What Brings Us Together by Aipilosse

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Secrets Kept

Thanks again to Visitor (LonelyVisitor on SWG) for Beta-ing this chapter!

Celebrimbor | Tyelperinquar
Galadriel | Artanis
Aredhel | Írissë
Maeglin | Lómion
Maedhros | Nelyo
Gandalf | Olórin

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Galadriel found Celebrimbor as he was packing a leather satchel in his study. 

“Are you going to visit your grandfather?”

“Yes, I think it’s time,” Celebrimbor answered. “I have no reason to avoid him.” He paused for a moment and made a face at the book he held. “Well, no more reason than most people here.”

Galadriel tilted her head to read the title. “Are you bringing Fëanor his own writings?”

Celebrimbor gave a short laugh. “Yes, I thought it might be nice to have a topic of conversation at hand. Not that I ever recall Haru being at a loss for words, but I may want to change the subject.”

Galadriel held some skepticism that Celebrimbor would be able to change the subject with Fëanor, whose legendary tenacity certainly extended to steering the course of a conversation, but she knew he wouldn’t be dissuaded from the attempt. Celebrimbor could be forgiven for having a softer view of his grandfather than she did; he had not even been of age when Fëanor died, and had many fond memories of being doted on as Fëanor’s first and only grandchild.

“Do you need something from me?” Celebrimbor asked.

“I’d like to come with you.”

Celebrimbor’s hands stilled, and he looked up at her with raised eyebrows. “You wish to visit Fëanor?”

“Yes,” said Galadriel crisply. “It has been many ages since I saw him, each age longer than the last, and perhaps the time has come for resolution. I do not know if I have forgiveness within me, and I certainly do not expect him to apologize, although it is owed, but I would like to at least see him again.”

Celebrimbor tied his satchel shut. “I was hoping to have a friendly conversation with my grandfather, whom I miss.”

“And I won’t hinder you! I just wish to see him again. I feel off balance knowing he is at Áremar without having seen him.”

Celebrimbor’s face still showed his skepticism. “Very well, you may come with me if you’d like.”

As they exited the main doors, Galadriel drifted towards the stables.

“I was going to walk,” Celebrimbor said.

Galadriel sighed. The trip to Áremar didn’t worry her; it was only a handful of miles, and she enjoyed Celebrimbor’s company, especially as they were not now attempting to co-rule a city. She worried more about the slower escape should the need arise once she arrived. 

“Very well.”

Írissë’s hall retained the spirit of a rustic hunting lodge mixed with the grandeur of the ancient Halls the Noldor built during the Years of the Trees. The sloped roof shone gold, as did the magnificent doors to the main hall that Celebrimbor had crafted years ago. It had grown since its founding — wings were added as more people decided to make Áremar their permanent residence — but it had a symmetry Ondomar lacked.

Celebrimbor went straight to the smithy in the back of the yard. It would be more polite to greet the lady of the hall before going to find Fëanor, but Celebrimbor visited frequently — he had his own room and stayed here often enough that he needed no introduction. 

Galadriel considered making her excuses and finding Írissë before she spoke to Fëanor, but she knew that the urge came from nerves. Írissë would not be offended that she had come to see their uncle as long as Galadriel greeted her at some point.

As they approached the smithy, a blinding light flashed from the doorway; Galadriel and Celebrimbor reeled back. Without a word, Celebrimbor rummaged in his bag and pulled out two pairs of eye shields. Galadriel put on the smoked quartz lenses, not surprised in the least that Celebrimbor had decided that they were needed to visit Fëanor. It would also not surprise her if Celebrimbor usually carried eye protection — her cousin had a streak of recklessness that tended to pop up at inopportune moments, but no one could accuse him of neglecting forge safety.

Celebrimbor rapped on the doorframe before entering.

“It’s Tyelperinquar and Artanis,” he called.

“It’s safe,” came Lómion’s voice from within.

Galadriel took a deep breath, arranged her face in the most serene expression possible, and walked into the forge.

