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Celebrimbor never dreamed he would one day return to the house where he had spent his childhood. He stood before the closed gates, debating with himself one last time whether he should enter or not.
Not all of his childhood had been spent there. His grandfather, his laughing gentle enthusiastic grandfather, had been keen to show him the most hidden corners of Valinor, just as he had done with his sons. From a very young age, Celebrimbor had been taken from house to house, through forests and over hills, on long journeys full of wonder. He still remembered those days with fondness, even though there had been no time for him to see half as much as his uncles had during their childhoods.
Rebirth was a troublesome thing. He had spent the first few months of his new life with his grandmother and her family. His own mother was still in Middle Earth, lost as far as anybody knew or cared to know, much like his uncle Maglor. Both were unwanted dregs of the past, out of anybody's reach or concern.
In truth, Celebrimbor was relieved his mother wasn't there to meet him when he was remade. She had refused to speak to him, she didn't even acknowledge his existence, after he chose not to follow his father out of Nargothrond. The last he had seen of her was her back as she led a small number of their people to join her husband again. He never heard from her afterwards, though he asked, to all and sundry who visited Ost-in-Edhil if they had ever met or heard of Mineth the wife of Curufin. She never sought him, and he wished, desperately wished she would, especially towards the end.
Rebirth meant many things. He didn't want to stay in the Halls of Aulë and work with the other Aulenduri. It would have suited him as a repentant member of the House of Fëanor. It would have given him a chance to make up for his mistakes by putting his skill at the service of others. The thought put a bitter smile on his lips. He shook his head. That sort of life wouldn't make him happy, and satisfied and free. By accepting Mahtan's family's kindness and hospitality, he would be indebted to them, and would be forced to live up to expectations.
He didn't want to be at the centre of people's attention, he didn't want to have to prove that he was devoted enough and harmless enough to abide in the blessed Halls of Aulë, that he was worthy of kindness or of anything else.
He didn't particularly care to fit in the renewedly unmarred Valinorean society.
He wanted to be at peace with who he was.
It was a surprise to learn that Nerdanel and Míriel wrote to each other fairly regularly. What started as an exchange of opinions and taunts, sometimes playful and sometimes snide, had in time turned into a proper correspondence. Nerdanel told him about Míriel when he first manifested his intention of leaving the Halls of Aulë. Míriel lived in her son's house, officially on her own, though a few of her sons' servants and friends and a couple of her old handmaidens had joined her over the centuries.
Celebrimbor touched the wrought-iron of the gate. He should have probably written to Míriel before making the long trip from Valmar, but he had decided against it. He needed to be free to turn back and change his mind without having to give anyone explanations. He feared a refusal, too, deep down. After all, Míriel and he had never even met, and for all he knew she didn't want anything to do with him. It would have been her right. She might even consider him a traitor, like his mother. Or she might not want to get involved with her son's descendants at all.
The gate was closed but not locked, and didn't make a sound when he finally pushed it open. He crossed the front garden slowly. Vanessë was tending to her fruit-trees, as she had all those thousands of years before. She turned to him when she sensed his presence, and their gazes met for a moment. Celebrimbor quickly averted his, fixing it on the lovingly tended lawn and the geometric designs of the path leading to the house. He counted his steps from the largest star, recalling the games he used to play there as a child, with one of his uncles always waiting for him at the foot of the staircase.
At last, he focused on the house itself. The building stood as proudly as it had three ages earlier, though the paint was peeling away from the walls here and there, and many window frames were rotten and crumbling. He could tell at a glance where a good varnishing would be enough to restore the house's earlier splendour and where the brickwork itself needed to be renovated.
The steps leading to the front door were intact and perfectly swept.
He took a deep breath and knocked.
Míriel opened the door almost immediately, as if she had been waiting right behind it, leaving Celebrimbor no time to brace himself one last time for the meeting. Perhaps she had seen him at the gate.
They stood facing each other for a few moments.
Míriel squinted up at him then her eyes widened a little.
People who had never met Fëanor and only seen portraits of him often had the same reaction when they saw him. He did resemble his grandfather, and was tall as him and had the same bearing, unlike his father, even though Curufin's face had been an exact copy of Fëanor's. Míriel had never met Fëanor in person, not as an adult. Celebrimbor feared, for a queasy instant, that she would mistake him for her son. Perhaps he really should have written and warned her.
