What Brings Us Together by Aipilosse

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Marriage

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“You look a sight, Frodo!” Sam exclaimed.

Frodo turned in front of the mirror, admiring the citrine sleeveless tunic buttoned over a silk shirt and pearl-grey trousers. A glimmering set of jewels adorned his neck, wrists, and fingers. “I still feel a bit foolish in elven garb,” Frodo admitted.

“But it suits you. Me on the other hand—”

“You also look very fine in your formal clothes, Sam.” Frodo looked at Sam with fondness; he still wore his flour-dusted work clothes, with his sleeves rolled up. “When are you getting changed?”

“Soon as I’ve seen the last of the pies sent over to Áremar.”

“I’m sure these crafty folk can handle this last step,” Frodo pointed out.

Sam gave him a look that said exactly what he thought about the ability of the Eldar to successfully transport pies.

After Sam left to meddle further in the kitchen, Frodo wandered through the house, spying on the family preparing for the festivities while also staying out of the way. It was more than a matter of not wanting to be underfoot; if caught by certain people he might end up even more decorated than his current state. The set of jewels he was now wearing were made by Fëanor himself. 

Frodo still remembered the way Fëanor had circled him, frowning, after he had decked Frodo out with his current set of jewelry. Frodo became a peculiar specimen on a pedestal as Fëanor’s burning regard skewered him.

(“Your ears are unpierced,” Fëanor had said, as he reached into a drawer. “I can amend that.”

Frodo hopped off the box with alacrity. “Not necessary!” 

“It is no burden,” Fëanor assured him, needle obtained. “Earrings can beautify the face, and are a useful ornament to hold symbols of affection or family.”

“Not necessary,” Frodo repeated, his hands clapped over his ears. “I think I’m needed elsewhere.”)

He did not think he’d be able to escape Fëanor a second time, and there were any number of other eager elves currently stacking every available surface with jewelry to be avoided.

While everyone was donning their finest clothing, the style varied wildly from person to person. Maedhros and Fingon had specified ‘traditional clothing’ in their invitations, but they did not indicate which tradition the guests were to follow. Fingon had shared his own intent: “For that way we shall enjoy the full history of our family gathered in one place and time.”

Maedhros’ answer was different. “Their choice of tradition says much — and I think it is time for me to begin to assess the inclinations of my family.”

Frodo did not have to wander the house long; Farro finally captured and delivered Sam to their room to make himself ready.

“Master Samwise,” said Farro. “I have been running this household for over a millennia — we can take care of the remaining preparations.”

Frodo helped Sam ready himself before they went outside to begin the pilgrimage to Áremar.

Outside in the courtyard they saw Celebrimbor and Sauron — or rather —

“What’s the name today?” Sam asked.

Sauron tilted his head, an amused smile on his lips. “Annatar, I think.”

“Well that’s not bad — it’s easy to say for one.” Sam nodded to himself. “This one might stick.”

“You both look well,” Frodo said with real feeling, remembering the last time he’d encountered Annatar.

~

After the household had been awoken by screaming in the cellar, Frodo had not seen the erstwhile Sauron for several days. One day though, as Frodo walked around one of the many corners of the house heading toward the garden to read, he ran into him standing in the sunlight, a curious expression on his face. 

Frodo halted, a jolt of apprehension running through him. 

Sauron turned to him. “Baggins,” he said. It wasn’t a question or a greeting, only a statement.

“Hello,” Frodo said. He thought his voice sounded even and not squeaky at all.

Sauron studied him, seeming to assess every inch of his being. “Should I congratulate you?”

Frodo couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him. “No, I think condolences are in order for both of us.”

Sauron sat down, a smooth collapse that ended with him sitting cross-legged, eyes even with Frodo. He peered at him. “You are so small and weak. What a fool I’ve been.”

Frodo narrowed his eyes, still not sure what to think. “Yes, a fool.” As he tried to push past, Sauron grabbed him by the arm.

“Tell me, do you miss it still?”

Sauron’s eyes were beseeching. Frodo thought about slapping the hand away, but instead gently pulled Sauron’s hand off his arm, squeezing his fingers as he let it drop. 

“Sometimes. There is a pocket of emptiness within me that will never wholly go away, even in this blessed land.”

“How do you live with it?”

“I accepted it eventually, although I was not able to do so until I came to Aman. I accepted that I could still fill my life with other things even if they would never fulfill the absence in my heart.”

Sauron wrapped his arms around himself. “It is so dark and vast — it is hard to think that it will ever be so.”

You did this to yourself, Frodo thought. While true, this observation was neither helpful nor new information to Sauron. “You will find a way to live with it. You are sitting here, able to talk intelligently, with a body that is whole — that’s more than anyone thought was possible.”

Sauron stared off into the distance, a frown marring his face. “Perhaps you are right. Still, this is very hard.”

Frodo did not ask what was hard. He had some idea of the yawning abyss of loss that threatened to consume Sauron, but even he could not fully grasp the extent of the absence.

