Slight Air and Purging Fire by mainecoon

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Chapter 4

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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.