Írissë only had the one smithy, small but serviceable, with an efficient bellows system, a wide range of tools, several anvils of different sizes, and a few heavy duty tables. She suspected Lómion had made improvements of his own; Írissë’s son lived and worked at Áremar most of the time and had a love of complex smithing of all kinds. 

Fëanor and Lómion were standing at one of the tables, both with their dark hair plaited back. Galadriel hadn’t seen the particular style in Fëanor’s hair for millennia. 

Fëanor slowly straightened, studying Celebrimbor. 

“Tyelperinquar, it’s good to see you.” 

His voice sounded warm in a way that Galadriel had never heard before, and his smile held no bite. The Fëanor burned into her memory had ever shifting moods, a thunderous voice, and brought a suffocating feeling into any room he entered, as if he were a flame licking up all the air for himself. Fëanor still emitted a bright energy, but she detected none of the madness that had frightened and repulsed her before. 

“Haru,” Celebrimbor said. “I’ve missed you.” He stepped into his grandfather’s open arms.

When Fëanor finally let go, he held Celebrimbor’s shoulders at arms length and studied him. 

“You are taller, or else I missed the last few inches in the accursed darkness! I will not exclaim over how tall and handsome  and talented you have become as if you just came of age, although all that is true. Perhaps what I should say is that you have brought more pride to your family than I ever hoped to see. When I saw what you had achieved, I knew our curse was well and truly broken.”

Galadriel shivered. Whether he intended it or not, Fëanor’s words held power — she knew doom came from without and within all too well. Something dislodged within herself. A portion of the grief and bitterness she held through long years of exile dissolved, a quiet ending to an ancient curse. 

Celebrimbor started crying into his grandfather’s shoulder, and tears began blurring the edges of her vision even as Fëanor’s blazing attention settled on her. 

“Artanis, I am surprised you wished to see me. Nonetheless, it gladdens my heart to see you, and to know that you survived the woes of the First Age to serve as a beacon for our people in Middle-earth for long after.”

“You have dwelled in my mind as a target for ire longer than we knew each other upon this earth,” Galadriel said. “Any anger that is still there serves no purpose, and I hoped to put it behind me through seeing you again.”

Fëanor nodded, pain pinching at the corner of his eyes. “Anger has its use as a spark to move what is stagnant, but clinging to it can only harm. That I know too well.” He paused for a moment, his mouth twisting as he moved his jaw. “I am sorry for the theft and destruction of your people’s ships, and I am sorry for the bloodshed I began. It is my deepest regret that the first blood my sword tasted was that of those who should have been my allies. I have barely begun to think how I can mend a hurt that my people have already worked for many years to heal, but I will do what I can.”

For a moment, all speech fled. Galadriel had not expected an apology; at most she had expected to trade some stiff words with Fëanor before leaving to find Írissë. Finally, she was able to shake off her surprise, the path forward suddenly clear.

“I forgive you, for the harm you did to myself at least. I can grant no more than that, yet it is still more than I have thought I would be capable of.” Fëanor’s dismissal of the curse had dissolved a long held darkness within her, and the true forgiveness she spoke made her feel lighter than when the Trees had shone over Valinor. No, she felt better than she had then, the wisdom of ages striking out the uncertainty and striving she had lived with during her younger years. 

“I can ask for no more, and I thank you,” Fëanor said gravely, before looking north. “You do not happen to know if Nerdanel is planning to visit soon?”

Celebrimbor straightened, wiping his eyes. “I’m afraid she has voiced no such plans to me.”

“Ah, well,” Fëanor said. “We have plenty of time, there is no need to hurry.”

Galadriel squinted at him, startled by his uncharacteristic patience. She recognized sadness and uncertainty in him, and it seemed odd for a man who had often seemed incapable of doubt before. An unexpected pang of sympathy rose within her as she recognized the unsteadiness that being at odds with a spouse could bring. 

“What were you and Lómion working on?” Celebrimbor asked, baldly changing the subject.

“Centerpieces,” said Lómion with a wry grin. He gestured at the mess of wire and gems on the table, some pieces haphazardly glowing.