~

On this bright day of celebration, Sauron looked far from despair. If Frodo were not well-accustomed to his beauty, he would have found it difficult to look at him for long. Sauron and Celebrimbor were wearing new clothes too, with full sleeves and vibrant sashes all over stylish trousers.

“Yes, you both look a proper sight!” said Sam. “Er, very well rested, as it were.”

“That is not due to rest,” Celebrimbor said with a smile at Sauron. “We did not sleep last night. There was too much to say.”

“Oh?” said Frodo. It was hard to tell with elves what was innuendo and what was plain speech. He settled on the surface meaning — elves in general were surprisingly explicit, as he had discovered with mild consternation at Celebrían’s home.

“Shall we head to the feast?” asked Sam, also struggling to figure out what level of suggestiveness he should read into the statement. “I hope you’re hungry, we’ve prepared a marvelous spread.”

They set off through the woods. Lamps had been hung all along the path, with small hanging lights that would glow in a myriad of colors when the sun set. Herbs had been strewn under their feet, their fragrance wafting up as they walked towards Áremar. Soon they caught up to Maglor and Merillë, both carrying instruments. As they walked, Maglor sang a song of springtime and the budding world, pausing once to say, “a ridiculous song for two ancient souls marrying in the waning of the summer,” before continuing his song. 

The sound of many voices came from ahead, and as they stepped past the last trees and into the yard in front of Áremar, someone caught Maglor’s song and joined in so that the music carried into the courtyard and then from one throat to the next. 

In the waning afternoon light, the transformed yard of Áremar shone with gold and silver ribbons stretching overhead and banners lining the edges. Frodo saw Finrod’s harp, Írissë’s flower, and the rainbow starburst of Fëanor. The doors to her Hall were wide open, the smells of the feast wafting out.

Maglor and Merillë left to find the other musicians and find a safe place for their instruments before they sat down in accordance with their family.

“There you are Frodo, Samwise!” The deep voice lacked the musical cadence of the Eldar, but it was sweet to their ears nonetheless.

“Gimli, Legolas!” called Frodo, waving them over. They wove their way through the crowd, Legolas with his arms raised at his waist, as if he were about to take flight with Gimli in his wake.

Gimli and Legolas had arrived just the previous day, and had not had time for a proper chat. A wedding was no place to truly catch up — the events of the day would propel them forward and not give them the chance to reminisce like he wanted to — but their fellowship warmed him despite that. 

Gimli bowed to Celebrimbor. “Thank you for the invitation. It seems like we are guests at the event of the century.”

Celebrimbor laughed and bowed in return. “The event of the century was your arrival, master Dwarf. But I knew you would appreciate the occasion to see Áremar and to work with some of the artisans in Nerdanel’s guild, and the wedding should be a fine celebration.”

Legolas glanced around. “Yes, I am sure I feel like Frodo and Sam do — still stunned by the company that we keep here in Aman. But I don’t believe we have met your companion, who is one of the Maiar if I am not mistaken?”

“Legolas, I told you about him last night,” Sam said, wiggling his eyebrows significantly.

“You did?” asked Legolas. He squinted at Sauron again and then started back. “I thought you were telling me a story! That you had taken up the weaving of tales as a pastime.”

Gimli frowned at his partner. “If that were the case he would have told you it was a story before he began.”

“I don’t know the ways of Hobbits,” Legolas said.

“Hmph,” said Gimli, and crossed his arms as he examined Sauron. Legolas joined him, also crossing his arms. Frodo marveled at how they had grown to mirror each other over the years, elven gestures from dwarvish hands and Khuzdul words in Legolas’ light voice. They had begun to look like each other too, strange as that sounded. Gimli’s hair and beard were now almost completely white, a reflection of Legolas’ pale strands.

“Well met,” said Sauron, smiling.

“Hmph,” said Legolas. “Celebrimbor—” He paused. “Perhaps this isn’t the time.”

Gimli’s arms were still crossed. “In this timeless land, some still remember the events of the Third Age, although many here never experienced them.”

“Yes, but maybe we can talk later?” Frodo said, thinking about Bilbo’s stories of Mirkwood. He caught Legolas’ eye.

“I too have not forgotten the Third Age,” Legolas said. “But today is for remembering other times.”

“I’m sure you all have much to say to each other,” Celebrimbor said, looking utterly unconcerned with the tense conversation. “Shall we find our seats?”

They headed toward the hall, passing the golden doors, flung open to welcome the crowd, and weaving their way among the long tables and benches.

Frodo observed the proper head table with seats facing the long tables through the hall. Boughs of greenery hung over the center seats. 

“Is that where the family sits?” Frodo asked.

“Yes,” said Celebrimbor. “Maedhros and Fingon will sit in the center, with their families on either end. Of course, given the rather, hm, circular nature of their relationship as well as questions of royalty and politics, it was a nightmare to decide where they all would sit. You were easy though, there will be space for you over there by Lord Elrond.”

“Don’t you have to sit up there?” said Sam. “You’re family.”

“Samwise, most of the guests here are family! I had to draw the line somewhere, and I decided nieces and nephews were that line.” He glanced around. “Of course, there was no way I was going to make myself sit at the high table.”

