters. They’ll escape.

She waited for a moment, but he did not answer. A vague sense of terror that was not her own prickled in the back of her mind.

I’m going now , she informed him. We cannot waste time. It will be hard to escape once night falls, and I dare not imagine what will happen then.

She circled the camp, letting go of her focus on holding a solid form and drifting towards the two prisoners . A short distance behind them she halted. Celebrimbor’s presence was cold and slippery as an icicle and barely reacted to her touch. If there was terror underneath, he held it under tight control.

She focused on the carving orc, mostly because the way he abused the wood was too much to bear.

The orc seemed to be in good spirits. He was grunting some sort of marching song under his breath, more or less in time to his knife strokes as he carved. As she watched, he and his companion exchanged a few words in their guttural speech. Both laughed, and the second guard threw a handful of leaves at the first, who stabbed them onto his knife and flicked them into the fire.

So far, so good. She had no elvish telepathy to hold onto, as she had done when she had when she had touched Celebrimbor’s mind. Instead she channelled her powers, just as a magnifying glass intensifies light, and plunged.

She had not expected the pain. The orcish body would have screamed had she already controlled his voice. Narvi felt herself tarnish at the edges, corroded by the contact with the twisted soul. Darkness, clammy like half-dried blood, stinking like a rotting corpse, driven by cruelty and primal fear: she lit ithildin against it. Khazad ai-mênu! The mind of the dwarves is like rock and will not be defeated!

He was weaker than the elven spirit who had tried to ensnare her, and merely put up a brief struggle before he slunk back into a dark corner of the orcish brain. It was easy, far too easy for an act so illicit and blasphemous. But her spirit was not made for this form. Pain like acid burned her, like the slimy, poisonous algae that grew in the Northern tunnels beyond the emerald mines of Khazad-Dum.

She forced her soul to take control and assessed her surroundings. T he body had frozen under her assault and now sat unmoving, glaze-eyed, its hand still clutching the knife half way through slicing a curleque of wood from the stick. The orc eyes were not as sharp as her own and watered in the sunlight, but the disadvantage was compensated by a heightened sense of smell. Apart from the stink of rot and orc skin, which almost made her retch – you are an orc now, so behave like one, you fool - she could separate at least three different flavours of burnt wood from the fires, a fox slinking through the bushes behind her, the distinct smell of elven blood. She risked lifting her orc’s head up to look around. No one paid attention to her. Only the guard beside her was near enough to pose a danger, but he had not changed his pose, though he had ceased to throw leaves into the fire.

He was sitting perfectly still. Too still, in fact. His eyes were glittering with a distinctly un-orcish radiance. Reflecting treelight, Celebrimbor had said, when she had asked him why his own eyes looked so strange.

With a grunt Narvi made the body rise and stagger to Celebrimbor’s side. She felt a chill when she met his gaze. The light in his eyes had turned into the pale glow of frost: hard, cold, unforgiving hatred. She longed to reach out to his fëa but could not risk to release the tight control over her stolen body.

Instead she crouched beside him as if to check his bonds. Celebrimbor stiffened. One particularly bulky orc looked up and barked a few words that sounded like an admonishment; the leader, probably, and she had no idea what he wanted. All she could think of was to nod and point at Celebrimbor’s ties, while the captured soul beside her stirred and trembled. The orc stared for a long moment with his hard yellow eyes, then turned his attention back to his meal. Narvi waited a few seconds before she made the body cut through the rope that bound Celebrimbor’s hands.

Later she would scold herself for her lack of foresight.

There was no time to scream. As soon as Celebrimbor’s hands were free, he caught her wrist, whirled around, snatched the dagger and slashed the orc’s throat. Agony nearly tore Narvi’s spirit apart. The dark shadow of the orc’s own soul whirled around her, wailing, drifting – he was dying, and so was she, and she felt the pull as he was called away, he was – he had to go, and she…

Narvi? What are you doing there?

Celebrimbor’s fëa called out to her, blinding light reflected on silver, urgent, panicked. Narvi! No! Why are you – no, stay with me!

There was a summons, but it was not for her. The orcish spirit struggled briefly before it relented and faded away. His presence left an echo of pain and terror and – there was a tinge of something softer, transparent like swirling dust. It felt almost like the touch of an elven mind, a faint memory of sorrow and relief.

Narvi!

Celebrimbor had freed himself and was now cutting Maglor’s ties. At close range Narvi could see that Maglor’s shirt was stained red, but he was fully alert.

I’m here, she assured, her voice a little rattled. That hurt.

“Couldn’t be helped,” he murmured. Around them the orcs began to shout and reach for their weapons. But the body was dead - fool of an elf, why could he not hold still while he was freed - and the moment for distraction had passed. Celebrimbor clutched his knife. Maglor ripped the dead orc’s scimitar from its sheath and slaughtered his way towards his harp.

In the general uproar the second guard had risen unnoticed. He staggered towards the leader who was barking commands and paid him no heed, drew his sword, and beheaded him with one clean stroke.

That distraction was effective enough.

Cries of outrage went through the horde, but leaderless, they were uncoordinated. Some turned against the traitor who fought viciously but soon fell under their strokes, others tried to hold the captives, but without unity, they could not match the elves. There were too many to kill them all, but it was easy for Celebrimbor and Maglor to grab their own weapons and run, run, run, across glades and through thickets until the shouting stopped, then for a while along the riverbed to mask their scent, until Maglor’s tunic was soaked with blood and Celebrimbor swayed on his feet.

When the sun had long set and they could not go on, they retreated into a grove of hazel bushes. Now, and only now, Celebrimbor collapsed to his knees with a soundless scream. Maglor held him and sang softly as he sobbed and thrashed, and Narvi called his name until he looked at her with large, unseeing eyes, unable to recognize her. It was long before he calmed enough to nestle into Maglor’s arm, trembling like a sick child.

“My brother was like this after he escaped from torture.” Maglor brushed a wet strand from Celebrimbor’s forehead. “He will recover. But we have reason to worry. We were ambushed, which means that Sauron is searching for us along the roads towards the South. He probably controls the pass across the mountains, too.”

I lost my way and went along the dwarven route , admitted Narvi. There were no orcs around. Only an elf ghost who desired my company.

“A houseless spirit.” Maglor sighed. “They lose themselves if they remain alone for too long, and then they become dangerous. There was nothing you could do.”

I figured as much. Narvi considered asking after Maglor’s companion but decided to forego it for now. But what do we do, if all routes are watched?

“Not all routes.” Celebrimbor did not open his eyes, but his voice was almost steady. “Only the elvish ones. We will go through Khazad-Dûm.”

Land of holly, land of silver. Sweet glades where purple heather quivered in the summer breeze, and clear brooks that rippled around pebbles of light brown and mossy green. Caves deep and rich of gems, covered by curtains of ivy and weeds. Rolling hills shone golden in the sunset: on the other side, not far, the majestic profile of Celebdil.

On the slopes around a valley, surrounded by holly trees, there once rose a city. High were the towers upon the hills, so when the weather was fair and the mists had cleared, the view reached all the way to the High Falls of Khazad-Dûm. Fair were the archways and the bridges that crossed the River Sirannon, made of marble and granite in eggshell white, and the little plazas and fountains hidden within a maze of buildings and greenery. In the heart of the city stood the domed rotunda of the House of the Jewel-Smiths, where smoke of white and grey rose from the forges, and elven speech was mingled with deep dwarven voices and the never-ceasing song of metal and stone.

Celebrimbor searched until his hands were bleeding from the bramble thickets and his hair was tangled with burrs. Then he fell to his knees and wept.

Nothing was left of Ost-in-Edhil. There were no ruins, no withered stones carved by an elven hand. Poppies blossomed where once stood the House of the Mírdain, on the very spot where he had fought his last desperate battle. Not a single cobblestone remained from the market place, once filled with voices and laughter, lit with silver lanterns for the midsummer feast. Not far from the guild-house had been his own halls, built in Noldorin fashion that echoed the grace of Tirion; not a fortress, for he had lived too long in those, but airy and inviting and of stunning beauty. He had seen them burn before the end. Now not even the ashes remained. All they had built and worked for was long gone, ravaged and destroyed and then unmade by millennia of rain and wind, overgrown with grass and trees and flowers. Even the river was merely a shallow brook, not the stream it once used to be.

He had meant to preserve that which was loved. He had only helped to unmake it faster.

Narvi stood beside him, unmoving as the rock, wordless in her own sorrow. Long they remained there on the banks of the Sirannon, while the sun sparkled on the water and only the faint call of the kingfisher mingled with the gurgle of the waves.

Eventually Maglor dropped to Celebrimbor’s side and put an arm around his shoulders. “Not forgotten,” he said, answering for the first time Celebrimbor’s thoughts rather than his words. “I hear the lament of stone and water. The Sirannon still grieves for your people. But I feel joy too. The land remembers you and welcomes you home.”

“My home is gone,” said Celebrimbor, and he knew that both Maglor and Narvi understood his anguish because neither of them had a home to come back to.

“The land still remembers,” Maglor repeated. “Let us be on our way now. It does not do to dwell on misery.”

That’s rich, coming from you, muttered Narvi.

