His Royal Highness, Prince Celebrimbor of Doriath by elvntari

His Royal Highness, Prince Daeron of Doriath

The first letter was an insult.

Celebrimbor,

I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. I know you’re strong enough now to take care of yourself. I love you,

Daeron

He had torn it to shreds and thrown it into the fireplace.

Dramatic, yes, but nothing compared to the mess that he had been left in. Strong enough to take care of yourself ? His aunt was dead, he’d never had a mother, and now his father had fucked off to Eru knows where —the man who was supposed to protect him; to support him. It was hard not to take it personally, especially when he’d always been paranoid that his father was disappointed in his son’s musical proficiency (or lack thereof). Or maybe he assumed that because he wasn’t an artistic child; he was less sensitive, stoic, or perhaps unemotional. Strong. A horrible gut feeling told him it was a little bit of both.

He found himself hypnotised by the way the paper turned at the edges as he watched it burn, crumbling into ash. It was so final—there would be no retrieving it from the flames, smoothing it out and tracing his fingers over the letters. There would be no more. There had been no return address. His father would simply forget that he ever had a child, and he would learn to pretend that he never had a father, and then they would continue living, and never think about each other again.

—

The second letter was, frankly, incomprehensible.

The ink bled through deep, right into the back of the parchment, and it was still damp, staining his fingers as he touched it. There were words, but they were seemingly random, and some so obscured by the spillages that he could only make out a few runes. That, and his name.

Celebrimbor,

I —              

—lone—understand me      

I am afrai—no—

—ry

East—the sea—I

Maybe it was art that he couldn’t understand. Some sort of twisted poetry, but all it managed to twist was his stomach, leaving him feeling uneasy.

He left Doriath that week. Not because of the letter (or, at least, that’s what he told himself), but because of the way people stared at him, heir of Thingol, orphan, recluse. They did not treat him kindly, and those who did still treated him with caution. He was a remnant of a tainted bloodline of traitors and runaways, and then he was a remnant of just one traitor, just one runaway. He and Dior were not alike.

He didn’t bring anything with him, save a few things to eat along the way, and the long-abandoned signet ring that he had forged as soon as he knew how—his house hadn’t had one, and he felt uniquely able to make something. He never got any more than an “oh, that’s lovely.” It was a cool metal that sent a rush of chill across his skin as he slipped it on, forcing the fine hairs on his forearm to stand on end. He stood just within the girdle, waiting for the sensation to melt away into his own body heat, and to feel like a part of him. Or waiting for some rush of courage or determination that would drive his feet forwards, out through the gently shifting wall of magic that had kept him warm and safe since the day he was born.

He had only been present for one birth in his life when he had accidentally walked in on one of the maids, who screamed at him to use some of his maia healing powers on her. He didn’t have any, but he held her hand, and she seemed grateful enough for that, even if the women tending to her looked as if they wanted to kill him. Her husband had been taken by Morgoth, she said, she was completely alone in the world—no family, no lover, barely much of a job—and she’d have to give that up, too, she supposed. The baby was born still in its amniotic sac, and all he could think when looking at it was about when he was ten, and his father rode out with him to the edge of Doriath to show him the girdle. It looked the same.

Doriath was a womb, and he was being reborn. He wondered if his father would be proud of that metaphor, even if it was all he could come up with. His father had probably thought something so much more poetic, more beautiful, more unique when he had left, but he wasn’t trying to follow in his footsteps. He’d long ago found that he was no good for that.

Instead, he shut his eyes and stepped through.

It felt like a passing through a thin sheet of water, like the faux waterfalls at the public baths, except rather than falsely hot, it was pleasantly cool. He looked back at it from the other side. It was completely invisible. He was out. Melian had let him go. The thought made him feel strange; he wasn’t sure if it was disappointment or relief. Then he wondered if it had been intentional, or if she had simply forgotten that he existed, caught up in the excitement of having a new, appropriately chipper, and charismatic heir. He shook himself. That doesn’t matter now.

The forest seemed lighter outside of the Girdle—lighter and colder. He pulled his cloak a little tighter around his shoulders and began to walk.