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Chapter Text

Celebrimbor peers down over the side of the wall, only the upper half of his face exposed, eyes blown wide. He looks remarkably akin to a rabbit peering out of its burrow, nose twitching, sniffing for a predator.

Does that make Mairon the wolf?

“Celebrimbor,” Mairon calls out, but his words have the opposite effect of what he desires as Celebrimbor ducks back down, out of view. Damn. Mairon takes a step forward and tries again, calling out, “Celebrimbor, I-“

He’s interrupted as something is cast down from the wall. Instinctively he falls back, swiftly putting a few steps between him and what was thrown. It proves unnecessary as the projectile crashes to the ground several feet in front of where he had been standing. The object-a box, plain, wooden-bursts open when it strikes the earth, shattering to splinters.

A marvelous chorus of clinking rings scatter across the ground. 

Mairon presses his lips together in a thin line. 

“You have what you desire,” Celebrimbor calls out from above, the first and only words he has spoken to Mairon since arriving at the wall. “Now leave.”

…This is unexpected.

It would be easy, of course. It would be easy to stoop down and collect the rings, to depart from these lands with the offering Celebrimbor has cast down at his feet. It would be easy to pay Celebrimbor no further mind, to turn his back and return to Mordor triumphantly. 

He had come prepared for war and siege. To go back with the prize he had desired and no blood shed was a great victory indeed.  

But something had bothered him when he had arrived in Eregion, and it bothers him now, staring up at the wall that surrounds the great city. Mairon tilts his head to one side, the thin line of his lips slowly deepening into a frown.

The land has been unnaturally still since he arrived. Even if his arrival was not unexpected, Mairon had anticipated seeing at least one elf before the walls surrounding Ost-in-Edhil had risen into view over the horizon. Upon arriving at the wall, he had expected signs of a city prepared for siege. Yes, the gates are closed, but his arrival was not met with a wave of arrows. He had simply been permitted to walk directly up to the wall, at which point Celebrimbor had barely shown himself. Mairon had anticipated at least some resistance. Even of Celebrimbor relinquishing the rings is what he had desired, the lack of opposition is bizarre. 

It is too quiet. 

Even when he closes his eyes and focuses, the only noise he can hear is Celebrimbor’s breaths from somewhere above. Even if they are attempting to be deliberately quiet, it should be impossible for an entire city to be this still. He should hear something from beyond the walls. Shoes upon stone, wood crackling in the fireplace, the sound of hammers in the forge.

Something is wrong.

He is standing at a crossroads now. Collect the rings, as he had intended, and leave Celebrimbor to the silence. Or…

…

There really is no choice here, is there?

He steps over the rings. He can always return for them later, when his curiosity has been satisfied. 

His skin ripples as he does so, bones compressing, proportions shifting, glossy black feathers erupting forth. Between the end of one step and the start of next, his body is a fraction of the size, and with a flap of newly formed iridescent wings he takes flight. Several swift, calculated beats bear him up into the air, allowing him to just crest just over the top of the wall. Not so many that he overshoots his target, nor so few that he smashes into the side of the wall. His talons clack against the stone as he lands on the parapet, and Mairon stands tall, wings tucked at his sides, surveying for any signs of life. 

Save Celebrimbor, there are none. The city is dead.

Not in a literal sense, mind you. If every person within the city had somehow expired before Mairon had even arrived at the gates, that would be even more alarming. There are no dead bodies lying in the streets, but nor are there living people. Even when he takes a few seconds to tilt his head and adjust his gaze to sweep over every road he can see, he finds no one. 

No elves. No animals. No life.

Mairon lowers his head, peering at Celebrimbor where he sits, hunched over upon the floor only a few feet away. He is not wearing any armor, instead forgoing defense for the familiar brown apron of his forge attire. His hair is disheveled and free flowing, lacking the tie he usually uses to keep it away from his face, something Mairon had failed to notice earlier. There is a knife that Celebrimbor holds loosely in one hand. Not a sword, but something closer to a blade for cooking. 

There is a dullness within Celebrimbor’s eyes that gives Mairon more pause than the knife.

“A cowbird?” Celebrimbor questions dully, glancing away. “Fitting, I suppose.” 

Mairon tilts his head to the side, trying to catch Celebrimbor in that small space where he can see him with both eyes to better take in his features. He looks…. Pathetic. Pitiful, yet somehow despite all the times Mairon has seen him openly weep, he sheds no tears. Mairon takes a small, cautious hop forward, and when Celebrimbor does not attempt to drive him away, risks another two. 