Galadriel raised an eyebrow. “I think Írissë will not thank you for centerpieces that introduce any sort of instability into the wedding.”

Fëanor waved a hand. “They will not be unstable by the time we finish. We’re just having some fun. I suspect I have been asked to do this in an attempt to keep me distracted. I will acquiesce for now.”

“I know Nelyo will greatly appreciate it if you do not ruin the wedding,” Celebrimbor said, idly examining one of the beaten metal sheets on the table. 

The worried expression passed over Fëanor’s face again. “I am trying very hard not to disturb the upcoming events. In my past life, I was at the center of things, although that was never my aim. I only wished to pursue learning and craft to whatever end they would lead me, but neither did I reject recognition when it came. Now, I am attempting to stand to the side; it is more difficult than you would expect.”

“Please keep on attempting,” said Galadriel.  

Despite the dig, unexpected sympathy was rising  within her. She had gone from being the most revered of all the Eldar to one among many figures of legend. Most days she welcomed the change. As the Lady of the Golden Wood, and an integral part of the safety of Lothlórien, she could not have chosen to stay with relatives for an indeterminate amount of time, nor could she follow wherever her whims might have taken her. On the other hand, life towards the end of the Third Age had been full of purpose, her objective a guiding star in all of her decisions: defending her people against the encroaching darkness. The hidden power of Nenya allowed her to create the fairest realm in Middle-earth, and many sought her wisdom as they battled against the Dark Lord and his minions; if she advised a course, it would likely be followed. Now, with a number of the powerful and contentious Noldor reborn, her opinion was not sought out more than that of anyone else in her family. She knew her political acumen could not come close to the tactfulness of Finarfin and Gil-galad, and their delicate maneuverings that ensured that the governments in Tirion and Tol Eressëa remained unified. Ondomar’s remote location had appealed to her just as much as its clever inhabitants. 

“Will you let me see your ring?” Fëanor asked, startling Galadriel out of her thoughts. She ran her thumb over Nenya, which she still wore every day despite its depleted power. 

She glanced at Celebrimbor. He shrugged. “He has already seen Narya, I believe. Olórin walked to Áremar with him the first night he arrived.”

Galadriel rolled her eyes. “Of course he did.” She slid Nenya off her finger and handed it to Fëanor. She had made the trip, and she had forgiven as much as she could; she might as well satisfy the legendary curiosity.

Fëanor held the ring up to the light streaming from the window. Silver petals unfurled, revealing the white gem. 

“It is beautifully wrought, Tyelperinquar. You used a very different style on this ring.”

“I always meant this ring for Artanis. Unlike Narya, which was crafted more in opposition to the dark fire but not for any wielder in particular,” Celebrimbor said.

Fëanor closed his hand around the ring and shut his eyes. “No, I can feel no spark of power within this ring either.” 

Celebrimbor shook his head. “It is as I said. Although I specifically created it without Sauron’s will or power, I still used the same method of operating on the Song that we devised together.  When he created the One, the same...hm, strings were bound up in its making. When the One was destroyed, all the threads we had so painstakingly identified were loosened, and the Three lost all their power.”

“Tyelpë, you’re going to need to devise a more specific language if we’re going to build upon this technology,” Fëanor said.

“What?” Lómion asked, his eyebrows shooting up. Galadriel mutely shook her head at him, trying to convey how utterly unsurprising Fëanor’s line of inquiry was to anyone who knew him.

Celebrimbor only shook his head, his face pensive. “Absolutely not. I will never undertake ring-craft again, by choice, and by ability.” Fëanor shot him a disapproving look. “Would you craft the Silmarils again, even if you could?”

Fëanor looked off in the distance, disregarding various levels of concern on everyone’s faces. “No, but only because I am reluctant to tread well-worn paths. If it has been done, what is the joy of it? You cannot mean that you are content to dwell here and never try to match your greatest achievements.”

“I still make things,” Celebrimbor crossed his arms. “But I no longer create with an eye towards besting what I made last, or comparing my achievements to your own. My days of constant striving are done.”

