Slight Air and Purging Fire by mainecoon

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Chapter 2

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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.