Maglor’s eyes widened when he looked at her. Apparently he had not considered what it meant for him to say these words, and he seemed unsure how to feel about it. Perhaps, Celebrimbor thought with a swift sparkle of hope, perhaps the millennia of guilt and despair were slowly losing their grip on his uncle. That was a good thing. It might not be much, compared to what they had lost, but it was enough to make him rise and turn his face once more into the direction of Khazad-Dûm.

“We told the mares to run when it became clear that we would lose,” Maglor explained to Narvi as they made their way on foot through the forests towards the Dwarven realm. “Orcs eat horse flesh. But they will find their way back to Imladris.”

“It is as well, since we can’t take the main road. And we could not have taken them into Khazad-Dûm.”

Celebrimbor tried for an encouraging smile, because indeed it was all for the best. Bumblebee was safer in Imladris. The horses’ return would upset Elrond, especially because they still carried most of the baggage, but there was nothing to be done about it now. And it was certainly better that they had to avoid the great road to Khazad-Dûm, except for the stairs at the High Falls: it would not do to dig deeper into memories he would rather leave undisturbed.

But in his heart, he missed his chestnut friend. All the way from Círdan’s halls she had given him comfort in the steady, undemanding way that only the affection of an animal can offer.

That is as well, said Narvi. I worried about the poor beast. Not more, mind you, than I worried about her master.

Ah. That.

“You saved our lives, Narvi,” offered Celebrimbor. “I do not know how to thank –“

I worried about her master running off like a dwarfling into an unstable mithril mine.

“I thought you were right behind me! Surely you must see that there is reason to make haste.”

No.

“Excuse me?”

No. There was no reason to drop everything and run into Sauron’s open arms. What are you planning to do? Challenge him to single combat?

Maglor drew a sharp breath.

“If I have to,” Celebrimbor muttered, although he did not mean it.

“And if it is Balrogs?” Maglor’s words were soft, but a gust of frozen wind prickled on Celebrimbor’s face. “What then?”

Celebrimbor stopped in his tracks and looked from one to the other. Maglor had turned pale, and the light in his eyes flared brightly. Narvi watched him as she had first watched Annatar when the traitor had been a guest in their home: unsmiling, distrustful, calculating.

Suddenly he found it very hard to speak.

“I am not my grandfather,” he managed. Narvi’s eyebrows rose. Maglor shook his head, slowly.

“You look like him,” his uncle said in the same soft voice, “and now you act like him as well. I worry.”

“I only wish to –“

To fight the embodiment of evil? To take revenge for the hurt inflicted on himself and his people?

To take back what was his?

He drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders, for he shivered in the warmth of the summer day, and without another word he turned towards the mountain again.

Narvi came to him late one night when they had made a camp near the foot of the High Falls. They hid now more carefully than before, which was why they had retreated into one of Eregion’s many natural caves. Maglor had settled behind a few large boulders that concealed the entrance, looking out under a curtain of fern with an absent look in his eyes. It looked almost like he was in reverie, but Celebrimbor had seen his ears twitch at the rustle of a badger in the bushes.

Deeper in the cave, in a hiding-place that would suit a dwarf, Celebrimbor had wrapped himself in his cloak. They had lost their bedrolls, and though the nights were warm, he found the layer of clothing a comfort. Sleep eluded him, but they would wait for the day to travel again.

Tell me about Fëanor.

Narvi had drifted towards him without a sound. When he looked up he saw her sitting with her back against the rock, running strong but insubstantial fingers across the surface. Her handsome face was calm and very serious.

Celebrimbor closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall.

“He has a bad name among my kin,” he admitted after a pause.

Why?

“Because he went to war.”

Narvi waited, wordlessly. Celebrimbor sighed.

“He was the greatest creator of my people,” he explained, deliberately choosing words that a Khazad would understand. “Morgoth stole the work of his heart and murdered his father. Fëanor swore revenge.”

Any dwarf would have done the same.

“Perhaps. But this was a terrible oath. He condemned himself to everlasting darkness if he should fail; himself and all his sons, in the name of the One. It drove them to war against their own folk.”

Narvi's fingers stilled.

Maglor?

“Yes. And my father, and all their brothers. They all swore with him.”

Narvi looked past him toward the entrance, where Maglor’s shadow was unmoving in the moonlight. He could probably hear them, even if he chose to ignore it. Did they succeed?

Celebrimbor shook his head. Narvi reached out to grab a pebble, but her fingers passed through it, and she frowned.

“I don’t know what will become of them,” Celebrimbor admitted. “I saw my father in Mandos. But they have never been pardoned. Their deeds…” He chuckled, but it tasted bitter on his tongue. “Their deeds will be the matter of song until the last days of Arda. So Fëanor foretold it, and so it has come.” Narvi huffed, and he reached for her transparent hand, pretending to curl his own around it. “I’m sorry. I know Maglor is your friend.”

He is. And I am sorry about your father. But you were telling me about Fëanor.

Fëanor, the Darkening, and how it had all begun: how could he ever find the words to tell her? Why had he not told her already, his strong, steadfast, beautiful mate, who had shared all else of him?

“I wanted to keep you away from this,” he said. “Away from the Doom of the Noldor. To evil end shall all things come that they begin well. The dispossessed they shall be forever!” He laughed without mirth. “And it came true, did it not? I thought it would spare my mortal wife at least! I thought we could begin anew when the war was over and the Silmarils were gone…”

He paused for breath. Narvi did not speak, but she lifted a hand and ran her fingers over his cheek, gently, so he could almost feel the callouses on her palm. Belatedly he realized that she was trying to wipe his tears away.

“I’m sorry, melmenya,” he whispered. “You married a doomed man. It was unforgivable to keep this from you.”

Your family seems to have a record of unforgivable deeds, she said, and rested her ghostly hand on his cheek. Did it ever occur to your lot that you could ask for forgiveness?

He shook his head, unable to speak. She crouched over him and cupped his face in both hands. For a long moment she held him, her face so very close, her deep, dark eyes, her strong nose and cheekbones, the coarse dark beard: all transparent and without substance. But still she leaned in and kissed him. He felt the faint brush of her lips, the memory of a scent, smoke and pipe weed and cedar oil, and his fëa called out for her dwarven spirit, to reach for him as she had once before. Amralizu, he heard her voice, a fierce whisper that turned into a Khazad chant and resonated in the depths of his mind, amralizu, and then he sensed her again, purging fire and echoing caves and ithildin, ithildin, the radiant reflection of stars and moonlight and the silver of Telperion. He let himself fall as she called him, until he drowned in her light, until their fëas mingled as only elvish minds could, never those of Khazad and Elf, not even in intimate union: but now she was strong, and everything she was flowed through him until they could hardly tell which parts were elf and which were dwarf, because they were one.

Amralizu, sang the one. Nalyë melmë cuilenyo.

Not all of it was light; there was the taste of metal and screams in the dark, the long weary grief of loss after loss after loss, and a faint brush of something slimy, like poisonous algae in the emerald mines and that thought felt familiar. But it was all part of the whole, swirling shadows in a pattern of brightness and silver and bittersweet joy.

But they were still separate souls, and so eventually they drifted apart, each slowly drawing back into their own self. Celebrimbor blinked and clenched his fingers experimentally. He felt light-headed. This was what his elven friends had praised – Galadriel mainly, but Erestor as well – and they had pitied him, even though they never said so, because the experience would be forever beyond his reach. But now it was not, and he wanted to sing with joy. Beside him Narvi’s form shone fiercer than he had ever seen her, a vibrant echo of the light that still pulsed through his being. For the first time since her death, her smile was radiant.

For a while they rested side by side, quietly reveling in the wonder of what had been given to them. Then Narvi placed a hand on his heart.

Tell me all, she said. About Fëanor.

For a long time she was quiet when he had spoken. Finally, finally he had found the words: not always the right ones, and some were near impossible to speak, but now he had draped the whole tapestry before her like the weavings of Vairë, a picture of horror and despair, of cruelty and doom and shattered dreams – and yet of beauty, somewhere beyond all that, of unfulfilled longing and a hope that could never be broken. Now she knew it all, and he felt strangely relieved.

Narvi leaned against the rock, as she always did when in need of comfort, and her thumb drew touchless circles on Celebrimbor’s wrist.

I do not understand it all, she admitted. But it feels like before, all I could see was the glimmer of ruby in a wall of granite, and now I am holding the gem in my palm.

“It is not a precious gem.”

It is ruby. Red as blood. She ran her hands across her face. I never heard the full tale of the Cursed Necklace of Tumunzahar. My folk tells it in a different way.

“If you want the full tale, you will have to ask Maglor. But it would not be kind on him.”

I see why he did what he did. Narvi met his eyes, calmly studying the surprise that must be showing on his face. To my folk, the work of our hands is sacred. We do not forgive its theft. The Silmarils belonged to Fëanor.

“Yes. They did.” Celebrimbor frowned, suddenly feeling that he was treading on very thin ice. “But my people know no greater sin than kinslaying.”

Oh, do they not? Narvi watched him thoughtfully. Dwarves have often made war on other dwarves. What do you think would have happened if someone had stolen Durin’s greatest treasure from a thief and claimed it as their own?

The question was frightfully easy to answer. It was ill-advised to come between a dwarf and their property, even if the dwarf happened to be one’s own wife.

