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“Do you remember?” Celebrimbor whispered and waited with increasing dread as the seconds passed without an answer. That last blow had struck Finduilas hard, and the oak they were tied to was sturdy. If her skull had hit it too hard -
If only he could twist far enough in the ropes to see!
But at last her answer came in barely more than a breath. “I remember the king’s birthday in Tirion.”
“They captured light in gemstones and used them to line the streets,” he whispered back.
“And there was food and drink for everyone. More than even the whole city could eat.”
“Cakes and fruit and those candies that no one liked that stuck to your teeth.”
“I liked them,” she protested. “They tasted like springtime.”
On and on they went. It was the game she had invented that very first night when they’d been tied together, cold, bloodied, bruised, and very near to broken. Celebrimbor had stared blankly at the frozen ground, trying desperately not to think of the faces of all the people who had abandoned his father and uncle to follow him and who had now received death as thanks for it. Some of the captives had already been giving up; their spirits had flown by morning.
But Finduilas had huddled close to him and asked, “Do you remember the scary stories we used to tell in Aman?”
He’d stared at her with blank eyes, wondering how even Finduilas could be thinking about stories at a time like this, no matter how much she loved them.
But she’d prodded him until he’d given up and answered her and thinking of those better days helped, a bit, even as it hurt. It was worth the extra bruises they earned when the orcs overheard.
He didn’t like tonight’s topic, though. Not because the memory was bad - he was able to pull up beautiful details whenever Finduilas paused - but because of what, or rather who, was wrapped up in them.
“The whole family was there,” he whispered before his exhausted mind could catch up with what he’d just said.
The whole family. Including Uncle Maedhros, who’d been dragged off to torment that they grew inexorably closer towards. And cousin Finrod, who had died in that torment.
And Uncle Celegorm, who had convinced Huan to let young Tyelpe ride him, just that once, and his father, who had spent hours and hours helping him make his own small gift for his great-grandfather the king.
His uncle and his father, who had made sure Finrod rode off almost alone.
He swallowed as best he could. His throat was parched from little water, and what little water they were given was foul.
“Celebrimbor?” she whispered hesitantly.
He changed the subject by moving them on to the next part of the game. “And what’ll you do when we get out of here?”
This was her favorite part. She wavered a moment, but in the end she couldn’t resist.
“When Turin comes,” she began, “he’ll kill all the orcs. Every last one. And then he’ll cut us loose, and he’ll say … “
She kept on talking. Celebrimbor let his mind drift to its own fantasies.
It was not impossible that Turin would come for them, and if he did, perhaps he could win them loose. Celebrimbor had nothing but respect for the Man’s skill with a sword.
But Celebrimbor’s mind, shameful as it might be, had other stories it whispered to him in the coldest parts of the night as they were forced to march, and in the weariest hours of the morning when they were tied up and expected to sleep.
When Ada hears of what becomes of the city, he’ll demand to know what’s become of me. And when no one knows the answer, he’ll ride out …
It was a stupid fantasy. His father might not hear of the attack for months, and even if he did, why should he assume Celebrimbor still lived at all? Why - and this thought always hurt desperately, no matter how furiously he berated himself - why should he care at all?
He had disowned his father publicly. He had done nothing as his father was turned out. It had been almost easy then, carried away on the fires of righteous anger and horrified grief. In the heat of the moment, all of it had flowed forward, perfect and natural and right.
He wondered, now, if that was how his father had felt when he was swearing the Oath.
Afterwards when the rush of emotion had faded, he had just felt sick and empty. The horror was still there and the grief, but the grief had only doubled, tripled. His dreams had become confused things, memories of his father’s protection and love and endless willingness to stop what he was doing and attend to his son, all of it drenched in Finrod’s blood and echoing with his imagined screams.
Sometimes in the dreams, his father’s eyes flashed with white fire. The same fire Celebrimbor swore he had seen in his father’s eyes, for less than a second, every time someone brought up the Oath.
His father was not a forgiving man, though he made something of an exception for his family.
Celebrimbor wasn’t sure he counted as an exception anymore.
He realized with a start that Finduilas had stopped talking. Hopefully, she’d fallen asleep. Rest was important.
He just couldn’t seem to sleep much anymore.
He was not the only one who had to fight off the grip of cold despair. He was not the only one who felt the Enemy’s whispers of lonely torment getting louder and louder in their minds. He had no excuse to stop fighting when Finduilas pushed on, no matter how exhausted his very spirit felt.