He lifted his right hand, made a vague gesture. “I –”
“Can you cook?”
Celebrimbor blinked, dumbfounded. “Y - yes?”
Míriel smiled. “Good.”
She grabbed his arm and pulled him in, slamming the door shut behind him.
Still digging her fingers in his arm, she started towards the kitchens at a brisk pace.
The house was gloomier on the inside than it was on the outside, with the sun and the well-tended garden to mask the disrepair. Celebrimbor halted in front of the staircase leading to the upper floor, forcing Míriel to halt too. She turned to him, a quizzical look on her face.
“I –”
“You are Curufinwë's son...the younger Curufinwë I mean. I heard a lot about you.”
Celebrimbor winced – he had a good idea what she might have heard. Though it was probably for the best if he could bypass introductions. “Can I stay?”
Míriel frowned and started tugging him again. “Of course you can.”
“Tyelperinquar!”
Celebrimbor made a noise of surprise, Míriel smiled. Aredhel came rushing down the stairs, dishevelled and dressed in nothing more than a flimsy housegown that didn't leave anything to the imagination. Not that Celebrimbor had ever had to imagine what Aredhel's body looked like. It was comforting to know that something was still the same, that Aredhel was back in his old house and obviously felt at home there. It didn't even bother him that it must be his great-grandmother she slept with, now.
“I can't believe this!” she said, looking him over before hugging him tight.
“He's come to stay with us, and cook for us,” Míriel declared proudly.
*
Aredhel came and went as she pleased, sleeping in Celegorm's room whenever she didn't sleep in Míriel's bed, which was in Caranthir's room. Sometimes it was Elemmírë who made herself at home in one of the other bedrooms of the house or in Míriel's bed, Aredhel revealed with what Celebrimbor could only describe as pique.
Celebrimbor cleaned out his father's room, and made it his own. He found the chests and drawers in good condition, but completely empty. Míriel explained that she had used all the clothes Curufin had left behind when she returned, because they fit her almost perfectly, and “because it would have been a waste to let such fine clothes rot away in the dark of a chest.”
Míriel had made good use of any other item of clothing she had found in the house, turning them into fancy embroidered tableaus or wall-hangings or dresses for herself and even bedspreads, lovingly looked-after until daily use and age had inevitably consumed them. Míriel hurried to take his measurements in order to make new clothes for him, and set about her work, while Celebrimbor repaired bits of furniture and scrubbed the floor and walls as if he could have washed away every trace of the past together with the dirt. When he was done, with the shifting light of the sun dancing in corners the light of Laurelin had never reached, Curufin's former bedroom looked almost like a completely new room, or could have if Celebrimbor hadn't remembered it so well.
He remembered its layout and the exact position of every lost trinket much more clearly than he would have thought possible. When he woke up in the morning, on the new mattress covered in brand new linens, and looked up at the ceiling, studded with real and artificial gems, he sometimes cried upon realising that he hadn't just woken up next to his father after a childhood nightmare.
There was no forge in the house. Viláyan and Amranil, who had been Fëanor's assistants and his closest friends, the ones to die with him, had not been allowed to build one, and Celebrimbor wanted to properly settle in before obtaining the approval of Finarfin or of whoever else might have any say in what the kin and followers of Fëanor made or did not make.
He found he did not miss the work overmuch, and spent long hours in the kitchens to satisfy both Míriel and Aredhel's appetite.
For many evenings in a row they sat at the round table in the small dining room two rooms away from the main hall, using the china his mother had brought to the house after marrying Curufin. Most of the set had been broken, actually, by accident or – more rarely – when Aredhel hurled things at Elemmírë during their more heated confrontations, but they didn't need many pieces of it between the three of them.
“Well, now that you're here, we could start perhaps making plans, for when the others return too,” said Míriel one rainy evening, over a bowl steaming with beef and lime soup. She had already had two servings, and completely baffled Celebrimbor by asking for a third.
Celebrimbor munched at length on his fried vegetables, a little tense. Míriel had to know already, that Fëanor would not be allowed to return. Celebrimbor did know, with absolute certainty, that his own father would never come back unless his grandfather did too, and he knew, because Maedhros had told him, that Maedhros had been judged unfit to return, because his suicide wasn't justified, and because he had defied the Valar until the very end, bringing the light of the trees with him to his death and putting it forever out of their reach.