Of course, Narvi continued without waiting for an answer, if Durin had made war on them first to steal their treasure, there would have been a demand for wergild. A proper demand, mind you, not another theft in return. In severe cases, there might have been a revenge expedition.

“Alqualondë.” Celebrimbor sighed. “I know. My people were desperate, but that does not excuse what they did.”

They stole the other elves’ treasure…

“… and killed them!”

Well, of course, people die in a battle! They stole their treasure, and then they destroyed it. How could they destroy it?

Celebrimbor could only shrug. There had been reasons, but none of them were easy to explain; especially not to someone whose cultural values differed so wildly from his own. Perhaps it was best that they had met in times of peace.

“Do dead people matter less to you than treasure?” There was no way to put this gently.

She watched him for a long, silent moment.

We set boundaries and demand of others to respect them. This is why we have so many laws and regulations. Yes , she nodded decisively, I see why Fëanor was a problem.

So apparently his family’s vilest crimes were not the Oath and the kinslaying, but the theft and burning of the swan ships? Trust the Khazad to turn the plainest truth on its head.

“The effect remains the same,” he said, rubbing his neck where his muscles started to ache. “We were doomed. And we are not Khazad. Things are different for us.”

Apparently. It was a cruel judgement, cruel and useless. It made matters worse, not better. How many innocents died because of it? She gave him a short, barking laugh. And you say we don’t place enough value on actual lives!

“I never said that. And incidentally, I agree with you.”

I know. Forgive me. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the stone again. I never imagined the Valar as merciless. Certainly not Mahal. I still cannot believe he is.

“There is no way for us to tell.” Celebrimbor remembered the Vala of Earth and Fire, remembered the wonders he had seen and the skills he had learned. The memories awoke a deep longing in his heart, a longing that was the very reason why Annatar had charmed him so easily.

Narvi spoke no more after this. She remained at his side but lost in thought, and he followed the path of his own musings until the night ended.

Dusk fell again after a long day of travel when they finally ascended the stairs at the High Falls – old stairs, broken stairs, but at least they were still there; unused for millennia, but hewn into the rock by dwarven mattocks in places were soft earth was too sparse to cover it. When Celebrimbor had last climbed these stairs, in the company of Khazad who were now long returned to stone, of elves who died under orcish blades not much later, the rock had been well-kept, the path flanked with lanterns that had sometimes been lit at night and painted a glowing pattern on the mountainside. The lanterns were gone now, as were the people he remembered, and the mighty falls now trickled in rivulets down the rocks.

From the top of the stairs, a shallow valley led towards the towering walls of Khazad-Dûm. It was now mostly filled by a lake, but not a crystal mountain lake as Kheled-zâram: dark and sinister it lay in the shadows. A foul smell arose from its waters: algae, perhaps, but likely something more sinister. Only a narrow, slippery edge of stone was left to walk upon along the side of the mountain. Across the lake, the ancient holly trees still marked the location of their gate.

Narvi stood still as a statue when she saw it and would not move for a long while. A wave of guilt made Celebrimbor’s stomach turn. In his determination to cross the Misty Mountains, he had decided that they would enter her lost home, the desecrated realm of her people, where the dust of her own bones lay scattered under tons of granite. She had accepted it in silence, but he should have known; he should have known! For the valley in their times had been a bustling place that saw traders and fighters, craftspeople and musicians. Elven jewel-smiths with the traditional braids of the Mírdain would walk beside dwarven goat-herds returning from their labour with their packs full of fresh hides, smoked meat and cheese. The trumpets would sound from the gates to greet guests and citizens of status.

In dim light of dusk, the valley now lay abandoned: no trumpet sounded through the evening breeze, no elven song brightened the eerie call of the crows.

Maglor shuffled his feet and broke the silence.

“I have never been here,” he said, “and I wish no offence to you, Narvi: I should have liked to see this place in the times of Khazad-Dûm’s glory. But evil has befallen it now. It cannot be trusted.”

The orcs overran the valley when Eregion fell, she snapped. The doors were never opened again.

Celebrimbor closed his eyes and tried not to picture the scene.

For a moment he considered turning back. If they walked along the dwarven path, they might reach Imladris undetected. They could hold council with…

… with one Maia whom he did not trust, and one who was clearly hungry for power.

He needed the rings. No one else must get to them first.

“Come,” he said. “Let us open the gate.”

Speak friend and enter.

The ancient metal hummed under Celebrimbor’s hands. He called it to life with long-lost words, and it answered him, him and the light of the moon that had risen over the peaks of Celebdil. For the first time in four thousand years the threads of ithildin flared up brightly, more radiant than the crystal lamps in the Halls of Khazad-Dûm.

The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria.

Speak friend and enter.

I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Eregion drew these signs.

She stood at his side with a hand on his arm, as she had when they beheld their creation for the very first time. Ithildin did not fade with the ages. The metal itself was broken in places, but not the picture of light it shaped. The crown of Durin and the stars of Kheled-zâram, the hammer and anvil, the Two Trees; and right between them, the Star of Fëanor.

A hand rested on his shoulder, a living hand, more tangible than the brush of Narvi’s presence. Maglor offered no words, knew that none were fitting; but his mind touched Celebrimbor’s for a rare, fleeting moment, awe and grief and wonder merged into an intricate melody. It took Celebrimbor a moment to realize that the music was not only in his thoughts. Maglor raised his voice in song, and it was a wordless lament for the Khazad, for Celebrimbor and Narvi, and for the House of Fëanor.

When the last echo had faded, Celebrimbor looked at Narvi. She met his eyes, and though she looked calm, he knew that if she were alive, there would be tears on her face. Without another word she nodded.

He stepped back to see the gate one more time, to treasure the image in his memory, in all its wonder and sorrow.

“Mellon,” he spoke.

And the Doors opened.

Chapter End Notes

"Amralizu" means "I love you" in Khuzdul. Translating the same into Quenya was more difficult than I thought, since apparently there are multiple translations which aren't interchangeable. "Nalyë melmë cuilenyo" appears to mean "You are the love of my life". If someone knows better, feel free to correct me.

Narvi went in first.

This was how it had to be. Celebrimbor wished so dearly to take the burden from her, but she would not hear of it. She stepped into the darkness with her head held high, the first dwarf to enter the Dwarrowdelf in nearly a thousand years.

It was ravaged, but recognizable – and not only by sight. Celebrimbor had never possessed the stone-sense, but now the low hum of rock resonated through his body, and he knew, he knew, that it was slate and granite, felt thick veins of silver and mithril pulsing beneath the surface, and the sparkle of gems like the showers of a firework in between. It called to him in a powerful voice, beckoning him to go deeper, and Narvi whipped around and grabbed his arm before she remembered that her fingers could not touch.

What is this?, she demanded, and her eyes were alight in the darkness. I sense the essence of the Mountain! It cannot be. I lost it in death.

“I feel it too, though I should not,” said Celebrimbor, and they stared at each other for a moment until Maglor shook his head.

“I sense nothing of the kind,” he said. “Only darkness and danger. This land has seen death, and sees it still.”

Narvi nodded, looked from one to the other, then turned abruptly and walked ahead.

The entrance chamber had been plain even in their day, unadorned by gems and precious metals. However it had been planned and constructed under Narvi’s supervision, which meant dwarven stonework at its finest. There had been little for the orcs to scratch off the walls and carry away. In the days of Khazad-Dûm’s glory it had been bustling with strangers, and thus it was constructed to impress with skill rather than opulence. The tunnel that led into the lower levels was unchanged, except for the stuffy smell of ancient air.

Narvi strode forward, distant and silent, and Celebrimbor lengthened his pace to keep up with her. His torch, hastily constructed with the meagre means they had, threw flickering patches of orange against the black walls. Behind him, Maglor kept close but said nothing.

A maze of darkness now lay where once had been a kingdom illuminated by crystal lamps. But worse than that was the silence. Here, in the outskirts of the realm, had rung a cacophony of voices, laughter, heavy footsteps, the metal-on-metal of soldiers walking in armour. Closer towards the heart of Khazad-Dûm, there had been music: the drone of deep voices in vast halls, harp notes pearling like cool drops of sound among merry fiddles and bold trumpets that filled the mountain with song and dance. And deeper still, in the forges, the never-ceasing work of miners and artisans had echoed through the depths.

Now there was nothing except the rustle of bats and the steady drip of water, unchanged for a millennium. No voices, no songs, no hammers on mithril.

For many hours they walked the broad, comfortable tunnels that had been public spaces and accessible to elven visitors. A number of doorways opened on both sides, and eventually Narvi disappeared into one of them, a narrow, half-hidden passage where two dwarves - or elves - could not walk abreast. Celebrimbor and Maglor ducked to follow her into a low tunnel.

We must avoid the direct way.

Narvi’s voice was deeper than usual; deeper, but also louder, and her form flared brighter than before. All the time she had spoken little and rarely looked back at her companions. Celebrimbor could only guess that she was purposefully guarding her feelings, for the force of her grief would all but make the mountain crumble around them.

“I trust your guidance,” said Celebrimbor, though he knew a good part of Khazad-Dûm himself. To hide from the orcs, they would have to go deeper.

Not so deep that they would disturb what lurked near the roots of the mountain. Celebrimbor had no desire to imitate Fëanor quite so literally.

