Chapter Text
Days come and go and Mairon doesn’t mention their upcoming journey again. So when Celebrimbor is summoned to his chambers, he thinks maybe the time for leaving has come. The servant who comes to fetch him doesn’t tell him anything about it, only that he has been looking for him and that the Lord is growing impatient. Celebrimbor has been taking a walk across the small market in a corner of the fortress. When the doors of the Lord’s chambers open before him, Mairon is standing by the window, as still and lifeless as a statue. When Celebrimbor takes a step inside he seems to wake up suddenly.
“Tyelpe,” he says with a smile. “Please, let’s sit.”
It’s a shy day of spring and the weather is still cold. A fire is burning bright and clear in the chimney. The room is devoid of a bed; Mairon doesn’t need sleep. Wide armchairs, a sofa, shelves crowded with books, some of them very ancient looking. There is also a huge desk, dark wood, littered with papers and quills. An open book lays open.
“What do you miss most?” Mairon asks without preamble.
Celebrimbor frowns and the look on his face probably betrays his worry because Mairon adds.
“It is not a tricky question; I am not talking about the past. I suppose there are a lot of things there that you miss. What I am asking is, what do you miss most in your current state?”
So many things to miss... Freedom most of all, but it is not the answer he will give.
“My hands, the way they were before. I miss my capable hands.”
It’s Mairon’s turn to fall silent.
“I thought you would.” He says, his voice dreamy, as lost in memories.
Celebrimbor watches as the Lord of Men, the god-king, keeps his eyes on the whispering flames. This powerful creature is no longer Annatar. Or Sauron. He has changed so much that it is difficult not to think of him as a complete stranger. So remote. So still. So calm. He barely looks like he belongs to the world.
“I think I can be of help,” Mairon says, pointing at Celebrimbor’s hands.
The elf’s heart skips a bit; hope and wariness flaring.
“But it will be painful. And require a lot of trust. From both of us.”
Their eyes meet for a couple of seconds, and Celebrimbor averts his gaze first.
“Trust is dead between us,” he says in a voice that speaks of pain. “You cannot expect that from me. Not after what you did."
Mairon seems to think about it. “I trust you. In my memory, I was betrayed too.”
“Valar! Here we go again,” Celebrimbor snorts. “It’s like a tricked labyrinth. There’s no way out.”
“There is, actually. Just lend me some of your trust, and I will show you. I can heal your hands.”
Celebrimbor feels tired suddenly, tired of this endless fight. “Fine,” he says. “Do it.”
Mairon takes a breath. Maybe he expected a stronger resistance.
“I will start with the right one because it is the one you need most. When we are back from our trip, I will work on the left one.”
Celebrimbor’s laugh echoes in the room, both amused and bitter.
“I sense some blackmail here. Behave and you will get your reward.” He stands, suddenly furious. “If you want my trust for Valar knows what plan of yours…”
“There’s no plan.” Mairon says firmly.
“Of course there is. Be it good or bad, there is. But the blackmail…” The elf shakes his head in disgust.
“Just say yes, Tyelpë.”
It is becoming a habit, Celebrimbor muses, the way Mairon refuses to get trapped in a discussion, his focus solely on his goal. Maybe he was always like this. Never giving any explanation, never showing anger. Like Celegorm’s hunting dogs, only preoccupied with their prey, heedless of any distraction. He pushes back the memories. This is not the time to mourn.
“Yes.” Because having a functional hand again is too wonderful a prospect to play offended and slam the door now. Choose your battles with care, his father used to say. Which is funny in retrospect, considering Curufin’s choices. Mairon’s voice brings him back.
“I said it would be painful. Truth is…” He seems to consider the choice of words. “I have to break your hand first. Extensively. Starting from nil is the only way.”
Celebrimbor laughs. “I am sure you will love every second of it.” Serious again, he straightens. “Let’s do it.”
Mairon comes to sit on a chair close to him and takes his hands in his own, watching them intently, and Celebrimbor feels a slight tremor run through his fingers, a sharp tingling, following the severed nerves of his hands.
“I even wonder how you manage to write, in the state they are,” Mairon says, assessing the damage like a healer would, seemingly oblivious that he was the one to cause said damage.
On that, he starts. Painful it is, indeed, although the breaking part only lasts a few minutes, Mairon using some sort of light hammer and making sure there is nothing left intact. At that point, the elf closes his eyes, his breathing laboured, sweating profusely, teeth clenched. Mairon is intensely focused, and when Celebrimbor eventually opens his eyes, the room is swaying and nausea almost overcomes him. Mairon looks up from his work, looking satisfied, dark fire roaming in his eyes like a wild beast.