A trumpet sounded and the high table began to fill up. Frodo, Sam, Legolas, and Gimli made their way to Lord Elrond, waving to the familiar faces of his household.

“Welcome,” said Elrond, gesturing to the empty bench on one side of him. “Have you attended a wedding in Valinor yet?”

“No,” said Frodo. “We haven’t had the opportunity.”

Elrond quirked an eyebrow. “Then I will try to explain what is happening.”

A fanfare played, and the family began to file in. High King Finarfin and Queen Eärwen entered first and sat down with gleaming crowns on their heads. Frodo would have been astonished at the number of gems encrusted on their diadems if he had not seen the High King and Queen in full ceremonial garb in Tirion — the crowns they wore today were much smaller than those. Fëanor and Nerdanel followed next, followed by Fingolfin and Anairë. Indis and Míriel walked in, arm in arm, and wearing similar dresses of silver and gold, followed by Findis, her husband, and Lalwen. Maedhros’ brothers entered with Tirien and Ornéliel, wearing a wild assortment of styles of dress, all choosing a different period as 'traditional.' Last came Turgon, Elenwë, Argon, and Írissë, all dressed in matching First Age finery.

The trumpet rang again, and the grooms came down the hall arm in arm, both smiling widely, as Frodo had never seen them smile before. They both wore blue robes. Fingon had sheer red fabric wrapped around his arms and an outer robe of gold trailing behind him. Maedhros had white gems studding his sleeves, his hand of flesh clasped in Fingon’s, his hand of gold accepting congratulations from the hall. They both wore sweeping red cloaks, the Finwean sun embroidered on the back. The hall stood and began to sing, some rolling, rich song that had been sung for wedding processions through the ages, with foot stamping and a shout at the end. 

“As you can see,” Elrond said in a low voice. “The grooms decided ‘traditional’ meant early First Age Beleriandic fashion.” He looked at the mismatched High Table. “Apparently only some were informed of that.”

The grooms reached their seats. High King Finarfin raised his arms and the room fell silent.

“Friends, family, and treasured guests. We have been brought together to celebrate the union of two who united before the world was the shape that it is today.” There was some laughter at that. “Ripped apart by politics, strife, and war they were reunited through Findekáno’s courage, a message of hope and reconciliation to a people divided! Their deeds shaped the history of the Eastern lands thereafter, for good or for ill.”

He graced the couple with a smile, the gold that seemed to run under his skin and through his hair becoming more vibrant. “Let none divide what steadfast courage and hope has brought together!” Finarfin raised a goblet in the air. “Hail love, as between lovers, bound through body and soul. Hail love for the family, born and tested through ages. Hail love among friends, no lesser love, another choice of the heart that binds us, whether we swear oaths or no.”

They toasted and drank a light floral liquor that immediately began to warm Frodo through and through. Then the feasting began.

Dish after dish was brought out. Venison, boar, and mutton from mountain sheep crusted with spices, swimming in sauces, and all cooked to tender perfection. A true hunter’s feast; a nostalgic callback to the Noldor’s early days in Beleriand but augmented with the plenty of the Blessed Realm. Quail, duck, and turkey were served as well, roasted whole and added to soups, stews, and baked in pie. The selection of fish was not as varied as might be found at even a small dinner party in Alqualondë, but there were freshwater fish aplenty: bass, pike, walleye, and delicate sturgeon eggs. 

In between the meat, dishes of roasted vegetables, each with their own blend of herbs, made the rounds. Greens tossed with crunchy vegetables and seeds with tangy dressings drizzled over, and every kind of bread imaginable were brought out, with sweet butter and preserves and salty goat cheese to spread on top.

The feast would have been marvelous on its own, but after having seen the weeks of preparation, and hearing Sam enthuse about the making of many of the dishes, Frodo appreciated it all the more. They ate and drank until they were fit to burst — even the hobbits began waving servers away, insisting that they couldn’t eat another bite.  

Frodo tried to slowly drink his wine, but it was heady stuff and somehow his goblet was always filled to the brim. Then, Sam’s beer was brought up, and they were drowned in a flurry of congratulations and toasts. 

A hush fell on the hall as Maglor stood, anticipation and tension crackling in the air. Maglor looked at his brother and Fingon, a peculiar smile on his face. The firelight sank into his dark hair, more grey than black, and gleamed off the colorful silk robe he wore.

Maglor addressed Maedhros. “You once told me that I would never sing your binding song, for your heart was already bound to another, and for many reasons a public celebration would never be welcome. But in this, and in much else, you have been wrong.” Maglor smiled, the years falling off his face, and raised his arms. 

The song that came from his lips was simple and sweet, and sung in a language Frodo could not quite understand. One verse ended, and another began, half the room joining in and standing. With the third the other half joined and they all sang together in a great swell of voices. As most of the room sang, Fingon and Maedhros rose, and walked to stand in front of the high table. There was a pause before the fourth verse, and then Fingon and Maedhros alone took up the melody and simple harmony, Fingon’s rich baritone mixing with Maedhros’ thin but steady voice. The sound of two voices when before there had been hundreds sounded lonely and fragile in the cavernous space of the hall. As the last verse began, all joined in again, an upswelling of music that filled the room to the brim.