“How long will we be in here?” Maglor’s face appeared narrow and pale in the torchlight. His ears twitched constantly. Once again, Celebrimbor thought with a flicker of amusement, his uncle had not questioned the route until they had gone too far to turn back.

It would be three days, with neither of you needing much rest. But as it is, we will have to take detours, so I’m counting on five. Narvi threw a glance over her shoulder. Even I do not know every tunnel, nor what was altered after my time, but for my trade I needed to be familiar with all the basic maps. If we are lucky, the orcs will never guess that we were here.

“Between Maglor and myself you’re stuck with the unluckiest pair in all Arda,” Celebrimbor pointed out. Maglor snorted. Narvi hesitated for a moment to touch Celebrimbor's arm with her bright, transparent hand.

On they went, through a maze of passages and caves that had once been lodging quarters and weapon chambers. Some areas were unchanged, except that they had been plundered, while elsewhere wide fissures split the rock: without the dim torchlight and the soft glow of Narvi’s ghostly form, both elves would have tumbled to their deaths before long. For hours they went through the section of Khazad-Dûm that was mostly reserved for private homesteads, though there was a communal dining hall for those who wished to take their meal in company - which had generally involved song, drink, argument, and a large amount of ruckus.

Celebrimbor recognized the tunnels where Narvi’s family had lived. Not far beyond lay the quarters she had built for him as a wedding gift. As he walked along the silent passage, Celebrimbor longed to turn around the familiar corner, the one with a sprinkle of silver on the side that looked like an axe; he would turn left twice, then right, and stand before a wall of polished rock. He would draw secret runes on silver-streaked granite, and the wall would slide open; and he would walk straight past the table where ruby-set goblets gathered dust because cleaning them meant household work, step over the clutter of tools and blueprints that all but obscured the jeweled mosaics on the floor, and enter their private chamber of starlight. The walls and ceiling of this room were sprinkled with fluorescent crystals, so while he rested on the fur blankets beneath, he could study the constellations: and constellations there were, for Narvi had set them to match the night sky in Midsummer, when they had first met. She would stretch out beside him, heavy and solid and alive , and run a strong hand across his chest, tangle her fingers in his braids, and he would reach out to undo the laces of her…

Leave it, snapped Narvi.

So we could make love under the stars, he finished his thought, loudly and with emphasis. Narvi turned away and walked down a tunnel that gave their quarters an even wider berth. It took him a moment to realize that she should not have heard him, not even while his thoughts were directed at her. The minds of the Khazad were not made for ósanwe.

But Narvi was no living Khazad, and her powers were growing.

The lodging quarters lay in ruin: bronze inlays were chiseled off the walls, mosaics destroyed, nothing that could be carried away had been left behind. The dining hall loomed large and empty, even the benches and tables were gone. But perhaps somewhere beyond the destruction their chambers endured. If the doors were closed, no orc could force them open.

For two days they went on without incident. Celebrimbor had long lost all sense of direction, but the stone-sense remained with him as they trudged along steep staircases and endless, narrow tunnels, deeper and deeper into the caves. The mines of Khazad-Dûm were not made for elves, were too low and too narrow and too confined, and if he had not minded so much before - before -, well, at the time he had not known the other darkness. The one that smelled of corpses and blood, where he was chained to the wall, straining his ears for the clang of iron-plated boots, praying each time he heard them that they would pass him by - but prayers had never helped those of his line. And sometimes there had been no footsteps to serve as a warning. He had always approached without a sound. Those times had been the worst.

There were foul things in this darkness here, too, and he did strain his ears for them, painfully aware of his own soft footfalls. But they did not know where to find him, not yet. He did not sleep; it was as well that they needed little rest. He was not sure what awaited him in his dreams, Sauron’s torture chambers or the seductive call of the Rings, but he dreaded both equally.

Narvi thrived here, flaring bright and humming with power. Celebrimbor could feel her below the surface of his own mind, and she never faltered in her choice of direction. Maglor was pale and uncomfortable and hardly spoke at all.

Time was difficult to measure, but it had to be around noon on the third day when the cramped tunnels they had wandered opened into a large cavern. It was so wide that their light did not reach the walls, nor the ceiling, but their footsteps echoed far and high. From somewhere near came the soft ripple of running water. Objects grew out of the darkness whenever the round, flickering halos of torchlight were near enough to touch them: giant furnaces filled with ancient ash, wide anvils and workbenches, made for dozens of craftspeople to work in rows; quenching basins, empty now, for the water in them had long evaporated. Orcs had plundered the place, but a few tools lay strewn about, briefly illuminated by the passing torches: here a pair of tongs, there a tiny chisel, the remnants of a leather strap, a parchment with numbers on it. Celebrimbor and Maglor were careful not to disturb these relics.

Behold, said Narvi. Her voice was hollow and carried its own echo. Behold, the mithril forges of Khazad-Dûm!

Here was the sanctum of dwarven craftsmanship. No elf had ever been allowed to enter, not even Celebrimbor.

Narvi walked straight into the darkness, then halted abruptly. It seemed to be a deliberate position; the center of the room, perhaps. She raised both hands and began to sing.

Her voice was deep and strong and ancient, and in the vast chamber it broke into a cascade of echoes. Celebrimbor recognized a few Khuzdul words, but he could not understand their meaning. This chant was unlike anything he had ever heard before: set in an entirely foreign tonality, oddly repetitive, vibrating with power. It was the song of the earth itself, of stone and metal and creation. Maglor gripped Celebrimbor’s arm so tightly that it hurt.

It was not a song meant for elven ears. No outsider had ever been allowed to witness the sacred ceremonies of the Khazad. This was a prayer.

Long moments passed when the song had ended in a deep hum, a sound that drifted into the stone and made it vibrate softly in resonance. While Celebrimbor shook himself out of his awe and wonder how such a thing was even possible, Narvi walked on without another word. Celebrimbor followed her swiftly when she disappeared through an ornate archway. He had to pull Maglor along; his uncle’s eyes were wide and mesmerized. He seemed not entirely lucid.

They were forced to gather their wits soon enough.

On the other side of the mithril forges the style of the caverns changed. Here were huge halls used for storage, community workshops for metallurgy and jewelry, tunnels wide enough for waggons on iron rails to be drawn to the entrance of the Northern mines: less ornate than the lodgings quarters, to speak nothing of the royal halls, but designed with dwarven ingenuity. For an hour or more Narvi led them through this section. They were walking along a broad, roughly hewn passage when Celebrimbor’s ears caught the sounds he had been dreading to hear. Shouts, in the distance; drums, not far off and drawing closer. They seemed to be coming from both sides.

Narvi halted and flung out a transparent hand.

Celebrimbor stopped in his tracks. Maglor, who had moved silently behind him, cocked his head and frowned.

“They must have noticed the surge of power in the mithril forge,” he whispered.

Narvi shot him an angry look. Are you saying that this is my fault?

“You probably alerted them to our presence. Even if they couldn’t hear you, they must have felt something. Now they’re searching the entire section.” Maglor drew his sword with a very soft scrape. The blade was radiating blue light, brighter in Khazad-Dûm’s darkness than Celebrimbor had seen it before. With a stab of longing he realized that it had to be his father’s work. “Let us hope that Aulë heard your prayers.”

Narvi huffed, but when Celebrimbor met her eyes, they were full of doubt. He shook his head briefly.

“He’s only honest with you, as you are with him,” he muttered, which was entirely useless, for Maglor could hear him anyway. “You did right to honour your traditions. There are things that should not be concealed.”

She gave him a wry smile and moved very close to his side. The noises before them had grown loud, and flickering tongues of light danced in the tunnel ahead of them. There was nowhere to flee.

You did nothing wrong, he thought resolutely, in case she could hear him. Even if he wished desperately that she had kept quiet, he banished the thought to the back of his mind.

They would need Aulë’s blessing to survive this.

The stench that accompanied the orc horde almost made Celebrimbor retch. It reeked of pain and humiliation and death. He dropped his torch, for the orcs carried enough of those, and as he drew his blades he fought down the sickness, the vivid sensations of blades cutting through his bones while his throat was raw from screaming.

Not now. He had never heard Narvi’s voice so close, so powerful inside his own mind, and it pushed the memories away. Hold on.

There was nothing else he could do. The shouting broke into howls of triumph when the first orcs caught sight of them. They had no place to hide.

Celebrimbor clutched his blades. The orcs were too many, and they were just three. Narvi’s form blazed like ithildin beside him; she was strong, but her powers worked best against the unseen. Maglor looked strangely relaxed, his sword held loosely in his right hand, watching the scene with half-lidded eyes.

Only his uncle possessed the necessary fighting skills to deal with a threat of this magnitude. Celebrimbor was a capable warrior, but his soul was made to create, not to destroy. He did not excel at killing. And this time, should they be captured again, there would be no escape. Khazad-Dûm was firmly in orcish hands.

“Maglor,” Celebrimbor pleaded as the orcs approached, now muttering and leering among themselves. “Don’t let them take me alive.”

Maglor did not turn his gaze from the enemy. “I will do what I must,” he said evenly, and for the first time Celebrimbor was grateful to have a kinslayer at his side. Narvi’s light flickered.

If we lose, she urged, promise me that you will allow yourselves to heal. Go to Valinor and find your family. Both of you.