“You like this,” Celebrimbor whispers. “Inflicting pain.”
As expected, Mairon doesn’t grace his words with an answer. He moves the elf’s hand slowly, making sure he missed no small bone, no tendril before pressing it flat on the table, heedless of the tears running down his victim’s cheeks. Celebrimbor feels cold and sick and the pain is impossible to withstand. It must show because he hears Mairon commanding voice.
“Don’t pass out. There needs to be a measure of your will in the process.”
Celebrimbor nods takes a deep breath, expecting the worse. Frowning, Mairon stands up and walks to a small cabinet, retrieves a bottle and pours some of it in a glass.
“Cordial,” he explains. “Gift of a human king. It’s potent. Drink. It will help.”
The liquor burns like fire, heat coursing through the elf’s limbs. He coughs and shivers. The pain is still here but it’s like feeling it from afar, like his mind is detached from his body. He can feel his heart beating more regularly and nausea is fading.
“Better.” Mairon says. “Let’s start again.”
Later, Celebrimbor will not remember much, except the pain, and the dark litany falling from Mairon’s lips. He will remember feeling like he’s on fire, burning like dry wood and he is coming close to begging. But stubbornness keeps him conscious.
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” he manages.
“I’m doing it for you,” Mairon answers, unperturbed.
When it is over, at last, Celebrimbor falls asleep, exhausted. He has been carried to his bed and left alone. Mairon is not the kind to cuddle; although Annatar did like it. Or feigned to like it. What Annatar was capable of in the pursuit of his plan is a tribute to his dedication, the elf thinks before sinking into sleep.
It is morning when he wakes up and sunrays are dancing all over the room, lighting up the dark tiles on the ground. Memories of the previous day are rushing back to his mind. The pain, Mairon’s dark recitation, the cold tone of his voice, the once familiar warmth of his skin on his own. Celebrimbor takes a deep breath and pulls his hand from under the covers. He moves it, flexes his fingers, lifts it. Where the fingers were twisted and wrought, the articulations swollen and painful, the phalanges deformed and one of them missing, everything is in place, looking new, each movement easy. Relief and wonder fill him while he keeps moving his fingers swiftly, reminding himself that he should feel no gratitude for the monstrous healer’s work. Sauron was the one who destroyed him, body and soul, so giving him back one of his hand is small mercy. Celebrimbor feels an urgent need to try his renewed skills. Leaving the bed, he walks to his desk and grabs a quill, turns it between his healed fingers before starting to write. The sun is pouring on the table as he traces the first words with such ease that it brings tears to his eyes. He writes two whole pages before stopping, his heart racing.
“You should rest,” Mairon’s voice says as the Maïa walks inside, making the elf jump. “Yesterday’s session was exhausting for both mind and body.”
Celebrimbor turns to watch him, standing in the middle of the room, haloed in the bright morning light that plays on the jewels he is adorned with; tall and slim and impossibly handsome, alien in so many ways. It’s easy to see why humans mistake him for a god.
“Please do come in,” the elf says, rolling his eyes. “Since you seem to have forgotten any manner you once had.°
Mairon laughs softly and comes closer. “I never had any.”
Pulling a chair he sits, facing Celebrimbor. “Give me your hands, Tyelpë.” Once Celebrimbor’s hands are resting on his, he watches, running his thumb against the healed fingers, pensive. Tightening his fingers against the left hand, he says “This is the past.” He doesn’t look up at Celebrimbor. “which is gone and buried.” And before the elf can protest, he grabs the right hand and adds “And this is the future. Unmarred and filled with new opportunities.” He doesn’t let go of the hands and for a moment Celebrimbor fears he might kiss it, which would be strange and embarrassing because the time for kissing is long gone, or not yet there, maybe never will, such is his fear of intimacy. So you let him use his magic on you, heal you but you are afraid of a simple brush of lips, a voice inside him says. This is stupid. Suddenly Mairon lets go and rises, walks to the window and crosses his arms.
“We’re going tomorrow. I’ll have clothes brought to you, so you can choose. For now, you should rest.”
The robes are light green, lined with emerald, weaved in a fabric that weighs nothing and seems to dance around him when he walks down the endless stairs, four men in arms following him across the central square where the shops are already open. The small crowd opens before him and he can read bewilderment on their faces; he can hear their whispers. “An elf? Have you seen him here already?” “Anyone knows his name?” “Has the Lord King kept him here all this time?”. Celebrimbor walks, head high, hair flowing down to his head, free and only ornated with small strands of silver. He wears no jewellery, apart from an old bracelet he bartered some time ago, a silver snake, emerald eyes shining under the light. At last he reaches the stairs where the God-King stands among his advisors, giving instructions in a curt commanding voice. There is an old Orc among them, wearing his scars with pride, dressed in the manner of men, and it’s an odd thing seeing him here. Like two worlds colliding.