“What do you want?” Celebrimbor asks, his voice flat when Mairon apparently strays too close to be ignored. “There’s nothing left for you here.”

Mairon is tempted to alter his shape back, to ask Celebrimbor what has become of this place since he was last here. The once thriving city is desolate in all ways but physical. Yes, the buildings still stand tall and proud, but it is empty. Despite lifting his head up to look down onto the streets, there is no one there. Even if they were all hiding within their homes, the windows are not closed and barred. He can see into some houses, yet no one is inside.

“I sent them all away,” Celebrimbor whispers, somehow catching the question in Mairon’s body language. Mairon turns his head back to Celebrimbor in time to catch him sigh. “When you… When I discovered what you had done, I sent them to other realms. They are long gone.”

The explanation to his unasked question only confuses him further. Yes, on the surface, Mairon supposes it makes sense. Celebrimbor could have easily assumed Mairon only cared for the rings, and would have been accurate in that assessment. By leaving them here and sending his people away, Celebrimbor could easily avoid unnecessarily bloodshed. 

But it does not explain the initial resistance, if Celebrimbor planned to relinquish the rings so easily. It does not explain why Celebrimbor would send his people away, yet wait with the walls for Mairon to come.

It does not explain the knife.

He had not paid it much mind before, having identified it quickly as barely a weapon and hardly a threat. It has only one sharpened edge, making it ineffective for stabbing and practically useless in combat compared to a sword. Even unarmed, Mairon is confident in his ability to disarm Celebrimbor of the knife before he could even be scratched by the tool. 

So why does Celebrimbor cling to it, when he does not even wear armor to defend himself?

“I am the only one left,” Celebrimbor continues, apparently content to talk to himself when Mairon lurks in the form of a bird. “If you linger because you need to satisfy some lust for blood, I only ask that you start and stop with me. I’ve given you the rings. Leave the other realms be.”

“So quick to martyr yourself,” Mairon remarks, shifting back into a more familiar shape in mid-air as he hops off the parapet. His feet touch the stone lightly, and he stands over Celebrimbor, arms clasped behind his back. “Have I ever given you any indication I crave violence?”

“Please do not do that,” Celebrimbor whispers, sparing only the briefest of glances at Mairon before he looks away and presses a hand to the side of his head as if nursing a headache. 

“Do what?” Mairon asks, tilting his head to one side in question. 

“Look like that. Look like him.”

“I am him,” Mairon counters, silently wondering if Celebrimbor has been seized by madness. When did he send his people away? It has been nearly a century since Mairon created the One Ring which now sits comfortably upon his finger. Has he spent all of that time alone? Or has his solitude only lasted a few days at most? Mobilizing an entire realm does take time, and Celebrimbor had no indication of when exactly Mairon would arrive. Perhaps he had aired on the side of caution. “We are the same.”

“I know,” Celebrimbor replies. “I simply do not wish to see my greatest regret again in my final moments.”

“Why are you so certain you are going to die here?” Mairon asks softly, trying to ignore the way something in his chest shifts and coils uncomfortably at Celebrimbor’s words. It is a feeling he cannot name, but settles within his throat like a stone. Celebrimbor merely hums noncommittally in turn, still refusing to look at him, fingers shifting, grip adjusting on the hilt of a blade clearly useless for combat. 

And yet….

And yet. 

“Celebrimbor, please,” Mairon says, voice firm and commanding as he reaches a hand out between them. “Give me the knife.”

Celebrimbor’s fingers twitch, but even as he moves his other hand away from his face he does not look to Mairon. His gaze remains fixed on the knife, the knife he drags into his own lap, staring at the blade. Had Mairon not flown up here to have his questions answered, what would Celebrimbor had done?

Mairon is swift. Both faster and stronger than Celebrimbor to be sure, and should he need to wrestle the blade away from Celebrimbor he is certain he will be able to do so. But would he be able to stop Celebrimbor in time if he turned the blade on himself? Mairon is no healer. If Celebrimbor managed to hurt himself, would he be able to fix it?

Celebrimbor shifts and Mairon braces himself to lunge for the knife, but instead of plunging it into himself Celebrimbor turns the blade around and silently presents it out to Mairon hilt first. His head remains bowed, but through stands of dark hair Mairon can see the dullness of his voice stains his eyes. 

