Slight Air and Purging Fire by mainecoon

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Chapter 7

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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.