The song ended and they all sat, except for Fingon and Maedhros who stood facing each other still. Nerdanel, Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Anairë stood and made their way to the front of the table.

“Now traditionally,” Elrond murmured to the hobbits, “the mother of the bride and the father of the bridegroom join the hands of the couple. Since the recognition of marriages beyond that of a man and a woman, most choose for both parents to stand forth, although some still choose one.”

“It’s rather a lot of people to be joining hands,” said Sam looking doubtfully at the knot of parents surrounding the couple.  

Fingolfin and Fëanor stood behind the grooms, the configuration only a little awkward as they were both only a few fingers breadth shorter than Maedhros and both were taller than Fingon. Anairë and Nerdanel stood in front, both shorter than their children, although still quite tall to Frodo’s eyes. Each parent took one of their sons' hands and guided them together, so that both of Maedhros and Fingon’s hands were joined.

“Now comes the blessing. I wonder who has taken each part,” Elrond said. 

“I hope they gave Fëanor the invocation of Eru,” said Celebrían, eyes sparkling. Elrond stifled a snort.

Nerdanel began: “Blessings of Aulë upon you. May he grant you the strength and steadfastness of the very bones of the earth. May he grant the wisdom of making and craftiness, that you may solve the problems that you will encounter together and re-make yourself anew as the years pass.”

Anairë took up the blessing: “Blessings of Manwë upon you. May he, in his authority and wisdom, witness your union, and may the breath of Manwë blow sweet upon you, granting you certainty and joy as you continue your lives together.”

Fëanor stepped to the side a little so that he could be seen from behind Maedhros. Frodo noticed that Fëanor had a bag at his side, an incongruous addition to the formal outfit he wore. Celebrían let out a little “hmph.”

Fëanor said, “Blessings of Varda upon you. May she bring beauty and grace to your union, may the stars gaze down upon you, lighting your path. May she make real your bond, binding you together as she binds the firmament to the earth.”

Fingolfin spoke last, “May Eru Ilúvatar bless you, and witness this bond, made in his holy name. Let none sunder what The One has joined.”

Anairë and Nerdanel both pulled out gold rings from the pockets and handed them to their sons. Maedhros and Fingon slipped off the silver rings they wore (“I swear I’ve seen them wear the gold before,” Celebrían muttered) and slid the new rings onto each other’s index fingers.

“And now for the exchange of gifts,” said Elrond. 

Fingolfin went first, presenting Maedhros with two golden objects the size of his palm.

Frodo leaned forward. “Legolas, Sam and I cannot see the gifts clearly, can you describe them?”

“Fingolfin has presented Maedhros with a set of earrings in the shape of eagles,” Legolas said.  

Elrond nodded. “A gift that one would give a king, very significant.”

“The tales say they had much trust and respect between them,” said Celebrían.

“Who made the earrings?” Frodo asked.

“Fingolfin did, of course,” Celebrían said. “Any Noldo of worth makes his own wedding gifts.”

“That is the custom among the dwarves as well,” Gimli said. 

Next Fëanor drew forth his gift. A great unified creak came from the benches as hundreds of people craned to see what the recently reborn craftsman had made.

“No need to describe, I can see it,” Frodo assured Legolas. Indeed, it would be difficult to miss the bejeweled necklace Fëanor lifted up and handed to Fingon. Necklace was not quite the right word, for golden epaulets supported most of the necklace’s weight, and across the chest were more modest chains, although they still sparkled with tiny jewels, but Frodo had no other words to describe it. Fingon had to hold the necklace in both hands.

Anairë went next, handing Maedhros a necklace of her own.

“The necklace is made of rubies surrounded by diamonds, with several loops,” Legolas said. Frodo did note that Maedhros could hold the necklace draped over a single gold hand.

Nerdanel went last, holding aloft a ring. Fingon stuck out a finger, hands still full, and Nerdanel slipped it on.

“The ring is carved amethyst with words friendship etched onto the crown,” Legolas said.

“We thank you for your blessings,” Maedhros and Fingon said in unison. “We shall treasure these gifts as we treasure your love.” 

Írissë hurried down from the high table to take Fingon’s necklace. He elected to wear the ring.

“Káno,” she hissed at Maglor, who started from where he had been examining a napkin and came down to do the same for Maedhros.

“Friends and kin.” Maedhros spoke, turning to address the guests. “We thank you for witnessing our union, although we pledged a private troth before we ever left Valinor, ere the darkening of the world. Nonetheless, we desired to renew our bond in these new bodies, as we have changed much from the youths who first married in secret, hardly knowing such a thing was possible for us.”

“We sought to join our families together, who have been sundered by death and barriers of law or geography for many Ages of the world,” Fingon said, and Frodo was reminded that he too had been king for a few years. “Let this be a mark of a new era, one where those who have wronged seek to right, and we all seek first to understand before we condemn.” Fingon’s face lit up with his usual grin. “Now, for the dancing!” He and Maedhros ran between the tables out into the yard, their parents following close behind.