Celebrimbor could only hope that Celegorm and Caranthir, Amrod and Amras would fare better, that they would be given a chance, and that they would seize it.
Aredhel looked down at her plate, as she always did when the conversation veered on Mandos. She didn't like to speak of the Halls, of her time there. She liked it even less to think of her son, who was still in Mandos and very likely would always be, because he had nothing to look forward to outside but contempt and a place where he wouldn't fit.
“...why do you come so late?” she asked, twirling her food nervously on her plate.
Celebrimbor smiled a sardonic smile while bringing a glass of wine to his lips. He drank heartily, then said, “Because I am guilty, too.”
Míriel frowned. “Guilty, of what? People who have fought only at Alqualondë have been released much sooner. Amranil and the others returned a thousand years ago, and you did nothing nearly as terrible.”
“I am guilty of...excessive self-assurance and defiance, the capital sins of my House...our House. Of course I am guilty. I should have sailed West after the end of the First Age, returned to Aman to accept the Valar's forgiveness and put my talent at the service of the glory of this land. I was so foolish, to think I could build something to rival the magnificence of Valinor, relying on my strength and the help of –”
Aredhel grunted, her nostrils flaring. She stabbed her fork on the plate, letting it skitter with a screech against the smooth porcelain and its golden inlays, then let it fall with a loud clatter. “Of course we're guilty. It's not that Morgoth and Sauron shouldn't have been abroad, sowing seeds of evil. No, we shouldn't have been listening to them, you shouldn't have lingered in Middle-Earth, my son shouldn't have been out collecting minerals. If he hadn't, nothing bad would have happened to him. It's not that the thrice-cursed Vala shouldn't have been capturing people and torturing them. Of course not. People should have simply been sitting safely at home where he couldn't reach them, it's all their fault. And I too, of course, I should never have left Gondolin, especially not to visit my criminal cousins. I brought my end upon myself!”
She finished her outburst with a string of curses, her fists clenched on either side of her plate.
“Írissë,” Míriel lay her hand on one of Aredhel's across the table.
For a time the only sound in the room was that of Aredhel's heavy breathing. Celebrimbor's heart went out to his cousin whom he had never met and hoped that he would find his peace, in the Halls or out of them.
“Everything is fine now isn't it? Rebel elves are where they are supposed to be, back in the fold or locked up in Mandos where they can do no harm, and Sauron is growing in might in Middle-Earth again,” Aredhel spat.
Celebrimbor had heard about the growing threat in Middle-Earth, of the One Ring awakening and the darkness creeping out of Mordor, while he was in the Halls of Aulë. Everyone expressed concern and dismay; he did too. No-one thought that it was ridiculous that Sauron was still allowed to make a comeback, to slowly regain his power and threaten the peace of Middle-Earth once more. That too had played a part in his decision to leave the place: it was far too personal for him.
Míriel patted Aredhel's fist and took her hand away. “Why would one of the Valar do something so sensible as leave Valinor for a while, grab the stupid ring and destroy it? It's much more rewarding to weep or feel outrage when someone inevitably falls under Sauron again.”
Aredhel huffed, but unclenched her hands and resumed eating. “Tyelpo, my dear,” she called after a couple of bites. “I missed this cooking more than I missed anything else in Middle-Earth and in the confounded Halls of that coward Mandos, I hope he rots away in them.”
Celebrimbor grinned, preening, despite her blasphemy. He had his own fair share of pride, too, and any respect he might have had for Námo had died after a short while spent in his Halls. “Fëanorian cooking, a treasure as precious as any Silmaril. If people only knew...”
“What do people know?”
“Only what they wish to,” Míriel replied. “It's not Fíriel, or even Serindë any longer, you know. They call me Tevindis now.”
Celebrimbor's hilarity withered, and he looked at his great-grandmother with an air of dread.
“Oh no, it's not that bad. I don't actually hate Indis. Folks are convinced I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I've always refused to meet her, so far. And I think I shall continue to do so. I don't like it when people want me to do things, when I am expected to do something because it's 'what's right'. And I don't care if people view my attitude as childish. I, for one, think they are self-righteous and downright dumb to assume anything about me. I never knew the woman. We have nothing in common, and I have no desire to get to know her just because she fucked Finwë.”