“Hmph,” said Fëanor, surveying Celebrimbor with narrowed eyes.

“I have actually picked up my old skills recently,” Galadriel said. She wished to change the subject from fated works of power. She did not trust the calm demeanor Celebrimbor had worn since Sauron showed up, and wanted to avoid any encouragement towards ring making or reminders of wasted potential. She doubted that Celebrimbor would do something rash, but the possibility still lurked.

“Oh, and what have you made?” Fëanor’s focus turned fully upon her. His eyes were not as bright as they once were — they all had faded a bit as the years wore on — but they were still piercing.

Celebrimbor sagged a little in relief as she began explaining her lens and how it worked. She allowed Fëanor to question her with the curt style she had always disliked. When he began to find fault with the range of the focal length she had used, she made her excuses and left to find Írissë. The more she thought about the potentially explosive mix of people they had at Ondomar and Áremar, the more she wanted to be sure her cousin knew her concerns.

~

“Brim, let’s discuss your progress with the invitations,” Fingon announced — in a voice only a hair softer than a battle cry. Fortunately, Galadriel had left for Ondomar, and the return of a hunting party preoccupied everyone else, so no one noticed as Fingon dragged Celebrimbor into the study with much more urgency than invitations required. 

Fingon shut the door with exaggerated slowness. “So?”

“So, I just sent out the last batch of invitations last week; there’s no response yet. How many more rounds are you planning to send? I don’t know where you’re getting these names.”

“My mother sent them to me — apparently she ran into a long-lost cousin and invited that whole side, but that was not what I was talking about!” Fingon threw himself into a chair and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Celebrimbor crossed his arms.

“So.” Fingon leaned forward. “How are you?”

“I think the real question is, how are you?” Celebrimbor leaned his weight on the back of a chair, mirroring Fingon’s posture. “I cannot imagine what it’s like to be living with my grandfather and somewhere between two and four of my uncles. I’m surprised you haven’t called off the wedding altogether.”

“He came here for the wedding.” Fingon’s leg began to bounce.

“Who, Fëanor?” Celebrimbor asked. Fingon nodded. “What? Are you saying he returned from the dead because he heard Maedhros was getting married?”

“Married to me, yes! He humbled himself, swore to make amends, and agreed to hold the Oath fulfilled, all to see his eldest son’s marriage.” Now Fingon’s index finger had joined in and tapped furiously on the desk.

“He is aware that this is entirely ceremonial, and you both bonded while the Trees still stood, right?” Celebrimbor asked.

“I actually don’t know, but you have skirted the question long enough! Really, how are you doing?”

Celebrimbor huffed, his attempts at distraction thwarted. “I don’t know.”

Fingon leaned his chin on his hand and smiled encouragingly.

Celebrimbor tried his most dissuading glare — Fingon’s smile was unrelenting. “I truly don’t know. I think I am beyond feeling. Can’t I be finished?” 

Fingon’s smile faded. “I never found my heart so obedient to my will, but if you can be finished with any emotional attachment, I’ll be glad of it and say no more.”

Celebrimbor fisted a hand in his hair as Fingon’s words struck home. “Have I not mourned enough times for him? Even when I realized I had been lied to for centuries, and that to the man I loved I was some sort of experiment, a variable he could manipulate that would prove him better than his master, I was still devastated and grieving when he left at my behest! And even when he hurt me so badly my body still remembers the pain sometimes after its remaking, I mourned for him again when I realized he had killed the best pieces of himself long before he came for me. And then, when I was reborn, still I grieved to hear how far he had fallen. I thought at last all my mourning for him was spent, but no, because when the news reached us that he was utterly destroyed, all I could feel was loss.

“So, tell me, how am I supposed to feel when one who has caused me so much grief shows up beyond anyone’s understanding, smiling and sunny and professing to want my friendship yet again?” Abruptly, Celebrimbor snapped his mouth shut, cutting off the last angry word, and slumped against the wall.