Frodo and Sam stood and walked with the flow of people through the doors and to the courtyard. Lights sprang up from where they stretched overhead and hung from the trees. Troughs of fire were lit along the sides and Sam cocked his head, taking in the spritely tune. “Shall we make the attempt, Mr. Frodo?” He held out his hand.

“I believe we shall.” Frodo took his hand and they joined the dance, only able to do the simple base of the jig, but having a wonderful time nonetheless. As they spun out breathless at the end, Frodo let his head fall back, watching whirling sparks rise from a nearby fire. Perhaps we never will tire of this land, he thought as the music slowed and turned into a longing melody, sweet and sad.

~

“You may have been right.” Celebrimbor said, slightly out of breath.

A squeeze of his hand was the only warning Celebrimbor was given before Fingon executed a dizzying series of spins so that they ended up face to face. Fingon fell into the fast rhythmic steps of the dance with ease. Celebrimbor kept the tempo as well, although he shot Fingon a reproving look before his hands settled back on his waist.

“What was that? Did I hear you admit that I, of all people, was right?” Fingon asked with mock astonishment.

Celebrimbor gave him a slight push that started Fingon circling around him with dramatic steps. “I think I have earned at least some respite from your harassment for all the work I did for you. But yes, this wedding is a good way to get everyone together again, as we never have before.”

Circle finished, Fingon slid back into his arms. “I know! It was an inspired move on my part.”

“I thought you said it was Maedhros’ idea.”

“Look how well everyone is getting along! Could anything Maedhros started end up going so well?”

“Valar, Fingon!” Celebrimbor was laughing so hard he almost dropped Fingon when he flung himself back for a dip.

“You brought Sauron, and look, he appears to be having a lovely conversation with Arakáno.” 

Annatar looked up from where he was talking with Arakáno and met Celebrimbor’s eyes.

What are you talking about? Celebrimbor asked Annatar mentally as he and Fingon began a series of side breaks.

Books. He is extolling a series of seafaring adventures by some Telerin Mariner, Annatar said.

Really? Celebrimbor thought the topic sounded dull and not at all like something Annatar would willingly subject himself to.

Well, I am pointing out all the inaccuracies of the locations the heroes purport to visit.

Fingon twirled, seizing Celebrimbor’s attention again. “After this is all over,” Fingon said, “you need to tell me what is going on between you two.”

“There is not much to tell. We are together again.”

“What? Just resuming your relationship after—”

“I would not say resuming,” Celebrimbor interrupted. “Maybe beginning anew is the way to put it. There are still many pieces we need to figure out — that is, if we even have the chance.”

“Hey, no sadness tonight. I at least will vouch that he is a good wedding guest!” Fingon stepped closer to Celebrimbor and began to circle his hips provocatively as his arms floated around his head. “He doesn’t even seem to be bothered by this!”

“Fingon! This is your wedding!” Elenwë said, dancing past with Turgon, a judgmental eyebrow raised. Celebrimbor tried to convey how little he controlled his current position with a helpless motion at Fingon. The dance ended and Celebrimbor firmly walked Fingon to the side.

“What! You expressed concern over Sauron’s ability to suppress his possessive tendencies last time we talked!” Fingon laughed.

“He was never one to get jealous over a dance. If you came to me with a project that only involved the two of us, and I didn’t tell him the details, but I did go on and on about how intelligent you are, that would be a true test.”

“How are you testing me?” Annatar asked, his warm presence appearing behind Celebrimbor. 

“With dance,” Fingon said.

Celebrimbor shook his head at Fingon, before pushing Annatar back out among the dancers. The hurried runs of a Vanyarin dance were starting. 

“Who selected this?” Celebrimbor craned his neck to where the musicians were seated. “I have no idea how to move to this.”

“Surely we can figure it out.” Annatar was already pulling him along, having noted the basic step pattern despite the wild breaks that everyone around them seemed to be doing. “So what was the test? Were you trying to make me jealous?”

“Did it work?”

“No.” Annatar looked unimpressed as he flung Celebrimbor out for whatever additional elements the following partner did. Celebrimbor copied the arm movements of the women next to him and quickly stepped back to Annatar.

“Ah, well I’ll have to try something else then.”

The song escalated to a wild crescendo of notes. Celebrimbor just wound his arms around Annatar’s neck and tried not to get hit by the out-flung limbs around him. The crowd burst into cheers at the finish.

The musicians stood up and bowed. Celebrimbor noticed Maglor and Merillë had been playing — the group of musicians rotated through the night.

“Ah, that’s who we have to blame for all the uptempo Vanyarin music,” Celebrimbor said.

“I thought it was nice,” Annatar said.

“Play the dance of the dragonflies!” someone in the crowd called.

“Can we?” Maglor asked Merillë. 

“Did you bring the oud?” Merillë asked.

“No, but we can fetch it.” 

“A moment! Or, well, several moments!” Merillë called and she and Maglor dashed off towards Ondomar as two other musicians took their places. 

The next song rose in slow, flowing strains, but still with a clear rhythm, and Celebrimbor gladly began the gliding steps as he pressed their chests firmly together. 