Aredhel snorted, an amused glint in her eyes. She loved her grandmother, but Indis didn't understand, and treated her with that same condescending sympathy that she bestowed on all poor victims who didn't know better, and Aredhel was just a poor ill-advised victim. Indis surely didn't even realise it. There was no doubt that Galadriel, golden-haired, wise Galadriel, was her favourite granddaughter, at any rate – the perfect, speckless embodiment of wisdom who dutifully carried the weight of the fate of Middle-Earth on her shoulders and had not run from her home to 'produce' a son with a dark elf for the ruin of her people.
“Aren't you even curious?” Celebrimbor asked.
“About what?”
“Well, she –”
“Replaced me?” Míriel finished for him. “A strong, healthy wife to have more children...” She started fidgeting with her fork. “How do you think I felt when Finwë asked me to come back because he wanted to have many more children? I was terrified of the idea of giving birth ever again. Utterly terrified. That's the main reason why I couldn't come back. I just couldn't, even if I had wanted to.”
Celebrimbor didn't miss the note of desperation in her voice, well-hidden as it was beneath a veneer of resentment. It made him uncomfortable. He reached for his glass again, and tried to change the subject. “So you never go to feasts or other gatherings?”
“Feasts,” Míriel spat with nearly palpable disdain. “Why would I waste time on feasts. Besides, the Valar stopped inviting me long ago. I mostly stay at home, unless Aredhel or Elemmírë drag me to the woods with hunting or something else as an excuse.”
“That piss-haired, stinking two-legged pig.”
“Írissë!”
Celebrimbor nearly choked on his wine. Míriel started patting his back.
Aredhel shrugged one shoulder, reaching for her own glass. “Oh, it's just poetic license,” she said with the sweetest of smiles.
*
Míriel stomped down the stairs and sat down next to Celebrimbor. She propped her elbows on her thighs and her chin on her hands with a huff. She had made a mistake in a large embroidery, accused Aredhel of distracting her, quarrelled with her, and finally shut herself up in her room. She had been moody for two whole days now, and unable to concentrate on any other project.
Celebrimbor knew better than to try to comfort her – she would have to unpick most of her work or throw the embroidery away. Either way, nothing he could say would make her feel better about it. He kept on carving a small piece of wood he had found by the orchard, though his eyes often went to Míriel's pants, which had the same cut and decorative pattern of those his father had used to wear on lazy afternoons in the Years of the Trees. The shawl she had wrapped around her waist too looked like something his father could have worn, black, with bright embroidered flowers that easily captured one's attention.
“You remind me of him.”
“Of Fëanáro,” Míriel said uninterestedly, casting him a cursory glance.
“Yes, him too.”
“Let's see, we're both rude, unmindful of other people's feelings, stubborn and don't do what would be best for us and others. 'Alike in mood', as they say.”
“...I meant that you remind me of my own father, and more than you remind me of Tata. You think the same. Your contrariness masks your determination, people just assume you're unduly obstinate and don't take you seriously. But if you truly wanted to destroy someone they probably wouldn't see it coming. My father too didn't look like he could do much harm.”
Míriel shifted and turned towards him, hugging her knees to her chest. Her eyes brimmed with curiosity, urging him to tell her more.
“My father is tiny, compared to all of his brothers save uncle Cáno. Tyelcormo could haul him up with one arm. Then again, Tyelcormo's strength was quite out of the ordinary. But anyway, the way you walk and hold yourself is surprisingly similar. I understand now why Tata Finwë looked at Father so longingly at times.”
Celebrimbor sighed, setting the carving knife and the unfinished flower down next to him.
“He never changes, my father. I didn't think he would ever forgive me – my mother didn't, you know, she very likely despises me still – and yet...in the Halls more than anywhere else I was sure of his love. He sought me and stood by me. We rarely talked, but he gave me what I needed the most: the comfort of a steady presence. I was so foolish, thinking that he loved his own father more than me, that he didn't mind losing me because I didn't live up to his expectations. The truth is, he believed in what he was doing, and his belief was absolute, defying doom and death. I understood it, in the Halls. It made me feel vindicated, at peace with myself, as if I had done the right thing all along, simply because I did what I believed in, no matter where it led me. Now I am not sure that I would not do it all again, even knowing where it would lead me. It's ironic isn't it? That my time in Mandos only brought me closer to my father.”
