Slight Air and Purging Fire by mainecoon

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Chapter 1

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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."

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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”.