“You don’t have to see him at all if you don’t want to.” Fingon smiled, but his eyes were worried. “No one would blame you. Stay here, or go to Tirion; you know Turgon and Elenwë would always be happy to have you. Hey, everyone’s about to head here for the wedding, I’m sure Uncle Finarfin would be happy to make you High King of the Noldor for a few weeks.”

Celebrimbor shot Fingon an incredulous look. “I would rather be flayed alive again.”

Fingon deflected his response with a raised hand. “I thought you should know it’s an option.”

Celebrimbor shook his head, returning to the problem at hand. “But yes, Írissë was very clear that I am welcome here. Yet  if I go elsewhere, all I will be able to think about is what he is doing. I think I’ll have more peace staying where I am.”

“That’s also understandable. Between you and me, I don’t imagine Áremar will be a haven of rest in the coming weeks. Both of your parents have installed themselves here ever since Sauron appeared, and they are up to something.”

“Oh no. Are they actually crafting together again?” He had not thought much of his parents’ absence until this point, but now it began to worry him.

“Yes, whenever they can wrest the smithy from Fëanor and Lómion.”

“You could ask Fëanor to build another smithy. It would distract him for less than a week, but that might work out better than whatever decorative work you’ve set him at.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

Celebrimbor gnawed at his lip. “I’ve decided I don’t want to know what my parents are making; sometimes it is better to be ignorant.” Curufin and Ornéliel were rarely in accord, they were both too opinionated and volatile to work together for long. 

“If I can do anything, please tell me. You were such a help when Maedhros returned, if I could but provide a part of that comfort, I would.” Fingon spoke earnestly. 

“I will.” Celebrimbor was casting about for a topic of conversation other than himself when voices began pouring in from the hall outside the study.

“Now, at least I can try to distract you tonight. There hasn’t been a dull moment in days.” Fingon’s nervous tapping started up again.

“I’m not surprised.” Celebrimbor pushed himself off the wall. “Let’s see what the fuss is about.”

~

Galadriel walked back to Ondomar that afternoon alone, leaving Celebrimbor to stay the night at Áremar. She had to leave, although the idea of an evening of merriment with Fëanor, his oldest son, said son’s fiancé, Írissë, Lómion, and Celebrimbor had tempted her to stay. Curufin and Celegorm were around somewhere as well — entirely too many Fëanorians upon further reflection. Even if that hadn’t been the case, Galadriel had pressing business back at Ondomar. 

She paced around the basement room a bit after she had prepared the basin, trying to rid the space of any strange energies while she quieted her own mind. Earlier that day she had forgiven someone whose actions at one time she had thought unforgivable. She did not think she would have a sudden change of heart with this particular monster.

By the time Sauron entered the room, Galadriel had stilled herself. She sat in the deep chair on one side of the Mirror, her hands resting lightly on the arms.

“Good afternoon,” Sauron said, as if his presence did not make every afternoon worse. At least he did not try smiling at her.

“Sit,” she ordered. He sat, but his bright eyes remained trained on her, full of curiosity, and irritatingly devoid of any malice she could detect. 

“So, you gazed upon your past yesterday with my brother. You looked into the depths of time, and saw a previous incarnation of yourself, yet you still remember nothing. I will do the same today. Do you consent to open your mind to me?”

“Yes,” Sauron said immediately. Galadriel resisted clawing her hands into the arms of the chair, and looked upon his thoughts, or at least the window he had opened to her. 

She suppressed a shudder at the familiar touch of his mind as years of mental warfare returned to her. His thoughts were the same shape and pattern as before: fast, percusive, and angular in their motion. Yet the sickly brightness had vanished. The spark of light that all minds have still glittered through their connection, but only a degree brighter than the mind of a typical elf. When she had encountered his mind before, there had been a heavy feeling, like a poison-soaked rag; that too was gone. Rather than gaze into the past with him, she had the sudden urge to follow his thought as he mused on the reflection of light and the paths it took, and she had to force herself to refocus on the task at hand.

“It is time. Look into the mirror.”