When Míriel remained silent, he turned to look at her again. She was worrying her lower lip with her teeth, and her forehead was deeply creased.
“I would have liked someone to...be with me, when I was in the Halls,” she muttered.
“Oh,” Celebrimbor said very quietly, “of course.”
In the distance there was the faint clipping of Vanessë's shears, ever tending her precious trees and plants.
“Would you...have stayed there, for Tata?”
“No, I was fed up with the Halls. I wanted my life back. Besides, Finwë is there, and will be there forever. But that does not mean I am okay with it. I would shut away Námo and Manwë and Niënna too, with her useless, ridiculous compassion. She pretends to pity us but has no idea how it feels, how your own mind betrays you when you are confused and angry and grieving. I know how that feels, much better than I would like to. Why is my judgement less sound than hers? Why should I be inferior to immortal beings who never put any effort into understanding the needs and temperaments of the people they were supposed to guide?”
“That's how Tata would talk.”
“And he would still be right,” Míriel said vehemently, and pushed her sleeves back, a sign that she was in the mood for a rant. “That Ñolofinwë came, as soon as he was remade, asking why I didn't want to meet his mother, like I was committing some grave misdemeanour. He seemed to believe I would be awed because he wounded Morgoth however many times it was – supposedly, at any rate. I'm not sure who was there to watch him –”
Celebrimbor could not hold back a groan. Memories came back to him, of no less petty but more dangerous rows between Ñolofinwë and his grandfather. “You told him that?”
“Yes, I told him that to his face. Why wouldn't I?” Míriel sounded quite offended. “As I was saying, I pointed out to him that he may have wounded Morgoth, but Ungoliant, who was about to slay Morgoth, was chased away by a group of Balrogs and it wasn't he who withstood a group of Balrogs on his own.”
“I am...glad, I believe, that you weren't there after all.”
Míriel stilled, and pursed her lips. “You would deserve a punch for that. Be thankful for that face of yours and whose it resembles.”
Celebrimbor tensed in turn, then grimaced as even less pleasant memories resurfaced in his mind. He had to squeeze his eyes shut for a few moments to chase them away.
“Oh fuck, I'm sorry.” Míriel put an arm around his shoulders.
Celebrimbor accepted her embrace but shook his head. “No, no, it's fine. It's not...your fault.” The last thing he wished was for people to weigh their words around him. Uncle Nelyo had gone on fighting even after Anbgand, and always refused to be treated with any special regards. The memories could be triggered by anything, but they were easier to deal with if he faced them head-on instead of tiptoeing around them, he claimed. Celebrimbor could only agree with him now. “Things would have been twice as worse with you there,” he said in what he hoped came across as a light tone.
Míriel got his drift. She pulled her arm away, but scooted closer, and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Or maybe not. You did it all wrong at Alqualondë. You had to take the ships the first time you passed through the town, without asking the Teleri anything, so they didn't suspect you would. It was obvious they weren't going to help in any way, considering the Valar's stance on the Ñoldor's departure.”
Celebrimbor chuckled: it was very close to something his father had said, all those thousands of years before.
“Maybe we could have avoided bloodshed, but not the Doom, I think. It's just as you say, the whole point was that the Valar didn't really want us to leave. They had to be aware of the fact that the safest way for us to do it was by ship. I wouldn't be surprised if they counted on the Teleri's refusal of help to stop us.”
“Fools.”
Celebrimbor took his carving knife up again, recalling the twins' voices as they taught him the best technique to work with each type of wood.
“Are you sure you don't want to start your work again? Your own work,” Míriel asked after a while of watching him intently.
“...I do miss it, to be quite honest. I may go up Túna one of this days and see what Arafinwë has to say about me setting up a forge here. I believe the fact that I showed dismay over Findaráto's death should work in my favour.”
“Well, speak of the devil.”
Celebrimbor looked up. Finrod was coming through the gate.
Míriel scoffed. She stood up and very deliberately tilted her chin up, and as deliberately waited until Finrod was within a few steps of her to turn on her heel and stomp up the stairs.
Finrod's eyebrows flew up to his hairline and he looked on puzzledly as Míriel slammed the door shut behind her. Celebrimbor had to do his best not to burst out laughing in his face. It became twice as hard when he thought that Míriel would no doubt find that terribly amusing.
“She is...weird.”
“No,” Celebrimbor said firmly, and did smile. “She is fantastic.”