“Ah,” Mairon says, turning to him, assessing him. “You look just like yourself. Beautiful.”
Side by side, they take their leave. The old Orc follows them to an inside yard. There, between high walls, a carriage awaits and Celebrimbor stops, stunned. The four horses are huge, infinitely black under the cold sunlight, their manes full of fire, steam rising from their nostrils, eyes ablaze, fierce and fey looking. One of them rears up and neighs, ears down, impatient. Mairon walks close to him, rests his hand against his head, whispers some words and the horse neighs again, softly. The carriage itself is an oblong thing, plain black with iron circled wheels. It bears no distinctive sign or embellishment and Celebrimbor remembers that Annatar always favoured efficiency above anything else. The old orc opens the door and bows deeply.
“Come!” Mairon calls. Celebrimbor obeys, steps inside, sits on a plush seat, facing Mairon.
“What by the void is this?” he asks.
“Do you like it? It is the fastest way to travel.”
“The horses… They’re not just horses, are they?”
Mairon shrugs. “It took me a long time to obtain such wonders. They are creatures of fire, just like me. Created with much care from horses I bought more than a century ago.”
A simple wave of the hand and they’re gone, horses seeming to fly, so fast that the landscape is only a blur of green and brown to the elf, water splashing against the bulk of the carriage when they cross rivers, wind howling in his ears. At last they stop – how many hours later? Three, maybe four. They are in an abandoned village. A garrison is stationed here, about a hundred armed men. The carriage is hidden in a barn and the horses, once freed, start to prance around and out in the surrounding fields. The place seems far away from any inhabited area and Celebrimbor is unable to guess where they are. South maybe: the weather is warmer; but how many miles have they travelled at such an impossible speed? There is no clue, nothing recognizable.
“So, Tyelpë, how did you like the trip?” Mairon asks, smiling, obviously amused by Celebrimbor’s state of mild confusion.
“I am not certain I liked it but it certainly was a novel experience. Where are we?”
“We will enter soon the realm of a human king named Kanur. He is young and he has been somewhat… agitated since his father’s death, five years ago. He has gathered other lesser kings around him and they endeavour to form an alliance.” Mairon explains quietly as they walk together toward another carriage, a much more usual one, this time. The horses are black but they look like any horse Celebrimbor used to mount.
“An alliance against you?”
“Well, they swear not but I know better. I will nip their rebellion in the bud.”
“By being benevolent?” Celebrimbor asks, mildly amused.
Mairon laughs and shakes his head. “I absolutely do not want a war so soon. But I still can find a way to dissuade them.”
“I still can't see what part I am playing here.”
A servant opens the door and they step into another carriage, sculpted wood and fine gilded decorations.
“You, mellon, are a distraction. I think I explained that already.” Celebrimbor shakes his head, renouncing to object at the word friend.
It takes one more hour to reach Kanur’s city, Erian, protected by high ramparts. The young King and a small delegation – a few guards, the King’s wife and some notables are standing at the gate of the city. A small boy stands very straight at the King’s left. His son, probably. When Mairon steps out of the carriage in his white and golden robes and walks toward them, they bow as deeply as required and Celebrimbor, who stands behind with Mairon’s own guards, can read a mix of conflicting feelings on their faces. Fear. Awe. Anger. When they finally dare look up at their Lord, he nods and turns to Celebrimbor.
“This is the city I told you about. And this man here is King Kanur.” He explains with some gravity.
Celebrimbor takes a step forward under the assembly’s stunned gazes. What can they be thinking? They have probably been told tales about elves and not necessarily nice ones; the race is reported extinct since long. Standing there, silent and unsmiling, he offers himself to their puzzled stares.
“My Elf friend was eager to visit the city of men. He himself was King once, of a place called Ost-in-Edhil. It is a sad story.” Mairon says, to Celebrimbor’s fury and dismay. Kanur takes a step toward him and bows, though not as deeply as he did for Mairon.
“We are honoured, Lord elf. I hope your stay will be to your liking. Be certain that we shall make everything in our power to please you.”
A distraction, indeed. Celebrimbor gives Mairon a sidelong glare. The God-King’s face is unreadable, radiant like the sun and still as stone, so beautiful that his mere presence eclipses everything and everyone. A perfect mix of perfection and godly authority. “Shall we?” Mairon asks.
“Of course, my Lord.” A beautifully harnessed white horse is brought to Mairon. Kanur and the others will walk. This is how they enter Erian for the first time.