“But without you – .” Celebrimbor broke off when he met her eyes, dark and earnest and pleading. It was not like Narvi to plead. If this was the last wish he could fulfil for her, then so be it.

“I will, if I can,” he promised, and and a fleeting smile crossed her face. Pain and acceptance he read in it. From the beginning they had known that their ultimate fates would be separate, but this time they could have a proper farewell. Maglor’s mouth twisted unhappily, but he said nothing.

From somewhere in the orc horde came a harsh command, and the enemies were upon them.

Later Celebrimbor could not say how it had happened. He had just raised his blades, focusing on the perfectly balanced weight in his hands, when -

when a white flame surged through him and took control of his body and thoughts. It was fierce, this spirit of battle and fire, and not afraid. He passed one of his swords to Maglor, because he did not need it: he fought with one, only the left, and his foes knew to fear it. Maglor spared him a puzzled glance, and then his eyes lit up with a bright spark. But there was no more time to speak.

Instead they charged into the fray.

His blade cleaved armour and bone with the untamed rage of millennia. Not a single blow slipped past his defenses. Maglor called his name, his true name, a strange sound that was both a laugh and a scream, and he responded in wild joy, for he had been wordless for so long. ‘Makalaurë,’ he shouted, and it was a blessing and a promise and a battle cry. The enemies shrunk back before his fury and skill and the blinding light that reflected on his sword and on their grimy weapons - vermin they were, degenerated cave creatures, dangerous only through their numbers. Makalaurë fought at his side as he had done so often, graceful and deadly with his double blades and his lightning-quick wit. But this time the blood on their swords was black and not red, and maybe, just maybe, Aulë would watch them today and remember that they had once been more than murderers.

The orcs faltered, taken by surprise when their hopelessly outnumbered prey slaughtered a path right through their midst. The dwarf ghost called for Celebrimbor, gleaming like moonlight as she hurried ahead. ‘Mad elves! Come forward! Come forward!’, she roared, and Maglor turned to run after her and gestured for him to follow.

War cries rose behind them, but the enemies lost ground. The tunnel widened into another cave, and Narvi’s ghostly light illuminated a deep chasm that split the floor from one side to the other. The elves rushed across a short, wide bridge, and had reached a wall with several archways when their enemies emerged from the tunnel. Narvi looked around wildly, unsure which way to turn. But Maglor stood tall and raised his voice, and the power of his song shattered the rock that held the bridge, and the ceiling opened in long, jagged cracks before it crashed and buried every orc beneath. When the dust settled, there were no more war cries. Only the drums continued, muted, further in the distance.

Narvi stood still for a moment, looking first at the fallen rock, then from one companion to the other. Her eyes lingered long on the flaring light that radiated from Celebrimbor’s form.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ she said roughly, ‘but thank you.’

With that she turned away and led them through one of the archways, down a long, spiralling staircase, deeper into the darkness. Only their own light was left to them now. At the foot of the stairs they came to a halt in a damp chamber that was filled with the stink of rotting algae. Here Maedhros Fëanorion faced his last living brother, who was alive and unhurt but so, so tired.

Too many things he ached to say, now that he could form words: ‘I thought you would follow me’ and ‘you have suffered enough’ and ‘I always listen when you speak to me’, but there was no time for it all. He had already lingered far too long in his nephew’s body, and Celebrimbor, who had left his hröa once before, was threatening to slip away. ‘There is hope for us now, Káno,’ said Maedhros and withdrew.

Celebrimbor stumbled and held onto a boulder when the white fire left him. Sickness overcame him, and he fought the urge to empty his stomach and waste what little food they had. When he looked up he found Maglor staring at him, white-faced, with very bright eyes.

"Nelyo," his uncle whispered. "Nelyo."

He stepped close and cradled Celebrimbor's face in his thin hands, looked him in the eye, searching, desperate. Celebrimbor wanted to weep for him, for him and for the lost soul who had shared his mind and body long enough to save their lives. He shook his head, and Maglor turned away. Tears were running freely down his cheeks, glistening in Narvi’s light.

"He is still here,” Celebrimbor said gently. “He is always with you.”

“I know,” said Maglor, and then he fell silent for a long while.

Chapter End Notes

Once again Papertigress' betaing eye found all the flaws in my action scene. Thanks for that!

It had been folly to come here. Folly! Narvi longed to slam her fist against the wall, longed to feel the pain of the body, so the pain in her heart would lessen. Her home was orc-land now. These creatures were worse than cockroaches, infesting every cave and tunnel with their foul stench. Not even a prayer could be spoken in safety.

But her elven companions were full of surprises, and so they were saved for the moment. Apparently, as it turned out, because they were accompanied by a figure of Dwarrow legend.

Firehelm?, she echoed, incredulous, when Celebrimbor finally bothered to explain who had borrowed his own body to wreak havoc among their foe.

“A name of honour, given to him by your folk.” Celebrimbor grinned and raised an eyebrow at Maglor, who still looked shaken. “His Sindarin name is Maedhros. Your clan, more than the others, holds him in high regard for his friendship with King Azaghâl. Or at least they did in our time.”

Ah, don’t be smug because you know something about my people’s history that I don’t! It is not that I don’t know his name. But how can it be him?

“The dwarves remembered him?” interrupted Maglor, his voice rough. “In a good way?”

Every Broadbeam knows the tale of King Azaghâl and Firehelm the elf-lord! “Of the elven warriors, mighty was he, terrible in battle and steadfast in friendship. Forge-touched, with hand of steel and hair as molten copper, a flame fierce around his head." We have ballads of him, and what victories might have been had, but for betrayal sundering the alliances of his day. Narvi bowed low before the elven spirit, whose fierce light had diminished into a shapeless glow. I am deeply honoured to meet you, and most sincerely at your service.

The light roiled and stretched, becoming slightly opaque for the span of a heartbeat. Narvi could discern the shape of a tall person, the same she had seen once before, when Celebrimbor and Maglor had been captured on the road. Maglor drew a sharp breath, and Celebrimbor instinctively reached out to grab her shoulder. Then it, he, Maedhros, guttered like a damp candle wick and turned back into a smudge of pale air.

“I should like to hear those ballads.” Maglor's eyes were soft when he looked at the spirit. “He is my brother.”

Your brother? Narvi turned to Celebrimbor, wide-eyed. Does that mean that he’s your -

“Another uncle of mine,” Celebrimbor clarified. “We were a large family. My father is in Mandos. He is - he’s doing better than he was in the end, I think,” he added towards his uncles, and Maglor closed his eyes briefly.

Another son of Fëanor, then. Celebrimbor had told her the tale. Among their own kin they were not known as heroes.

The ballads do not say how his story ended, she said quietly. They only say that he was a great leader who fell into tragedy. I thought he had disappeared after the Great Defeat. What happened to him afterwards is lost to dwarven history.

“What a rare mercy.” A bitter smile twisted Maglor's lips. “There are few who remember us in kindness.”

Senseless slaughter, sins beyond redemption. What a bitter fall for a mighty hero! The history lessons about the Broadbeam realm of Belegost had not spoken of this.

Suddenly it occurred to her that Maglor was old enough to be part of the tale. And Celebrimbor, Celebrimbor –

Were you there, too?, she demanded. When the Union of the Free People failed?

They both nodded.

“Unfortunately, yes. It is a bad memory.” Celebrimbor laughed softly. “I had lots of them, even when we first met! It was a strange twist of fate that I survived. I came with the troops from Nargothrond. If Fingon the King hadn't been so happy to see me that he assigned me to some old friends from Hithlum, I would have died like everyone else.” He avoided Maglor's eyes. “It came close enough, as it was.”

Maglor stared at him, appalled. “We never knew you were there. Curvo would have -”

“There was nothing to be done.” Celebrimbor put a hand on Maglor’s shoulder, but he addressed the spirit; the spirit, Narvi noticed now, from whom despair and grief poured like oil from a broken barrel. It filled the cave with a taste of tears and blood. “Uncle Maedhros? There was nothing to be done.”

Firehelm’s light had almost faded, but Narvi could sense his distress. It whirled around her and pulled her in, and then she saw a laughing elf with gold in his braids, saw elves and dwarves and men burned alive or hacked to pieces, wide plains charred black and soaked with blood, a mountain of corpses, too late, too late…

That was long ago, she countered, and against Maedhros’ visions of despair she set Celebrimbor’s smile, music drifting through the gardens of Imladris, Elrond’s hand on Maglor’s shoulder. Good things have happened afterwards. The images faded, and Maedhros’ pain diminished to a dull ache.

He was never quite without it. She had felt Maglor’s aura of unhappiness before she had realized that it came from another being. But lately his ever-present grief had softened a little, in the way a starlit night was softer than the emptiness of the void.

These elves were so different from the Khazad: ancient, mythical beings that should be as remote as the stars. And yet Narvi loved and was beloved by one of them, had shared his life and bed and body, had quarrelled with him over forge work and mildew-covered objects in the pantry. Considering the strangeness that was her life, the fact that she was travelling Middle-Earth as a ghost did not seem so surprising. To Dís and Thorin and their kin, she too was a figure of legend. It was an odd realization.

I am not a minstrel, but I will teach you what I can remember of these ballads, she promised, and Maglor’s eyes lit up.