Slowly Mairon curls his fingers around the hilt of the knife. His fingers brush against Celebrimbor’s, and for a moment, it feels as though they are back in the forge once more, any other tool being traded amongst their hands. A muscle in Celebrimbor’s finger twitches, and then he relinquishes the blade completely.

All without actually looking at Mairon.

Nevertheless, Mairon takes great satisfaction in throwing the knife over the side of the wall. It is only when he hears it clatter against the rocks below that he allows himself to focus on Celebrimbor once more. Celebrimbor has lifted both of his hands now, cradling the sides of his head, hunching further in on himself. Yet he does not weep. Poor, emotional Celebrimbor does not cry.

Something inside him has been crushed, and Mairon was the one to break it. 

Mairon curls his hand into a fist, and the ring on his finger no longer feels like his greatest triumph as much as his greatest mistake. 

“I am sorry,” Mairon whispers. 

“Alright,” Celebrimbor murmurs in turn. His tone is still completely devoid of emotion, and for a reason Mairon cannot truly understand it hurts like a physical wound to hear him speak so. 

Mairon dwells there for several moments longer before he lowers himself to the ground. Celebrimbor does not move even when Mairon sits alongside him and, after a brief consideration, shifts closer to allow his shoulder to touch Celebrimbor’s. 

Celebrimbor does not lean against him as he did in the past, but he does not pull away either. It could be seen as a victory, but if it is one it feels hollow. 

“I am sorry,” Mairon repeats, turning away to gaze out over the dead city. If Celebrimbor had not surrendered the rings, he had been prepared to lay siege to it. To burn it. “Truly.” 

Somehow, its current state feels worse.

“Alright.”

“It was never my intention to hurt you,” Mairon adds. He had hoped it would be easy, that all he would need to do was slip the One onto his finger and the elves would surrender. Even then, he had expected resistance to be minimal in the face of what was clearly the best for them. He had not expected to have his mind brush against Celebrimbor’s and to feel a wave of panic and fear in response before the connection had gone silent. 

“Alright.”

“Celebrimbor my friend, please. Speak to me. Tell me what I can do to help you.”

“Please don’t do that,” Celebrimbor mutters, shaking his head, fingers blanching from the pressure he drives into his own skull. “Do not say such words. It is already impossible to bear looking at you, I cannot stand to have you call me that as well.”

Mairon gazes at Celebrimbor, and for the first time in his long life his heart aches with feeling. Not shame, though it sits in a similar way in his throat. Not fear, not for himself. No. He stares at Celebrimbor, and he grieves. He grieves for the loss of light in Celebrimbor’s eyes, the loss of his smile, the loss of their friendship. He grieves for the choices he made that brought them to this point. 

They does not seem worth it any longer. He had desired a world that would be better, that would be perfect. But it is only sitting here now, shoulder pressed against Celebrimbor’s yet the elf refusing to lean against him as he usually would, that he realizes no world can be perfect without Celebrimbor in it.

“Very well,” Mairon relents. He falls back into silence and allows Celebrimbor the little privacy he can spare him by turning his gaze back over the dead city. He shall not leave him, not like this. Not when he knows what Celebrimbor will do if left to his own devices. But if Celebrimbor wishes him not to speak, he can grant him that.

…He is bad at this. 

Perhaps, if he were elf or man, he could comfort Celebrimbor more. Perhaps his attempts at apology would feel more genuine. Even to Mairon’s own ears they sound like another falsehood. 

“Just take your rings and leave me,” Celebrimbor whispers. “They are useless to you now anyway. I have spread the word far that Annatar was captured, and that the Dark Lord corrupted his craft. No elf will ever wear them again.“

“You did not tell them the truth?” Mairon asks in surprise, glossing over Celebrimbor’s demand for him to leave entirely. He shall not be doing that no matter how frequently Celebrimbor protests until he is certain he will not throw himself over the wall or stick his head into a lit forge. But the fact Celebrimbor lied is bizarre. Why would he? 

The rings are not useless. He could simply present them to a dwarf or perhaps a man instead. 

“If I had told them, they wouldn’t have agreed to leave,” Celebrimbor explains blankly. “Annatar is captured and Celebrimbor dies at the hands of the Dark Lord, trying to free him. It is a much nicer end to the story than Celebrimbor dying like a fool.” 