They moved to the edge of the dance, and easily slipped away, first into the shadows, and then behind one of the outbuildings. Celebrimbor trapped Annatar against the wall, bracketing him between his arms.

“I think it’s going rather well, don’t you?” Annatar murmured, tucking a loosened strand behind Celebrimbor’s ear.

“As far as I can tell, you are behaving yourself,” Celebrimbor said, smiling down at him.

“Was there ever any doubt? I would think with your family history there are many more likely—”

Celebrimbor didn’t let him continue, leaning forward to catch his mouth in a kiss. Annatar tilted his head to receive it, threading his arms around Celebrimbor’s shoulders as his lips parted.

When Celebrimbor broke away, a suggestion rising to his lips, Annatar continued before he could start speaking.

“The way Gil-galad looked at me, I think we’re lucky no violence has been instigated.”

Celebrimbor laughed in disbelief. “Can you blame him?”

“It was a fair fight,” Annatar protested.

“Unbelievable,” Celebrimbor said, but he was smiling. “I’m sure Gil will have words for me about justice, consequences, and things of that nature.”

“What? Does he think I’m here attending weddings as a convoluted way to avoid divine punishment?”

“It’s worked so far, hasn’t it?” Celebrimbor said.

“Maybe I should plant the idea that my punishment has already commenced,” Annatar said with a wicked smile. “I’m sure you think of something…” He pressed his hips against Celebrimbor.

“Oh, I’m sure I could,” Celebrimbor said, his lips against Annatar’s ear. “For instance, I could make it so that every time you left your room, all of your things were moved a hairsbreadth in random directions and rearranged all of your notes. Or I could switch all your clothing with grey shapeless bags, or set you to making nothing but nails until time itself ends, or—”

Now Annatar arched up to cut off Celebrimbor with his lips. Celebrimbor allowed himself to be silenced, losing himself in the heat of Annatar’s mouth. He shifted his hips, letting Annatar know exactly where they were headed. They had truly only kissed last night, which had been wonderful between their starlit conversations, but now he wanted more. Annatar moved against him, feeding Celebrimbor’s desire and making his own known.

“Wait,” Celebrimbor said, lifting his head. “As much as I’d like to take you against this shed—” Annatar obligingly wrapped a leg around Celebrimbor’s calf. “I would rather not become the story everyone is talking about tomorrow.”

“We could go into Áremar?”

“The house is packed, we won’t find an empty room and maybe not even an empty bed. Here, you head back to my room, I’ll say enough farewells to be polite, and meet you there.”

“Entirely too many steps,” Annatar said, pulling Celebrimbor close again. Celebrimbor pushed off the wall and walked them a few steps away from the building.

Annatar leaned his head against Celebrimbor. “Not too many farewells.”

“Only Fingon and Maedhros if I can help it.”

Annatar released him, and with a last look, started winding behind the buildings towards the path to Ondomar. Celebrimbor tried to straighten out his clothes and hair so that he only looked mildly inebriated (which he was) and not like he had almost had a tryst against a shed. He approached the edge of the festivities, looking for the distinctive head of red hair above the crowd or the shimmering gold of wedding robes. He had only glanced across a few faces before someone grabbed his hands.

“Brim, dance with me!” Coroniel pulled him into a spin that hurled them into the midst of the dancers. Distracted by trying to figure out the pattern of the dance, Celebrimbor barely caught Coroniel in time as she launched herself at him.

“Come on, keep up,” she said as Celebrimbor turned the near miss into a spin.

“I am terribly out of practice,” Celebrimbor said as he set Coroniel down. “And I was never good at your favorite dances; they’re more like acrobatics.”

“I think we are well overdue for a trip to Avallónë.” Coroniel flung herself back for a dip. “You need to remember that you are a city person at heart and this surly master-craftsman-hiding-from-society is all an act. I’m surprised, though — you managed to find something decent for the wedding.”

“He chose the clothing,” Celebrimbor admitted as they joined a line creating a tunnel for couples to dance through one at a time.

“I should have known,” Coroniel said before they had to run down the tunnel of arms.

“I’ll allow it,” she continued, as they joined the line, Coroniel on tip-toes and holding Celebrimbor’s hands at his eye level. “Although he had better watch himself — but I’m not sure you’ll be able to take your ex with us to Tol Eressëa. King Gil-galad is the one to ask,” Coroniel said.

“Do you think Annatar is going to be able to go on trips with us through the Blessed Realm? What exactly do you think is going to happen next?”

“I have no idea and neither do you! You might as well see if the king will buy that I’m planning to rehabilitate Sauron through the power of dance. I doubt anyone else has any better ideas. Where is he, by the way?” Coroniel leaped so that Celebrimbor had to rest her on his shoulder as he turned. Coroniel used the opportunity to scan the crowd. “I don’t see him.”

“I sent him home,” Celebrimbor said. Coroniel raised an eyebrow at him as he lowered her. “And I was planning on following him shortly.”

“There it is! I wasn’t able to talk to you earlier today, but I knew it! You’re back together”

“You did not,” Celebrimbor said.