Khazad-Dûm was full of ghosts. Oh, not literal ghosts, not wandering souls like Narvi or Maedhros. Through the darkness she saw things that once were, here a flicker of torches on the walls, there the shades of people passing by. Now and then a familiar face nodded to her, “Mahal bless your beard, Master Narvi, will there be construction works in the district again?”, but when she turned towards them, they were gone. From afar came voices, the sound of metal on stone, deep humming songs. They vanished when she paid attention. The glorious realm of the Khazad – the golden roofs and silver floors, the endless wonders in ever-changing domes of rock, the home of scholars and warriors and artisans and kings -–

It was gone. It was all gone.

And it left a bottomless void. She was not of this day and age, had never been made for it. In her darkest moments, she yearned for the Halls of her Maker. At least they had not come across the site of her death; that had happened far from here, in the upper districts, bless the small mercies. She wondered what one would find beneath the boulders that had crushed her. Not her bones, surely, unless they were mummified. A few items of her gear, perhaps. The iron plates on her boots. Her wedding bead of mithril.

A wave of strength and affection soared through her undead spirit, and with it came a strong suggestion to not think of it, not quite in words but close enough. You are here, conveyed the not-words, and I with you. Not gone.

She looked up to meet Celebrimbor’s eyes, and he smiled. Hear the stone sing.

And it sung to her. The silver light of Celebrimbor's fëa bound her to the living world. His presence was a constant sparkle at the borders of her mind, much closer since their spirits had mingled and become one. Sometimes she could even hear his thoughts. It was not quite enough, not here where she longed for her family and her friends and her craft, but it was something.

“You chose to hook up with an elf lord,” Jari would have said. “Now take the cake and eat it. Whining doesn't suit you.”

Always straight to the point, Jari. They must be dead for many an age now. Narvi felt a brief surge of guilt for walking these halls while her friend was buried, but Jari would have brushed the thought aside. "I'm long dead and gone. Guilt won't bring back a burnt coal or relight a forge. Get on with you, lass, and do what needs doing."

The empty tunnels were like the bones of a rotting skeleton: Moria, they were called now, the Black Pit, and it was a fitting name. This place was stripped of all life but that of orcs and cockroaches. But still it was sacred. Still it called to her.

Narvi would not admit it to the elves unless she absolutely had to, but they had long since left the tunnels which were familiar to her. And not just to her, it seemed: no spoor of orc or other vile being had been seen for some time. Perhaps they had not found much to ransack, here in the depths; or perhaps they had been held off by some power beyond mortal understanding, for here beneath Khazad-Dûm lay the entrance to the Deep Caves, where even the Khazad did not tread.

It was plain and narrow, this entrance, and Narvi had never seen it before, but she knew it at once. The stone-song changed, became louder and deeper, even before Celebrimbor ran a hand over a sequence of plain runes on the wall.

“What do they say?”, asked Maglor into the silence.

Narvi opened her mouth, but Celebrimbor spoke first.

"Here lies the edge of Khazad-Dûm, then something I can't make out - the runes are odd and the words unfamiliar -"

They were carved in ancient times, when Khazad-Dûm was young, perhaps even by Durin the First. Narvi placed her hand beside Celebrimbor’s. They say: These ways are not for dwarrow feet, nor the stone for dwarrow mattocks, for its true shape shall not be marred. Turn back, wanderer, and leave the sacred silence of the stone undisturbed by your footsteps.

Celebrimbor frowned when she met his eyes. “We cannot turn back. They are searching for us. No doubt they have already blocked Durin’s bridge and both the East and West Gate, so -” He smiled, but it looked like a grimace. “No way to go but forward. Do you think the Mountain will forgive us, if we do not ‘mar its true shape’?”

I cannot tell. It does not feel right to disturb this place. But it is the only path we have available, so let us hope for the best.

If it was sacrilege to walk these halls, then surely Mahal would understand that they were out of options. But even if their presence was tolerated, they might still find a dead end - or a fiery one in Durin’s bane.

As they descended into the Deep Caves, the stonework became less refined, and there were no torch holders on the walls. Steep, uneven stairs led down into the darkness, until there were no stairs at all. The tunnels they walked opened into a system of caves more glorious than anything Narvi had ever laid eyes upon.

Some halls were so vast that they offered merely a promise of unimaginable wonders in the dark, here the perfect symmetry of natural columns, there the glitter of opal and ruby beneath their feet like stardust. Others were low, so that the elves had to crouch, and Narvi’s light sparkled from the walls and ceiling like a shower of diamonds. Only the drip of water disturbed the silence, as it formed the flowstones, the ever-changing work of ages, and pooled on the floor meanwhile. Shapes of foreign beauty rose out of the darkness wherever Narvi turned, frozen fountains of calcite, flower fields of delicate crystal, fine honeycombs of alabaster that may have begun being laid down when Celebrimbor was a child. For a while they walked beside a lake, black and silent beneath a high, echoing ceiling. Below the surface, luminous eyes reflected her light as pink and green gems, then quickly darted away.

True shape that should not be marred, indeed! It was not the way of the dwarrow to change that which the Maker had already completed, and surely no rock could be worked into a finer form than these.

The irregular dripping of water on stone became a familiar, almost comforting sound that accompanied them for over a day. It was Maglor who first noticed the change; he stopped in his tracks and gripped Celebrimbor's arm, ears twitching and eyes slightly wild. As they stood and listened, Narvi could hear it too, very faint, but clear: the rhythmic clonk-clonk-tap of a hammer on metal.

“Do Balrogs work in a forge?”, Celebrimbor attempted a joke, but his face was bloodless.

Maglor shook his head.

Orcs had forges. But there should not be orcs this far below the mountains. Not here, in this sacred place!

Maglor drew his sword. It did not flare blue as it did in the presence of orcs, which was a small relief. He went ahead, gesturing for Celebrimbor to keep behind. The pale blur that was Maedhros vanished from sight, but his presence followed Maglor like a shadow.

The hammering grew louder as they approached, until they reached the end of a tunnel, where wisps of smoke floated in the air and the flicker of oil lamps painted moving shadows on a rough deerskin. The entrance looked strangely domestic, misplaced in this realm of stone and silence. And someone was behind it, someone who was crafting metal – and humming with it, Narvi realized. It was the warm, deep hum of a dwarven voice.

Let me go first -, she started, but Maglor had already sheathed his sword and drawn back the skin.

The domed, circular chamber was lit by many lamps, and a large forge fire glimmered in a niche to the left. Tools and blueprints were cluttered on rough wooden tables. Beside the anvil in the centre of the room stood a burly, soot-covered dwarf.

He lowered his hammer when he saw the elves in the doorway, and his eyebrows rose, thick, ginger eyebrows that matched an impressive beard.

“Visitors are rare these days,” he greeted them in flawless Sindarin.

Maglor blinked, and blinked again.

“I can imagine,” said Celebrimbor, who had quickly recovered his wits and pushed past his uncle. “You live a bit off the road! Celebrimbor Curufinion, at your service, and this is my kinsman Makalaurë.” He bowed deeply.

The dwarf pulled off his gloves.

“Lofar,” he said, without offering his service. “Well met! Come in, you must be hungry, or two of you at least.”

Narvi and Celebrimbor exchanged a startled gaze.

Narvi Norisul, at your service, she introduced herself. I beg your forgiveness. There are few who can see me.

“Aye, but some can.” Lofar's eyes were twinkling. “And your shadowy elven friend, too. Welcome, welcome, daughter of Khazad-Dûm! Your name is familiar to me. Do you like my forge?”

It is very nice. Not the most glowing praise one could give a dwarven forge, but this forge was not particularly impressive, clearly meant for one person only. It was, for the lack of a better word, cosy. What do you craft here?

“Whatever needs crafting.” He gestured towards the anvil, and the half-finished shape upon it that looked like a small shovel. “But come now, be my guests. This way!” He drew aside another deerskin curtain in the back of the room. Celebrimbor looked from Maglor to Narvi. His smile had dropped, and now he was frowning. Narvi shared his bewilderment. No dwarf she had ever met would have welcomed a disturbance of their work by unexpected strangers. No dwarf would have been this careless and allowed them into their home.

Perhaps he was very lonely. But he had not even asked where they came from, here in the darkness below Khazad-Dûm.

The back room was as simple and cosy as the forge, but to Narvi's surprise it held a table with three chairs, and two beds with striped linens and soft, clean furs.

You have a companion?

“Oh, no.” Lofar's beard twitched. “Or not here, at least, I should say. But it is always wise to prepare for guests. You would not want to take your meal standing, would you?”

“When you say not here,” Celebrimbor said slowly, lowering himself upon a chair as if he expected it to disappear under his backside, “do you mean you come from outside? Do you know a way out?”

“A way to avoid the orcs? Yes, there is one, and I will show it to you. But first you need to rest.” He placed a tankard of ale in front of Celebrimbor, then offered a goblet of wine to Maglor.

Both elves stared at him, and Narvi’s bewilderment grew into alarm. How had he guessed their preferences?

“Sit down, Master Elf, I'm not trying to poison you. And frankly, you look half a ghost already, so we must take care that you don't become a proper one… well now. Have some bread and cheese.”

