Ulmo’s Palace by oshun

Innocence Lost

At a critical point in their lives, Celebrimbor and Curufin remember Ulmo's Palace. This excerpt from a psalm had all the tropes I wanted and needed: ships, great waters, stormy winds and the all too familiar human reaction to finding oneself at the mercy of the power of the sea.

They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;
These see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.
For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof.
They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble.
They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wits' end.
--Psalm 107, King James version of the Bible

At first, only a faint breeze stirred the sails with the lethargy of a lazy, hostile youth. Celebrimbor cursed to himself that the only sailors among the Noldor, inexperienced holiday captains of small pleasure boats, did not have the skills to handle these mighty swan ships. They had unfurled all of the large sails quickly, hoping to catch the recalcitrant winds. Suddenly heavy clouds amassed shutting out the insufficient light of the early evening stars, accompanied by fitful giant drops of water that turned into a steady ice cold rain. The winds rose pulling viciously at far too much sail while the sea roiled and bubbled beneath them.

Celebrimbor clutched the wood work on the side of the ship, looking down the foaming waves, noting out of the corner of his eye his grandfather racing back and forth, apparently with a purpose even if it did have a crazed edge to it.

"Get the boy below!" Fëanor yelled at Curufin, before grabbing Maedhros's arm, who was hurrying by, and pulling him up short. Fëanor had assumed the role of the mad captain of a ship of fools while Maedhros played his sullen, semi-mutinous first mate.

Curufin approached Celebrimbor and put an arm around his shoulders. "Come along then. There is nothing for you here and it is getting dangerous."

"Oh, it's getting dangerous now is it?" he snapped. "I cut and stabbed people. I may have even killed a man." He released a loud sob and swallowed painfully. "I loved the Teleri. I've always loved Alqualondë." He looked down at his blood-spattered trousers. "They were throwing people into the water who could not swim. Firing arrows at them! Like shooting fish in a barrel. What else could I do?"

"Take Tyelpo below, Curvo. Now!" Maedhros growled through gritted teeth.

Celebrimbor allowed his father to hustle him down the narrow stairs, half pulling and half carrying him.

Rows of wounded bled at the feet of incongruously calm healers, most of them of the Old Ones who had survived the Long March. Celebrimbor wanted to cover his ears to shut out the moaning of the injured and the medics' muttering of arcane incantations in unfamiliar dialects. Mystical mumbo-jumbo his grandfather would have said. Some of the medics knelt over their patients packing wounds with poultices or stitching torn flesh. The soothing scent of herbs reached his nose, combined with the sharp alcoholic tang of antiseptics.

Celebrimbor heard a familiar voice: Erestor from his dressage class, the son of Lord Orneminar the architect.

"Will I die?" Erestor asked, his voice ringing clear with stubborn self-control. Just then Erestor spotted him and shot him one of his tender, self-deprecating smiles, which always struck Celebrimbor as hiding enticing secrets.

"No, son," answered a laconic healer, turning Erestor's arm over and back inspecting a short horizantal seam of neat black stiches. "No. You will not. It's only a flesh wound. It probably won't even leave a permanent scar."

I'm not wounded, Celebrimbor thought, though my trousers and tunic are covered with blood.

"Hey, Tyelpo," said Erestor.

"Hey," he answered.

"We are well and truly fucked now, aren't we?" Erestor said grinning. It was more a statement than a question. "Well, at least we know we're right."

"Yeah," Celebrimbor said, not at all sure that was true. Didn't Erestor's arm even hurt? he wondered to himself.

Curufin ignored Erestor and shoved Celebrimbor past the makeshift infirmary, down the corridor, and into an empty cabin. It must have been designed for the captain of the ship, spacious and well lit with bluish Fëanorian lamps. Dark polished hardwood trimmed the portholes and a flamboyant mural of Ulmo's Palace covered one wall. The Vala of the Seas held a gilded trident and sported impossibly broad shoulders and muscular biceps.

"Drink this," his father ordered, shoving a bottle under his nose. "I am so sorry for everything," he said. "You're much too young for this." An unsecured porthole flew open causing them both to jump. Curufin struggled to close it. The last of Celebrimbor's hysteria had already begun to transform itself into numbness.

"Then so is Erestor. Too young, I mean. And he came alone. He can't be more than forty-two or three. I saw plenty of women with children, even infants. I saw a boy about ten years old slip in a puddle of blood and start crying. It was revolting. Poor little kid." Curufin winced. "Remember Ulmo's Palace?" Celebrimbor asked gently, pointing at the garish painting, trying to change the subject.

"Yes," Curufin said. "I am sorry about that too. I should have let you have your childish fancies. But that wasn't how I was raised. I didn't know any better."

"It's all right, Atto," Celebrimbor said. "None of it matters any more. Look at us now? Nothing could have prepared me for this."