Sauron leaned forward. For several minutes, only candle light reflected off the surface of the water, but at last the flickering brightness shifted and tall shapes began to solidify. She was not surprised when the corrupted towers of fallen Minas Tirith appeared, but the sight still filled her with loathing. Galadriel’s bile rose as the profaned walls of her brother’s keep came into view. She had traveled to Minas Tirith a few times in happier days, and the towers looked much the same as it did then. The battlements still gleamed, no physical dirt clung to the walls, but she could tell, even through the reflection of a reflection, that it had been bound about with spells meant to compel and enthrall. The denizens were just as abhorrent; they passed slavering beasts, jeering orcs, and the animated corpses of those unlucky enough to come near Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

They plunged deeper into the tower, until a large circular room came into focus. The figures in front of the dull red throne were difficult to see through their own obfuscation and the confusion of viewing them through another’s perception, but Galadriel knew who they must be. The person seated on the throne shone in sharp relief. The bright gold eyes and hair were very familiar, but the face’s design imparted fear rather than trust. Mirror-Sauron smiled, sharp teeth framed by red lips. 

“Glad I am that ye have come, for I much desire tales of the rebel elf lords and their feeble attempts to obstruct Lord Melkor’s will. Come, where have ye been and what have ye seen?”

The flickering shape of her brother responded. “We have been about Lord Melkor’s business, thirty rebel elves we did slay, and cast their bodies in a pit.”

“Thirty elves! Your industry astounds me. Surely ye have news of Nargothrond then, for in that realm ye must have been to encounter a force so strong.”

“Only to the borders,” replied Finrod. “We feared the wrath of King Felagund the fair.” 

Amid her consternation at knowing what must be coming next, Galadriel almost snorted. 

“Oh? Have ye not heard? Felagund is gone; Nargothrond is ruled by Celegorm, son of Fëanor.” Sauron radiated concern and solicitude, but she could feel the searing gaze looking for any chink in the glamours woven about Beren, Finrod, and his faithful men.

“Celegorm? Should it not be Orodreth who rules in Nargothrond?” Galadriel wanted to kick Finrod through the vast distance of time and space.

“Such opinions on the line of succession within a realm ye feared to tread!” Mirror-Sauron tilted his head, his inquiry soft even as Finrod’s party shifted in response to the growing aura of menace. “What is your name? I would know what bold captain I speak with.”

“I am Dungalef, and this is Nereb,” replied Finrod motioning at Beren. “You honor us, but we cannot remain long. Our captain Boldor awaits us.”

“Oh does he?” A quick, viscous smile darted over Sauron’s face. “Your news stale yet again, for Boldor was slain by the cringing outlaw folk of Thingol.” Finrod and his company shifted uncomfortably. 

Sauron’s toying demeanor abruptly dropped, and he seemed to grow larger as the gold of his eyes turned to fire. “Your tale is full of holes, and I seem to be giving more tidings than I am brought. Whom do ye serve, orcs of Bauglir? Repeat your vows to the maker of mightiest work, the king of earthly kings, and the master of the wide earth! You know what you must swear; curse Tilion and Arien, spies of the grasping West. May darkness everlasting end Manwë, Varda, and their simpering brethren.”

Finrod and his faithful stood stock-still, their faces blank. Beren muttered, “We are not servants of Him, let us leave.” Galadriel would have laughed at his boldness if her throat wasn’t tight with tears.

Sauron threw back his head with dark mirth. “Patience! I do not intend for ye to abide here long. But first, a song for your coming.”

Then Sauron stood, arms outstretched, and began to sing in a voice both deep and high, with all the power that Galadriel knew his kind were capable of, every word meant to compel, to pierce, to reveal. The corruption of the song made her mind feel oily and unclean, but its power equaled what Melian had employed on the rare occasions she had seen her weave the enchantments of the Girdle.

In the face of that power, mighty, foolish, beloved Finrod stood, matching every dark spell and evil wizardry with a song of resistance and freedom.