Maglor sat down gingerly and reached for the bread. Celebrimbor’s frown deepened.

“I'm not hungry.”

Lofar shook his head, a slow, deliberate gesture. “Oh, I think you are. But you won't take food from a too-friendly hand because you expect it to strike, poor creature.” He reached out and put one of his large hands around Celebrimbor's; and Narvi, who had expected her husband to draw back, felt to her surprise that his breathing slowed.

He looked at the stranger with large, uncertain eyes.

“How do you know?”

“Merely from experience.” Lofar patted Celebrimbor's hand before he let go. “What brings you here, Narvi Norisul, with your elvish companions?”

A quest, but I can't speak of it to strangers. She, at least, would behave like a dwarf. We meant to pass through Khazad-Dûm and emerge in Azanulbizar. But we had a run-in with orcs.

He nodded, unsurprised. “Sauron's filth is all over Middle Earth these days. But you're safe here. Tonight, you can sleep in this room, and tomorrow I will show you the way out.” He chuckled when he saw Celebrimbor's expression, but his eyes were solemn. “Your spirit friends will keep watch, so you don't have to trust me! But I mean you no harm. I am merely an inventor who comes here at times, for the atmosphere. I find it inspiring.”

An eccentric genius, then? That explained a few things, if not all. Maybe he had been expelled from his clan and was now a homeless wanderer like Maglor. If so, it would be unacceptable to ask after his kinfolk.

Celebrimbor eyed the cheese with a wistful expression. Lofar was right; after the strain of the last few days, he needed food. But there was no way Narvi could persuade him to take it from a suspicious stranger. Annatar had seen to that.

Maglor dipped a bread crust into his wine, though he was hardly more at ease. Perhaps he had learned to take food where he found it. For a while they lingered, undecided, while Lofar spoke with passion of the Deep Caves, mostly undiscovered, as he said - no doubt thanks to Durin’s bane, which he had heard of but never seen. He was highly interested in the technical finesse of Narvi’s work, since he was an expert on the field of mechanics and engineering. By the time he sketched the draft of a mechanical airship onto a piece of parchment, Maglor’s head had sunken onto the table. Celebrimbor’s eyes were drooping, and Narvi…

Narvi felt at ease. All their troubles and woes were meaningless, and she floated on a pool of light with the stars of Kheled-zâram in her eyes. Airships. How ingenious. Someone should try to put this theory into practice, but she had already forgotten exactly how it was supposed to work.

“You must rest now,” said Lofar’s voice, and there was power in his words but Narvi could not bring herself to care. Celebrimbor rose with unusual obedience and stumbled towards a bed, where he collapsed. Maglor was slumped over the table, succumbed at last to total exhaustion. Their host gathered him in his arms and carried him to the other bed. It should have been a strange sight, but it was not, for Lofar had grown large and strong like a boulder, or maybe Maglor had shrunken into the form of a child. For some reason this did not unsettle Narvi at all. Airships. The stars of Kheled-zâram. A voice older than the mountain itself.

The last thing she remembered was how Lofar brushed a hand over Maglor’s brow and covered Celebrimbor’s sleeping form with a blanket.

Chapter End Notes

Papertigress helped me shape this chapter into its "true form", or at least something that resembles it far more than the first draft I sent to her! Special credits to her for the little excerpt from a dwarven ballad, and for the honeycombs of alabaster. (I love the image.) At this point I made a little change in an earlier chapter, namely chapter 10. I decided to make Narvi's best friend Jari nonbinary, because they refused to be categorized and suddenly it was a very obvious choice. (Less a choice than something I discovered about the character.)
But it seemed a bad cliche to have them die in the plot that killed Narvi. I groused about this, and papertigress pointed out that, since I'm the author, I could simply not kill them off like that. So I didn't. But since Narvi mentions their death in chapter 10, Celebrimbor now points out that they survived.

The reflection of ithildin rippled on the water of the lake. On the black surface quivered a mirror image of the Gate, gently broken by a warm breeze that stirred the water and Narvi's beard. She turned her face towards it, let it caress her cheeks, and as she leaned back against the wall, she felt the vibrations of the mountain itself.

She had not known her own body for a very long time.

The spicy scent of pipe-weed tickled her nose. It was Jari's particular brand of pipe-weed, and sure enough her friend was squatting next to her, cross-legged, watching delicate tendrils of smoke float from their pipe and dissolve into nothing.

Narvi allowed herself a moment to watch them. Jari smiled, as if they felt her gaze on their skin. Their bright green eyes shimmered pale in the moonlight.

“Work to last for ages, indeed.” Their voice sounded deeper than she remembered it. “That is what you boasted about when you drafted these gates. But you were right! Your name is still set in stone.”

“So it is.” Narvi picked at a blade of grass that had found hold in a crack in the ground. It would be nice to believe this. Nice, but delusional. “Last time I checked, we were both dead. This place is not real.”

Jari chuckled. “As real as you make it, from a certain point of view.”

“And you?”

“Oh.” Jari rolled the stem of their pipe between their fingers. “Perhaps slightly less so.”

Did the dead dream? She could not remember what had happened after Lofar had welcomed them into his home, after the elves had fallen asleep -

“Are you Lofar?” This should concern her, but it did not. Wherever she was, wherever her friends were, she felt with absolute certainty that no evil could touch them here.

The dwarf who looked like Jari leaned their head back against the rock and laughed softly. It was a brilliant illusion, down to the silver ornaments in Jari's dark hair. It hurt, but Narvi could not look away.

“I thought you would appreciate a familiar face! Well, perhaps I am. But we are not here because of me. I mean help you find your part in the story, among other things.”

“Which story?”

They made a vague gesture. “The story of Arda.”

Narvi rolled her eyes. “A small part, surely.”

“Yes and no. This alone is enough to shape history –“ Jari's thick thumb pointed at the Gate “ – but you deal with matters that most of your kin never dream of.”

“Elvish matters?”

“Certainly not,” snorted Jari. “Elves merely happen to be long-lived and believe themselves wiser for it. Matters of history. You are involved by your own choice. The outcome is yet unclear.”

“You talk about Celebrimbor's quest for the Rings.”

“Your quest.”

“I don't want those rings.”

“And yet our choices will shape the course of the future.” Jari rose and extended a hand towards her. It felt strong and warm and alive. “Come and see.”

The Gates swung open when Jari spoke the password. The elvish word sounded strange in their deep voice, but familiar all the same. The tunnel that opened before Narvi was shrouded in darkness: the entrance chamber was gone.

Jari pulled her along, and as soon as Narvi set foot into the tunnel, the Song of the Mountain crashed through her like an avalanche. This was not the song of Khazad-Dûm. The composition of rock and metal was all different, and it was deeper, older, resonated in the very essence of her dwarven soul. She knew this place, even though she had never been here. Every dwarf knew it.

Beyond the measure of time they walked, their footsteps crunching in the darkness, Jari's strong hand in hers. For dwarven eyes, the darkness was not absolute, but there was nothing to see except tunnels that no mattock had ever touched. They were not exceptional, those tunnels, not like the Deep Caves of Khazad-Dûm. That was not why Jari had led her here.

At the end of their road lay a small chamber. It was a natural cave shaped in a perfect circle. No artisan had ever disturbed the stillness of this place, the smooth granite walls, touched here and there by sparkles of silver. The song was quiet here, very quiet. But quiet was not the same as distant: Narvi still felt it tremble in her bones. It was as if the mountain itself was holding its breath in awe.

Jari let go of her hand and looked at her, as though they were waiting.

Narvi drew a deep breath, savoured the sweet rush of breath in her lungs, the echo of old, stuffy, sacred air on her tongue. Then she stepped into the chamber.

There were no words to the harmonies that rippled through the core of her being. It was not a song, or not one that an earthly mind could comprehend. Narvi was torn apart, her spirit melted into granite and silver, every ounce of her existence joining with the fabric of the universe. But there was no fear, for this did not mean destruction.

It was an act of creation.

And while her mind was one with the world around her, while time and space did not exist, she saw.

She saw a Dwarrow in the center the chamber, familiar features relaxed in sleep - she would recognize Durin in any incarnation, but this one was the First. As she watched, his eyes flickered open and he looked around in wonder. Soon he would find his way out of Mount Gundabad, would wander a world that was fresh and new, he would look into Kheled-Zâram and behold a crown of stars –

But Durin faded from view, and instead she saw a broken figure on a blood-stained cot, the same high forehead, the same straight nose. Thorin’s eyes were wide open, his lips stained red as he tried to speak but could not. Beside him stood Bilbo the Hobbit, white-faced but trying to smile, and Dwalin, who was holding his friend’s hand, his features unmoving as if they were carved in stone.

She saw fire fall from the sky and water crash through the halls a Khazad realm. Dwarrows in old-fashioned clothes were stumbling through the tunnels, some clutching their possessions, others shouting the names of their kin and friends, but none of them would find way out. This was the end of Gabilgathol, home of the Broadbeam clan.

She saw the wide halls and spiralling staircases of Khazad-Dûm, and the Gate as it slammed shut against the Sauron's fury while his armies gathered in the valley. The remains of Celebrimbor's body were rotting on a pole among them, and the universe around her twisted.