“Everything will work out,” Coroniel continued, ignoring him. “I know I’m not one for optimism, but we’ve spent too long in sadness to spend any more time expecting the worst. Tonight we celebrate, and soon we will all be dancing in Avallónë.”

The dance ended and a slower waltz began.

“Where are Fingon and Maedhros? I wanted to say goodbye.” Celebrimbor surveyed the crowd.

“I think our not-so-newly-weds have skipped to an unnecessary but likely more satisfying consummation,” Coroniel said. She waved at Reniadis, a former master among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and a very old friend who had been invited despite her only having a passing acquaintance with Fingon. “There you are. Ready to head back?” She slipped from under Celebrimbor’s arm to grab Reniadis’ hand.

“Reniadis, good to see you again,” Celebrimbor said. The way the two women were looking at each other made it apparent that he was not the only one rekindling old relationships this evening.

“Brim! We have to catch up over breakfast tomorrow,” Reniadis said. “You know I was working with a group camped out on the planes of Yavanna studying the behavior of hive insects, and some of our observations about the formicary of a certain species of ants reminded me of your theory of ideal work distribution.”

“That was not my theory,” Celebrimbor said, frowning over the attribution of one of Annatar’s theories to himself. “You’ll have to tell me about it tomorrow.” He saw Finrod and Amarië with Curufin sandwiched between them and waved them over. He said nothing to his father about his current position, and instead just exchanged kisses with the three of them. 

“I’m looking forward to hearing Maglor and Merillë’s duet,” Finrod said. “The thirteen-stringed oud is such a rare instrument, and Merillë is quite proficient. They should be back any moment now.”

“I’m afraid we’ll miss it, we’re all heading back to Ondomar,” Celebrimbor said. Curufin narrowed his eyes and looked around as best as he could with both of his arms still linked.

“Ah, a pity. We’ll have to see if they’ll do an encore tomorrow,” Amarië said, ignoring Curufin twisting next to her. “We’ll give your best to the grooms if we see them again.”

With a few more goodbyes, the three of them broke away and began to travel the path back. Colored lights twisting above their heads cast their faces in a rainbow of hues.

They laughed and chatted about nothing of consequence as they walked. It could have been any one of the countless evenings when he, Coroniel, and some other colleagues headed back to their rooms after an evening of drinking and dance in one of Ost-in-Edhil’s many taverns and dance halls. In later years, Annatar would likely have been waiting for him back home too, although the chances were higher that he would be waiting to accost him with his latest theory and not with any other pleasures.

Celebrimbor froze. “What was that?”

“What?” Coroniel looked at him. “Did you hear something?”

“More like felt something.” A sensation like something cold and slick had passed over his consciousness. He had not felt anything like it since before Beleriand had sunk. “Something’s wrong.”

“Let’s go! Someone may need our aid,” Reniadis said and took off. Coroniel and Celebrimbor followed her. 

The unsettling feeling passed as they jogged along, and Celebrimbor hoped he had imagined it. They were heading around a bend in the trail when the cold sensation flowed over him again.

“Valar, what was that?” Coroniel shivered; it seemed more than he had experienced the feeling this time.

“I don’t know, but we should hurry,” Celebrimbor said, picking up the pace. The ground shook beneath their feet.

“Out of my way.” The voice came from the clearing just ahead. The deep note of the voice made gooseflesh break out along Celebrimbor’s arms.

A mirthless laugh, all too familiar, came from the same location. “And where are you off to in such a hurry, Lumbë? You don’t want to catch up with me? It’s been Ages.”

“Move, Mairon, or I will go through you.”

“No. Tell me what your errand is.”

Celebrimbor, Coroniel, and Reniadis crept to the edge of the clearing. Annatar stood in the center of the space, back to them, hands at his side, looking for all the world like he was having a casual conversation. Across from him stood a giant being, grey flesh dripping down its face, shadows shifting over its body, revealing a clawed hand and a fanged face by turns.

“Morgoth’s balls,” breathed Reniadis.

“But really,” Coroniel said, barely audible. She caught Celebrimbor’s sleeve.

“Mairon, are you taking a stand after fleeing when our Master needed you most?” Lumbë sneered, snarling mouth morphing from the shapeless face.

“Perhaps. You haven’t even told me what I’m standing against.”

Lumbë breathed in with a horrible slurping sound. “You are weak, I can smell it. What have you done to yourself, Mairon? Have you made yourself an elf-pet? No wonder He had not tasked you with preparing the land for His coming.”

“He?” Annatar cocked his head.

“Now move, there are many kings whose time has come just up the path, portents to paint that will teach the inhabitants of this soft land to fear again,” Lumbë said. Annatar didn’t move. “You were warned!” Lumbë drew himself up and roared, letting loose a spray of black bile aimed at Annatar. Annatar raised his arms and turned to the side. Somehow, the foul deluge missed him.

A word, and a burst of flame appeared where Annatar gestured, racing toward Lumbë and surrounding him. Lumbë roared again; this time, a word lurked in the sound, although Celebrimbor could not understand it. Again, Annatar stepped aside, his hair whipping around him, the foul spray missing him.