It is wrong, the way Celebrimbor refers to himself. Detached. Cold. Clinical. It makes Mairon’s skin crawl, and he leans his shoulder slightly against Celebrimbor’s, trying to coax him away from such thoughts. 

“I am not going to kill you, Celebrimbor.” 

“Celebrimbor dies trying to free him,” Celebrimbor corrects, though his voice is still disturbingly detached and his words no better.

“You are not going to die, Celebrimbor,” Mairon insists more firmly, reaching out and catching Celebrimbor’s wrist in a hand. He yanks the hand away from Celebrimbor’s head, and the motion causes Celebrimbor to jerk and finally turn to look at Mairon. 

His gaze is dull and lifeless and wrong, and Mairon hates it.

“I don’t think that is your choice to make,” Celebrimbor whispers. 

“It is now, as you clearly cannot be trusted to make the choice for yourself,” Mairon retorts sharply, rising to his feet and dragging Celebrimbor after him. Celebrimbor does not resist, yet does not offer any help either, simply sagging bonelessly in Mairon’s grip, hand above his head, and Mairon hates that as well. 

Enough. Enough of this. He will not leave Celebrimbor to his terrible thoughts, nor will he continue to sit here and let Celebrimbor wallow in his misery. 

“You think I would let you die?” Mairon asks. “You think I would kill you? I care for you Celebrimbor, and you will not be leaving my sight until you understand.” 

He takes a step backwards, and as he does so he drags Celebrimbor along with him, away from the edge of the wall. He takes a step backwards, and as he does so he steps away from the rings which still lay scattered upon the ground, long forgotten.

Mairon takes one step backwards, and Annatar takes one step forwards. 

Chapter Text

In the wake of all that has come to pass, Mairon would prefer nothing more than to whisk Celebrimbor off to Mordor. 

It is safer there than anywhere else in the world. For all of the heat and sharp, black obsidian, Mairon has absolute dominion over his realm. He could keep Celebrimbor nestled amongst the mountains, curl around him like one of Melkor’s dragons curled around golden hoards, and keep him safe. Mordor was a fortress, and within it none could hurt Celebrimbor. 

Celebrimbor does not fight against him as Mairon drags him away from the edge of the wall. Mairon leads him by walking backwards, unwilling to take his eyes off Celebrimbor for even an instant, for the problem is not others wishing harm upon Celebrimbor at all. 

The problem is that Celebrimbor wishes harm upon himself.

That is the reason that though Mairon briefly considers dragging Celebrimbor off to Mordor, he quickly drives the thought from his head. For all Mordor could keep him physically safe, Celebrimbor has little to fear from others. He knows not of any men, elves or dwarves that would desire to kill Celebrimbor. No, Celebrimbor’s greatest enemy at this time is none other than himself. Mordor, for all the comfort Mairon finds there, is not a place Celebrimbor would like.

Celebrimbor loves the smell of flowers. Mordor’s ashy plains grow nothing so useless or pretty.

Celebrimbor enjoys the feeling of the sun upon his skin in the late afternoon. Mordor is often shadowed by great, dark clouds to hide its inhabitants from the searing wrath of the sunlight.

Mordor is the realm of Sauron. 

If Celebrimbor cannot barely stand to see him, can barely stand to have Mairon name him friend, he will obviously not fare well in such a place. He may even fracture further. He does not actively fight against Mairon now to claim his own life, so clearly he can fall further if Mairon is not cautious with him.

It is with this in his mind that Mairon leads Celebrimbor carefully down the stairs, off of the wall and down into the city proper. The last time he passed through these streets it was as Annatar, and they were filled with life. They are empty and hollow now, and unnaturally silent.

So too is Celebrimbor.

Mairon cautiously throws a glance over his shoulder. It is only for an instant, only long enough to orient himself, and immediately his eyes snap back to watching Celebrimbor. He has remained placid in the second Mairon looked away from him. He has not managed to conjure another knife, or bash his head with a particularly large stone. He did not even attempt to pull his wrist away from Mairon’s grip. He simply follows, eyes blank and averted downwards towards his feet, as if he cannot even bear to look at Mairon anymore.

Mairon’s eyebrows knit together, and something like frustration bubbles up within him. He loosens his grip just enough to slide his fingers down from Celebrimbor’s wrist to his hand, then secures his hold once more. It does little to soothe over that feeling in his throat, especially when Celebrimbor does not hold his hand in turn, but at least he is not met with resistance. Celebrimbor seems to simply tolerate whatever fate Mairon has in store for him.