Cities are dear to Celebrimbor’s heart. Tirion, Nargothrond, and of course his beloved Ost-in-Edhil, live in his memory like shining jewels. Their splendour, the elegance and grace of every building, from the highest towers to the most beautiful gardens, have delighted him always. This city has nothing to do with what he remembers. Erian is not Numenor. The people gathered along the barely paved streets are no Dunedains, not by size or looks. The streets smell of bad waters and disease. He sees the eyes watching them, disillusioned and weary. This is not a place of joy and accomplishment; it is a dwelling of people who struggle to survive. As they near the King’s halls, things start to look better and Celebrimbor guesses they are leaving the poorer part of the city. Here lodgings are built from stone, doors are sculpted, banners are floating in the wind. The men and women are more richly dressed and they bow in front of the convoy. At the top of the hill, they enter a paved yard. Mairon dismounts and the King leads them inside. It’s simple, from an elf’s point of view, and functional. In the main hall, colourful tapestries cover the walls and a fire is burning high. Large tables have been set; a throne waits for Mairon to sit on, next to Kanur’s lower seat, the staging of a vassal’s fealty. The King’s wife sits at Mairon’s left, beside Celebrimbor. Kanur stands and delivers a perfect speech with carefully chosen words – honour, devotion, peace, wealth. Mairon listens and doesn’t show any feeling of any sort but he nods. The king’s wife, Moran, makes her best effort to entertain their unexpected host while Kanur explains to Mairon that his fellow lords will arrive in time for the first meeting. It is an uncomfortable meal. Even the other guests keep a careful silence.
Later, as Mairon and his reluctant vassals are gathered in the throne room, Moran takes Celebrimbor in the gardens overlooking the city. Spring blossoms everywhere, flowers, bushes, trees seem to shine under the sun and fountains whisper softly.
They sit on a stone bench and Moran, with her shy manners, laughs softly. “It never occurred to me,” she says “that I would someday meet such a creature as you. You look so different from us; tales say that you do not die. Is it true?”
Celebrimbor smiles. She looks nice, her fair hair prettily braided, her blue eyes innocent and full of life.
“We can be killed, or hurt. But the tales are otherwise right.”
She looks at him with wonder. “I do not know if I would like this. Many of us complain about death and old age but I wonder what life would be without death.”
“This is a very good question. Eventually, we fade when we grow weary of life. It is some sort of death, I guess.” It is a lie of sort but Celebrimbor isn’t keen of explaining the whole story.
The young woman looks at him – his always-young face, his long lustrous hair, his shiny eyes. After a moment, she asks softly: “What is he to you? The God-King. He says you are his friend. Is it true?”
Celebrimbor hesitates. “We have known each other for a very long time. We were enemies once, hundreds of years ago. But the time for a truce has come between us.”
“Not peace, then.”
“I dare not hope so far.”
“He scares me,” she whispers. “I shouldn’t say that to you, I guess. He is… Inhuman. Powerful. Threatening. His beauty itself is terrifying. Everything in him is. I know not why he wanted to meet my husband but I fear what will happen.”
They do not talk much after that. But she shows Celebrimbor plants and flowers and names them in Westron, while he names them in Sindarin. She repeats the names, dreamy and as they go back to the castle, she says: “I am glad you came.” They walk back together, taking a longer route, crossing other gardens and yards. Celebrimbor breathes deeply, enjoying the leisurely walk, happy to be back into the world after centuries of imprisonment. Walking on grass, filling his eyes with the sight of flowers and trees and every single thing he missed so badly for so long. He sees a young boy run along the path, throw himself in Moran’s arms, laughing. She lifts him in her arms.
“This is my son, Brun. He is just five. Brun, say hello to Lord Celebrimbor.”
But the boy is shy, maybe frightened; he hides his face in his mother’s neck. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“Don’t be. He never saw someone like me before. I must seem strange to him.”
Brun gives him a sidelong glance and wriggles out of his mother’s arms, running away, laughing again. “I want nothing for him but a peaceful life. His grandfather, two of his uncles and my father died in the war against the God-King. As well as many perfectly respectable men. Monsters – orcs - came and…”
“I know what wars look like. I have been in some of them. Trust me, I know.”
They reach the main entrance.
“Did you fight alongside Him?”
“No. I fought against him. But that was very long ago.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I will take you to your rooms,” she says.
Mairon and him are lodged in adjacent rooms. Celebrimbor’s presence was unexpected and Kumar’s steward had to change the lodging accordingly. The rooms are wide and bright, if plain and scarcely furnishes. From the window, he has a clear sight of the whole city. Birds are singing enthusiastically and the horizon turns to a flaming orange as the sun descends. He spends a long time here, looking at the view, trying to make sense of the last hours. He feels estranged in this world of men, like some relic, like a monster even, something alien and uncertain. The young servant who brings him food and wine barely looks at him and leaves the room hastily, obviously scared.