The battle raged with more ferocity than even the bards sang. Sauron betrayed no hint of dismay in the sharp lines of his face, but the way his supreme focus bent entirely on Finrod showed the tax the battle extracted from him. Galadriel’s heart rose as Finrod’s song brought light that had never been seen on those shores into the dark tower; the birds of spring sang with him, and Ulmo’s waves beat under all, as the glitter of his words shored up their masks and pushed back against Sauron.

Then Mirror-Sauron surged forward, eyes blazing, as he caught the note of the sea, and suddenly a song of white ships and sands drenched red poured from his mouth. 

He has no right to even think of our ships. She looked up. You had no right!

Sauron remained bent over the mirror, enthralled with what he saw. 

Finrod did not bear the title of kinslayer, but the betrayal lurked too close to his interests for the song of faithfulness and strength through friendship to stand. The end came quickly after that, Sauron’s song ending in a note of triumph as Finrod first fell to his knees and then collapsed on the ground.

The haze abruptly fell from them, and Finrod, Beren, and their ten companions were revealed to Sauron. 

“Strip them,” Sauron commanded — and the withered forms of his undead servants, who had been waiting on the edge of the room, surged forward and began to tear the armor and then the clothing off their bodies. They meticulously picked through every article, examined every weapon, and left them in neat piles in the throne room. Beren and the others remained frozen throughout, Sauron now able to easily compel them to stillness.

After picking through their gear, chains were brought and fastened to their ankles, wrists, and necks. Sauron stepped forward and drew Finrod to him, tilting his head this way and that, trying to figure out his true identity. Finally, he huffed in annoyance and cast him on the ground.

“They will reveal their full purpose soon enough. Take them to the dungeons, in a cell large enough to hold them all together.” The thralls dragged the bodies away as Beren and his companions woke from their stupor and began to yell. Mirror-Sauron took no notice of them, sitting back on the stone throne, deep in thought.

Galadriel abruptly loosened her power over the Mirror, causing the water to ripple and Sauron to start back, clearly disoriented from being pushed out of the vision so fast. The whole thing had taken less than an hour. Galadriel knew she should try to delve into the depths of Sauron’s past further that afternoon, but she had no desire to see what happened next to her brother and his company, and knew her thoughts were too fixed on that time for anything else to be shown.

She tried to discern Sauron’s mood from his rapidly flickering thoughts, but could detect nothing beyond the whirling activity. 

“So that is how Finrod knew me,” Sauron finally said, his face pensive.

“That and what happens next.” Fury boiled up in her as inquisitive gold eyes stared back. “You killed him. After weeks of torment, you had him torn limb from limb, slain by your foul wolves, after his friends were killed before him one by one, save Beren.”

“And I still remember none of this,” Sauron said, frustration lacing his voice. “That battle was a thing of incredible power; how could I have forgotten it? And how could I command such might? Now I have nothing.”

Galadriel clutched the table, her fingernails carving furrows in the wood. “You threw away your power! You decided a gamble for greater might and control was worth corrupting your very being, and you lost! Any right you had to complain is forfeit. You should not even be here; you should be a cringing speck of malice, endlessly railing against your betters in the Void!”

Sauron barely reacted to her anger, only furrowing his brow with mild concern. “It may be as you say. I still know so little. I am sorry for the distress I am causing everyone. Many days I wish I had remained Miaulë the cat.”

Galadriel sat back and closed her eyes. The heartache of reliving every foul thing that had happened to her and her family overshadowed any benefit to discovering the mystery of what had happened to the fallen Maiar. Discovering the series of events that led Sauron to Ondomar held even less appeal, but here he sat, more innocent-seeming then when he had been Annatar in Ost-in-Edhil. His guilelessness poised like a knife above their heads, the Sauron of old threatening to manifest at any time and destroy them all again.

---

Chapter End Notes

Haru - Qenya, Grandfather (A disreputable early period word, but which elfdict.com also informs me is the fan neologism for the Quenya word. I'm sure whatever fans decided that it could stay without any phonetic shifts were smarter than me, so I'm using it)