Mairon probably could alter his shape to something more vampiric and take flight with Celebrimbor in his clutches towards the east, and Celebrimbor would do nothing. He seems hollow now, just as empty as the city street they pass through.

Celebrimbor is fortunate indeed Mairon is considerate enough of his feelings not to take him to Mordor when he cannot be trusted to care for himself. No. With Mordor not an option, there is only one other place Mairon can think of that will be safe and that is within the walls of this very city. No one else is here, and there is no reason for anyone to come here. Not when Celebrimbor has lied to his kin and sent them away to avoid a siege. 

They arrive at familiar steps, and Mairon leads Celebrimbor up them to a familiar door. He does not yet release Celebrimbor’s hand, but does turn slightly to the side so he can keep both the door and Celebrimbor within his sights. He reaches a hand to the neck of his armor, working his fingers between the narrow space between metal and skin. There is a thin, silver-chained necklace hidden there somewhere, one Mairon never bothered to remove, and upon it a key he had been gifted some time ago-

“It is unlocked,” Celebrimbor whispers, his first words since their descent from the wall. There is a trace of expression upon Celebrimbor’s face, just the slightest bit of perhaps confusion, and it hurts to see only a hint of emotion where usually Celebrimbor is so fully of it. 

“That is dangerous, Celebrimbor,” Mairon chides softly as he had often when Celebrimbor had forgotten to lock his door, even as he uses his free hand to turn the door handle and his shoulders to push the door inwards. It swings open with a soft creak, though the noise does nothing to mask Celebrimbor’s soft reply.

“I was not planning on returning.”

The admission serves as a cruel reminder, and Mairon hurriedly pulls Celebrimbor within the confines of his own home. He makes a point to lock the door then, rather reluctantly, allows Celebrimbor’s hand to fall free away from his own. He has work to do now, and it will take far longer to accomplish it if he is dragging Celebrimbor after him every step of the way. 

The absence of Celebrimbor’s hand within his own is notable.

He does not care for it.

Despite this he turns, leaving Celebrimbor in the center of the entry room and leaving one eye upon him as he surveys the room. Attempting to remove every dangerous object from an entire city is beyond him. To do so on his own would take many hours, and that is many hours he would either need to keep Celebrimbor by his side or lock him away in some secure place and pray he is not creative. Attempting to remove every dangerous object from one house, however, is far more reasonable. This is already Celebrimbor’s home as well. Surely if there is a place he will be comfortable for an extended period of time while his mind recovers, it would be here.

Fortunately, Celebrimbor’s home looks largely unchanged from when Mairon was last here. He steps beyond the entryway, entering the small room it opens into and glancing cautiously around it. Nothing need be done about the tiled art embedded into the wall, and the furniture can remain. But the silverware set upon the table is sharp and silvered, and Mairon sweeps it up and out the nearest window with no hesitation. Several plates follow shortly after-ceramic can be very sharp when broken-though wooden bowls are spared his cautious eye. 

Periodically he throws glances back at Celebrimbor where he lingers, lost by the door. He makes no attempt to flee or grab for anything dangerous, so as Mairon progresses deeper into the house he finds himself letting more time pass between his cautious looks back. 

There is a decorative sword on the wall that Mairon flings through the window as well. Fortunately Celebrimbor keeps his hammer and other smithing tools at the forge, otherwise they would join the growing pile of things deemed dangerous by Mairon that is building up on the street outside. He makes a point to throw them out of the same window, just to make it easier to properly dispose of everything later. It would hardly do him any good if Celebrimbor could simply open up a window and grab any manner of harmful objects from a convenient pile nearby.

The bedroom is last, and Mairon lays one eyes upon the sheets before he begins pulling them off the bed. The thin, white linens can too easily be turned into makeshift rope, and-

“Am I to be kept a prisoner within my own home?”

Mairon bundles the sheets into his arms and glances towards the doorway to the bedroom. Celebrimbor has finally wandered further into the house from where Mairon left him, and has one hand cautiously laid upon the doorframe, a look of mild resignation upon his face that was not there before. As if each moment further he spends alive is a burden.

“It is for your own good,” Mairon replies softly, then his gaze drops slightly and his eyes narrow. He sets the bundle of sheets upon the bed and steps closer to Celebrimbor, closing the distance between them slowly as not to startle him. “All I have ever done has been for your good,” he adds. He reaches his arms behind Celebrimbor, finding the knot that holds that familiar brown apron in place against his back, and gently coaxes it undone. He strips Celebrimbor of the apron quietly, then tosses the cloth to the pile of linens to be disposed of as well. Anything with cords like that is clearly too dangerous to allow him to keep. 