He must have fallen asleep at some point. When he wakes up, the room is dark, except for the fire. He’s half-slumped on the armchair. Everything is silent, it must be late. He straightens, looks around: Mairon is sitting on the other seat, looking at the fire.
“Come closer,” he says. “I will light some candles.”
He does so with a flick of his fingers and a soft light dispels the darkness.
“Such a show off,” Celebrimbor says, dragging the chair in front of the fire, realising he has been cold. The light of the flames catches the eyes of the snake bracelet and when he sits, Mairon leans forward and grabs the elf’s wrist.
“Where did you get this?” he asks.
Celebrimbor frowns. “Why do you ask?”
“I never saw it before.” Mairon runs his finger against the metal. It’s beautiful work. The snake’s mouth is open and short fangs are showing, ready to bite.
“I got it a few years ago. A man gave it to me against… Something. I can’t seem to remember what.”
Mairon lets go of his hand, leans back. “A snake. Strange choice for you. You were not fond of such animals, as I recall.”
Celebrimbor doesn’t answer. He doesn’t feel like explaining his choice but after a moment, Mairon smiles. “Ah,” he says. “I remember. Snakes. Finrod Felagund. You stayed with him in Nargothrond. You disowned you father. Is that it?”
The elf nods.
“Is it about him, so? I guess yes. You must have liked him a lot.”
“We were close, once. I was… infatuated with him.”
Mairon’s eyes seem to burn. “You never told me that.”
“Do you want a list of all the people I loved before I met you?”
“Not really. But going as far as wearing a jewel in memory of Felagund… This is unexpected.”
Celebrimbor will have to take it off. “Truth is, this is the only jewel I own.” He explains.
“I will remedy to that as soon as we are back.” Maison retorts. “I do not want to think of Felagund every time we are together.”
Is this jealousy? Or is it still painful that he left such an important elf to die? That he was not able to identify him until he was too late? Does it remind him of his defeat against Luthien? Perhaps it’s better not to know. Changing the subject, he asks lightly:
“How did you meetings go? Are Kunar and his friends receptive to your new-found benevolence?”
Mairon stares at the fire. After a while he sighs. “Dealing with humans is frustrating. Kunar did not fight in his father’s war; he was too young, he had been sent away. That was more than twenty years ago. He does not feel bound by the treaty his father signed. Now he will take his chance at fighting me. Not that he will say so. But I can read him so easily. Men’s lives are short, every generation with different ideas, different goals.”
This is probably the longest conversation they had since Ost-in-Edhil and Celebrimbor wonders briefly if this is the reason he’s still alive, because Mairon needs someone to talk to. A companion of sort. He doesn’t look quite as terrifying as he did a few hours ago. No conspicuous jewels, no sophisticated robes, no haughty looks. Something looks much tamer suddenly, as if he had deliberately chosen to soften himself. Which should maybe make Celebrimbor feel… happy? Proud? Only in some way it just deepens the mystery that is Mairon.
“It is pleasant also because they can be killed more easily. Not as resilient as your kin, of course.” The Maïa continues, and the elf sighs at the blunt words. He stares for a moment at the perfect, still, fire-lit profile.
“Will you kill Kunar?” He asks.
“No. Not yet. If I did so, another one would take his place. At least I know him. I will keep an eye on him. Take his son hostage, perhaps.”
Celebrimbor shudders, remembering the little boy he met in the gardens. Hostage. How long would he last? Would Moran survive? Suddenly he wants Mairon gone, he wants him out of the room. He yawns behind his hand. “It has been a long interesting day. I am tired. I think I will go to bed.”
Mairon nods and rises. “Have a good night then.”
They stand very close. Nothing would prevent Mairon to have his way if he wished so and for a moment Celebrimbor fears he will do just this – throw him onto the bed and have him. He can read it in his eyes, in the way he stands, the stillness of his body. But Mairon doesn’t pounce. Instead he laughs softly to himself and rests his hand on the elf’s arm before turning away to leave. This is when it hits him: Mairon doesn’t wear the ring. And this is... Celebrimbor doesn't know what it is, because there is no meaning to this he can grasp. Or maybe there are so many that it doesn't make any sense. Only old useless words of warning, thrown in the depth of pain, and never acknowledged.
Celebrimbor sits on the bed and buries his face in his hands, his body trembling. That night, sleep is long to come and when it does, it is not peaceful.