He forced himself to shut his eyes and allowed himself the fantasy. He’ll gather all my uncles and ride in. They’ll kill all the orcs, but Ada will barely care about that. He’ll just ride in a straight line towards me …
He woke up to the sound of a muffled thump.
That wasn’t his usual wakeup call these days, so he raised his head cautiously, half expecting a boot to come crashing into his ribs any moment.
But the sun was still high in the sky.
The sound came again, and now he recognized it as less of a thump, and more the sound a blade met when striking through flesh. He twisted frantically in his bonds, but he couldn’t move enough to see a thing.
“Finduilas,” he breathed. “Finduilas!”
She made no response. He didn’t dare call louder. If whoever was making the noise was on their side, the last thing he could risk was waking the orcs.
He waited in an agony of anticipation as the sounds got closer. He couldn’t make out the footfalls, so it was someone - or multiple someones - trained to walk quietly.
Turin.
Or elves.
It would not be his father. He knew that, no matter what his foolish heart tried to hope.
There were three orcs lying in his field of view. He locked his eyes on them and waited, breathlessly, for whoever it was to come and deal with them.
It was an elleth that first stole into view. One Celebrimbor knew.
She had been one of Uncle Celegorm’s people. One of the few that had followed him out of the city.
His breath caught in his throat.
And there was Uncle Celegorm, as quiet as she, carefully carrying on their gruesome work.
It took everything in him not to cry out.
Something tugged on the ropes binding him to the tree, and he turned his head to see a knife grimly sawing through it. And the person holding that knife -
He couldn’t quite restrain the noise that bubbled up this time. His father’s hand was over his mouth in an instant, eyes dark with warning. He kept it there until Celebrimbor nodded. He could stay silent now.
The first of the ropes fell. His father glanced away at his uncle and at some signal finally spoke, though quietly. “How many were there?”
“Fifteen,” he answered, just as quietly. “There were more at first, but some died of wounds, and others split off into other groups.” Fifteen had been enough when it had just been him and Finduilas left amongst the captives. Some had been taken by the other groups. Others …
Others were safe in Mandos now. He hoped.
His father relayed the number in a quick series of hand signals and then slumped ever so slightly in relief. “Then we’re safe, or at least as safe as we’re likely to get for the moment,” he said in a more normal tone of voice. He resumed sawing at the ropes. “Celegorm, check on Finduilas, will you? She should have stirred by now.”
Celebrimbor opened his mouth to speak, but his father talked over him.
“Yes, I know, I’m a terrible monster, and checking on Finrod’s niece does not absolve me of my other crimes in your eyes, etcetera, etcetera. However, if you really wanted me to stay out of your life, you should have had the common sense not to get captured.”
Celebrimbor shut his mouth with a snap. After a moment, he said with the same mildness that his mother used to use with his father in arguments, “Actually, what I was going to say is that I think she has a concussion.”
She was stirring now, though. Uncle Celegorm was talking to her soothingly, which would probably work right up until she woke up enough to remember … everything … at which point he didn’t know what would happen.
“Oh.” His father sat back a bit, and for just a moment he looked uncertain.
“Also,” Celebrimbor said after a moments thought, “thank you. Very much. I - didn’t think you’d come.” Hoped, yes. Believed, no. He still couldn’t quite believe that this was really happening and wasn’t just his brain playing out his fevered hopes in a dreaming mind.
“I wasn’t the one who wanted to part ways,” his father muttered as he sawed through the last rope. His hands started darting over Celebrimbor as soon as he did, checking for bruises, examining the sources of blood, pressing disapprovingly at bones protruding from the skin. “And I’m afraid you still won’t be rid of me until you’re either a good deal better, or I’ve managed to get you somewhere safe. Círdan, perhaps.”
Celebrimbor was dizzy and thirsty and hungry and cold, and none of that helped in the least when it came to the thick, muddled emotions that were stirring up in him. He didn’t know how to tell his father that it still wasn’t alright what he’d done but that he’d lost too much to lose anyone now, and that he still thought he was right, but that he was sorry all the same. He wasn’t sure he could have found a way to say all that at the best of times.
So he lifted up his closest arm, wrapped it around his father, clutched to his father’s coat with his bloodstained hand, and held on longer than he had since he was small enough to hold.