His Royal Highness, Prince Celebrimbor of Doriath by elvntari

Songbird

Before he found Nargothrond, he found Songbird. She had been sitting on an outcrop of stone in the centre of his route, plucking at a harp that had been carved out of the rock. The tune was strange—unlike anything he had heard before—with a sharp jolt to each note (there was probably some technical term that his father would know, but he had never learnt it). It would’ve been grating, but she played it well enough that it lulled him into coming in closer.

“What’s your name?” He had said.

She hadn’t even needed to look away from her work to answer him, almost as if she was used to the question. “If I tell you mine, will you give me yours?”

His father had warned him to pay attention to wording when speaking to strange creatures in the forest—they could be tricksy—use words to play games with you, lure you into signing away things that you really shouldn’t. His grey eyes had always seemed to darken. Like storm clouds, Celebrimbor had thought, even if all he ever saw of storms was the blurred darkening of the sky above. The rain never seemed to hit Doriath.

“If you give me yours, I’ll tell you mine.” He replied, after a moment of peace, to which she smiled, and let the final notes of the tune echo around the forest.

“Clever elf. Tell me your name, then”

“Cele—” He found himself hesitating. Was that really a safe thing to tell this creature? “Maltenbor,” he said, and she smiled. Fist of Gold . Stupidly close to his real name, just as he was now stupidly close enough to see how unnaturally sharp her teeth were, how thin her wrists seemed, to look at her long fingers as they drummed against the top of the stone harp—how could a stone harp even function? He didn’t ask. He desperately wanted to know.

“I,” she said, holding out a hand for him to shake, “am Songbird.” He didn’t take it. “I am an apprentice to another of my kind — the greatest of all minstrels.”

Celebrimbor (or was it Maltenbor? How far into him could she read?) laughed. He had heard that phrase enough times to know it held little meaning. His father used to get so angry when people would bandy it around, claiming some new so-and-so was set to take that prestigious title from him, but his anger was sharp and clever and a quick lash of “if that’s greatness, then I don’t want it anyway.” He had always known where he stood. No one could beat him. No one ever would. He tried not to think about the time his father taught him to play the harp and told him that someday he might even be better than him. Celebrimbor was supposed to be the successor. A new generation of greatness. He hadn’t been.

“What is his name?” He asked.

“I cannot tell you that,” she cooed. She looked young—no older than Dior—but something about the way she spoke, and how she looked at him reminded him of Melian.

“Where are your parents?”

“Your destination is twenty leagues west of here.”

“Thank you.” Then a thought occurred to him. He had been travelling for weeks. “How far am I from Doriath?”

“Two leagues.” Her smile seemed to widen, and he knew what had happened. She wasn’t going to let him leave without a fight.

He held up his signet ring—iron. He had forged it from iron for durability, and because iron was protection; all of the gateways of Doriath were lined with it. She hissed. “If you let me leave, I will give it to you.”

“I don’t want it,” she growled.

“Please, it’s a small price to pay.”

“I don’t want it!” She stood up and backed away from him. Then she waved her hands, and the illusion around them dissolved. It had been a simple trick: the light from the end of the forest and the dark of its continuation had swapped places. He must’ve circled the whole of Doriath walking towards what he had thought was the way out. “If I had known you had iron, I wouldn’t have kept you so long,” she sighed.

“Why did you keep me?”

She chuckled. “I wanted to see how long it would be before you noticed you were walking in circles.”