A lone figure, twin swords clutched tightly in his fists, facing a huge creature in pitch black armour. Celebrimbor and – and Sauron, but then Celebrimbor cried out in a language that ripped into the fabric of the world, and the Nine arose behind him to obey his command. This was wrong, this was not how it was supposed to happen –

Maglor's body, shattered, in a pool of blood. A wail of despair as Maedhros' ancient fëa lost itself, no longer tethered to the world by fierce love and reckless hope.

The plains surrounding the Lonely Mountain, covered in bodies: orcs, Khazad, elves, all slaughtered and mutilated beyond recognition.

Celebrimbor's face before her, very close, but terrible to behold. His lips were twisted in a smile that lacked any of his usual warmth, the light in his eyes was blinding, and his fëa burned, white-hot and cruel. Mine, it whispered. My precious. He caressed her cheek, and the Ring on his finger scorched her skin.

NO.

Narvi lashed out and tore away. The images disappeared. No eyesight remained, no sound, no scent, no touch. For a while she drifted, existing in the structure of stone and the movement of the wind, in the rush of waves against a shore, the tremble of a blade of grass. There was no concept of time.

But something was changing: slowly, slowly, a prickling sensation arose in her fingertips, moved up along her arms and spread through her body like hot, spiced mead. She opened her eyes and found that her sight had returned; actual sight, not visions of things were long gone or yet to come. It showed her the room behind Lofar's forge, two sleeping elves tucked neatly into striped blankets, and Lofar, larger than life and older than the world itself, watching her with an expression that was both solemn and very fond.

Speaking of her body –

Narvi dropped to her knees, overwhelmed with awe and dread and wild, uncomprehending disbelief.

“Maker,” she breathed. “Mahal.”

The Maker of the Khazad smiled and offered his massive hand.

“There is no need to kneel, my daughter.”

He pulled her to her feet and held her close, and Narvi buried her face in his ginger beard and wept.

There had been, Narvi found, no finer food in the banquet halls of Durin. No honey-glazed slice of roast mutton, no stew fragrant with herbs and cooked meat, no steaming mulled wine at the midwinter feast had ever tasted better than the first bite of goat cheese after four thousand years of abstinence. Oh, how it melted on her tongue, leaving a lingering sensation of spice and salt! The prickling bitterness of ale washed it away, cool liquid sloshing down her throat, and nothing had ever felt so perfect.

Mahal had shrunk again to fit into the chair at the opposite side of the table and watched her eat. He looked intensely pleased with himself.

“I appreciate what you did for me,” said Narvi, when she had stuffed herself as much as she could and re-discovered the feeling of faint nausea. “You shall have my eternal gratitude and everlasting adoration -”

“Noted,” said Mahal, his beard twitching. “Get to the point, dear.”

“Why, though? This is not supposed to happen to us.”

Mahal nodded slowly and filled both their tankards from a large jug.

“I was not, in all honesty, meant to do this,” he admitted. “But your situation is most unusual. I am merely attempting to adjust the course of the world a tiny bit. I'm a creature of Eru's making, so who is to say it is not part of the Song?” He shrugged, not looking particularly apologetic. “Subtle as a thunderstorm, my wife would say. Which would be the pot calling the kettle black, of course, but you know how it is with spouses.”

“Uh.” Narvi blinked, feeling uncomfortably out of her depths. “Aye, you tell me. Are you going to get in trouble for this?”

“Perhaps a little. But most of us tweak the rules here and there… even Namo, though it haunts him to this day. I may have to remind him that you're none of his business.”

The casual familiarity with which he mentioned the Vala of Death made Narvi's insides clench.

“But I have not answered your question. Why did I give you a new body? Let me think how to explain this.”

Narvi shrugged and turned her tankard in her hands. Her fingertips were unusually sensitive, no callouses from stonework and carvings – yet.

“Well, first things first, you are a Khazad. You should not be kept from making. They could not expect me to watch this for long, and since I happened to be in the position to change it…” His dark eyes were twinkling. They were no ordinary eyes: there were bright lights in them, like sparks from a forge fire or an infinity of stars.

“No, Narvi, you did not need a body for this quest. But I figured that, since the fate of the world may be influenced by your decisions, it is only fitting that you do. Consider it as a recompense for the task that has been dumped on you.”

“But it is Celebrimbor's task.”

“I am not sure we are talking about the same thing.” Mahal reached out and caught Narvi's hand with surprising gentleness. “I worry about Tyelperinquar. His fëa is badly damaged. If only we had stopped Mairon while there was still time – ah, well. It is too late now for regrets.”

The grip around her fingers tightened.

“But he is recovering!”

“Aye, he is. He's a brave lad, and it does him a world of good to have you by his side. You and the two rogues you picked up on the road! Someone must be keeping an eye on them, too… But he's still in danger, and I think you know it. And if things come to the worst, he may become a terrible danger himself. He is one of the Calaquendi, who possess the power of the Old World.”

Narvi remembered her vision, glittering eyes, a cruel smile. My precious. She frowned. “There's something about those rings. He wants them. It is only natural to be possessive of your own work, but Celebrimbor never was. Ambitious, yes. But he was always so careful.”

“And with good reason.” Mahal's gaze softened as he looked towards the sleeping elf. Celebrimbor's eyes were closed, as if, for once, he had allowed himself to let go completely. In the soft light of the torches he looked utterly relaxed, and very young. “He is one of the best, our Tyelpë. But those rings he crafted with Mairon are no ordinary trinkets. They are Rings of Power. We have yet to see whether he's strong enough to handle them. Perhaps he is. Perhaps he is not.”

“And if he is not?”

“Then, my child, it may come down to you to save Middle Earth.” A great thumb ran soothing circles on her wrist. “You are the one who is closest to him. Your souls speak to each other. If he falls –“

Mahal paused. His eyes suddenly looked very old, and very sad.

“If he falls, you must catch him. And if you cannot catch him, you must destroy him.”

Narvi's new lungs suddenly seemed to have forgotten how to draw a breath. “I couldn't.”

“You must. But I hope it will never come to that. Not to mention that he plans to confront the Deceiver first, and that alone may be his undoing… but I fear that if he triumphs over Mairon with the aid of his Rings, he may simply replace him.”

“No. Look.” Narvi snatched her hand away. “This is Celebrimbor we are talking about.”

“Yes, but those rings are evil. Evil, do you understand?” A roll of thunder echoed in Mahal's words, and his brow was shadowed, as if a dark cloud had drifted in front of the stars. Narvi suppressed a shudder. Mahal's affectionate familiarity made it easy to forget that he remained a deity. “Tyelperinquar cannot turn them to his own purpose! May Eru grant him strength to resist the temptation.”

Narvi twirled her braid in her fingers and tried to quench the cold fear in her gut. He had already tried once, and it had nearly killed him. Now it dawned on her that it could have been much worse.

“He was allowed to join the fight against the Deceiver because we thought it would help him heal, and because it was well within his rights. He is a valuable ally, indeed... but right now, he is treading on the edge of a knife. I need you to be aware of that.”

“Fine. I am aware now.” Narvi clenched her teeth. Later she would notice how deeply her nails had dug into her palm. “Very well. How am I supposed to stop him, if it comes to the worst?”

“I cannot say. But you are strong, my daughter, and you are not alone. You have friends and allies. Do not be afraid to rely on their help.” Mahal rose and placed a hand on her shoulder. It was warm and surprisingly light. “Join him now and get some rest. You will need your strength tomorrow.”

Narvi let go of a deep breath. Her giddiness had passed, and the cheese and bread were a heavy weight in her stomach. She rose to her feet and felt the first twinges of weariness in her limbs. Strange, that this new body should already feel it.

The worry lines on Maglor's face had eased, and he looked almost careless in sleep. Celebrimbor's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Maedhros' presence simmered in the background, little more than a gentle glow in the shadows. Had he heard what Mahal told her, or had he been dreaming, too?

As she watched her sleeping friends, fierce love exploded in her chest: hot, defiant, angry love. She would never give up on them. Certainly not Celebrimbor, who had never needed her more than now; not Maglor, nor Maedhros, who had suffered too much to be abandoned again. There must be a way to save them all.

And afterwards -

“Maker,” she asked, because an unsettling question crossed her mind. “Will this body age and die?”

“Oh. That depends.” The pause that followed was slightly too long to be comfortable. Then Mahal reached out to gently turn her face towards him. “I meant to let you get used to it before I told you that.”

“Told me what?”

“You will have to make a decision, when the time comes.” He sighed and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “If it ever comes. It will not be an easy choice, but it is one that you deserve to make.”

“But I -,” Narvi started, but as she looked into his calm face, his deep, unsettling eyes, she understood that there would be no more explanations. Not today.

The bed looked too narrow for them both, but the usual dimensions did not apply in the presence of a Vala. The mattress creaked under Narvi's weight when she slipped under the blanket. Celebrimbor grunted and turned in his sleep, slid an arm around her torso, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. He did not wake. Narvi breathed in his scent, ran reverent fingers through his hair – soft it was and flowing like a gentle stream, and oh, how she had missed it – and his fëa touched her mind, sleepy, questioning. I am here, she thought, and he slipped off again in a vague cloud of contentment.

There would be a time to deal with doom and danger, and it would be upon them soon enough. But for now, Narvi decided, she would hold her beloved close to her heart, and be glad for the gift she had been granted.