A pressure built, pressing against Celebrimbor’s ears until he had to move his jaw to pop them. “Watch out,” Reniadis hissed, throwing them out of the way as a tree toppled down nearby. Celebrimbor leapt to his feet, but it seemed like the near miss was accidental.

Annatar and Lumbë were battling in earnest now, sudden words in a language the elves did not know coming fast now, a cacophony of bright bells and harsh clangs. Something must have broken through Annatar’s defense because he flew back, crashing into the trees on one side. He sprang upright, unharmed by the blow. A snarling word came from his lips, thorny and dark. Lumbë dropped to his knees. Annatar staggered from the strength of his spell, but stayed upright, advancing towards the other Maia.

Finrod almost ran into the three of them still crouched on the side of the path. His face was drained of blood. Celebrimbor grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Merillë,” Finrod gasped.

“She’s not there,” Celebrimbor said.

In the clearing he could hardly tell what was happening. A miasma swirled around the Maiar, sudden flashes showing through the smog. A palpable charge rent the air, the scream-song rising ever louder. Sometimes a cold shadow solidified into writhing arms, taloned and cruel, before teeth snapped at them and a boiling mass of eyes swarmed above instead.

Celebrimbor gasped, suddenly realizing he had been holding his breath. “I don’t think Annatar can keep this up,” he said. “I would have thought even this was beyond him; he is much weaker than he was.” He said nothing of the growing darkness being spoken into existence in the battle in front of them.

“Is he?” Coroniel said, as the Maiar separated for a moment, solid figures once again.

“Lumbë,” Gandalf said, as he rounded the bend with Fëanor and Nerdanel. “How?” Celebrimbor shook his head.

“I felt something from Kánafinwë,” Fëanor said, his eyes switching between them and the battling Maiar.

“What is that?” Nerdanel clutched Fëanor’s arm, maybe to hold him back, or maybe to keep herself from flying forward.

“One of Moringotto’s Maia, who I distinctly remember subduing at the end of the War of Wrath,” Gandalf said.

The words in the clearing linked together and became a song — a song of darkness, blood and teeth, a song like a knife scraping off skin. There was Annatar, but there also was Sauron and Mairon: all of the carefully shielded facets of his being shining forth. Annatar straightened and raised his arms — Lumbë staggered back.

“What have I done? What have I done?” Nerdanel gasped. She groped forward with her other hand. “I have invited evil into my home and it has drawn like to it. And now, my son — my son!” Nerdanel fell to her knees and plunged her fingers into the dirt, and began to pray.

“Oh Aulë, Master of Earth, Father of craftsmen, hear the prayer of Nerdanel, Mahtan’s daughter, whom you blessed as a child, who has worked all her days to honor the gifts you granted me.”

In the clearing, Annatar staggered away from Lumbë, his hands full of something sticky, throbbing, and foul. Lumbë fell to the ground with a scream. Annatar flung the offal to the side and collapsed onto his hands and knees before falling to the ground.

Celebrimbor ran forward, Finrod sprinting past him.

“Annatar!” Celebrimbor could smell something sharp underneath the putrid scent of the black sludge. He ripped off Annatar’s tunic and flung it to the side. He tore a section of the thinner shirt underneath and began to clean Annatar’s hands. Beneath the slime the skin glowed red and raw. Annatar opened his eyes.

“Don’t move, I don’t want to spread—”

“You! Thief. Thief!” Annatar’s lips curled into a snarl and a green light lurked in his eyes.

No, not now, thought Celebrimbor. “Annatar, remember yourself!” He reached for Annatar’s shoulder.

Annatar sat up, teeth bared. “Traitor! How dare you show your face again.” He lunged for Celebrimbor, wrapping his hands around his throat, heedless of his injuries.

Celebrimbor tried to pry his hands away; Annatar still had his unnatural strength and he could not move them. He opened his mind, but Annatar was an impenetrable wall, smooth and dark. Annatar! Celebrimbor pushed as hard as he could against the mental barrier of Annatar’s mind. There was a feeling of plunging downward as Annatar opened to him, and then a whirling maelstrom of fear and hate accosted Celebrimbor, the familiar edges of Annatar’s consciousness drowned under the full weight of his fëa.

Annatar, hear me! You can quiet this madness! Annatar didn’t let up, and black spots began to dance in Celebrimbor’s vision. He gave up speaking, and struck Annatar’s face as hard as he could. To his surprise, blood began streaming from his nose. Annatar paid no heed to the injury though, and did not loosen his grip on Celebrimbor’s throat. He began to slam Celebrimbor’s head against the ground.

I’ve never seen his blood before, Celebrimbor thought dimly as it dripped into his gasping mouth. It tasted like all blood did: coppery, with a sharp tang. 

Celebrimbor clawed at Annatar’s face, his blows weakening. As blackness enveloped him, worry for Annatar, and despair over the relapse faded. All that remained was a directionless prayer: don’t let me die.

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Chapter End Notes

Thanks to Visitor for beta-ing this chapter and to Lulu for talking through wedding vows!