If Celebrimbor is bothered by the loss of his apron, he does not speak on it. His eyes follows the arc of the apron as it flies through the air, then settle back on Mairon once more.

“Who are you to decide that on your own?” He whispers. “What is best for me?”

“Your friend, Celebrimbor,” Mairon responds, and the way Celebrimbor’s eyes deaden as they stare at him makes Mairon remember and his own expression pinch slightly. “I know you may not think of me as a friend, but you cannot change the way I feel for you.”

When Celebrimbor does not respond, Mairon sighs and turns, bundling back up the linens and apron he has to dispose of. That should be the last of everything that caught his eye as being potentially dangerous, meaning he can gather all of it and burn it somewhere. Or perhaps simply toss it over the walls of the city. He does not plan on leaving Celebrimbor unattended long enough for him to be able to escape that far, and even if he did make it that far it would be easier just to jump.

Yes, that is probably easier. Burning Celebrimbor’s things in front of him probably would not be good for his mood.

“Stay here,” Mairon orders as he walks past Celebrimbor. The house is safe now, and while Mairon itches to keep Celebrimbor within his sights, he should be able to leave Celebrimbor alone for the few short moments it will take to dump these dangerous things beyond the wall. Especially if he uses magic to keep the doors and windows closed behind him. “Rest. I shall be back shortly.” 

…Perhaps, while he is on the other side of the wall, he can gather some flowers for Celebrimbor. He did decide the vase was too dangerous as it was made of glass, but perhaps they could go into one of the wooden bowls. 

Chapter Text

Atop the wall once more, Mairon pauses.

Behind him, rather unceremoniously cast down to the rocks below, are Celebrimbor’s former belongings. Some of his things may be able to be reclaimed when he begins to feel better, such as the silverware and perhaps some of the sharper metallic decorative objects he had filled his home with. Others had been shattered either during Mairon’s initial removal of them from the house via the window, or from being tossed over the wall. Possibly both. Those are useless now, which is only mildly frustrating. The waste generated by removing them swiftly, however, is justifiable in the face of needing to keep Celebrimbor safe. Any time he had spent carefully wrapping ceramic and transporting to another part of the city was time Celebrimbor could have used to harm himself.

Some objects survived both events, but probably will not fare well in the elements. Birds and wild animals will likely shred the linens for their own nests, and perhaps Celebrimbor’s leather apron as well. Fortunately these can easily be replaced, and hardly counts as a waste given they will be repurposed.

Dropping Celebrimbor’s things over the wall had been easy, requiring only one trip. Longer it had taken him to gather some wild flowers growing in the fields just beyond the wall, and transport them back up over the wall in the form of a bird. Actually plucking the flowers had taken hardly any time, but tiny talons could only hold so many stems at a time, and the doors to the city remained firmly closed.

Mairon would not open them. The gates would serve well to keep both Celebrimbor in, and anyone else out. Gates, and doors for that matter, only did their job when they remained closed and locked.

Mairon turns from the outside and sets off down the stairs, back into the city once more. There are many houses in Ost-in-Edhil, and each of them holds uncountable dangers for Celebrimbor. It makes far greater sense to simply keep him within his home for now rather than scour the city for every tiny danger. What if he were to miss something? What if Celebrimbor’s desire for his own doom was stronger than Mairon’s wit?

Could he truly identify every possible danger?

No. It was simply too great of a risk for Mairon to tolerate. Celebrimbor would remain confined to his home until such a time that he was no longer a danger to himself.

Mairon glances down to the flowers he has collected and tilts his head to one side. None of these are toxic, yes? He had selected ones he had recognized, but knew not of their names or properties. Plant-life beyond that of the useful ones used for food eluded his knowledge. Yet there exists a great gap between that which is eaten, that which can be eaten, and that which is dangerous to eat. Surely Celebrimbor would not have braided these flowers into his hair if they were deadly. He hardly wants to have gone through this great effort to clean Celebrimbor’s home of all dangers, only to bring more in himself.

He supposes he will have to ask. Even now he doubts Celebrimbor’s capacity to lie to him, or at least lie to him well. Even the fact Celebrimbor had managed to lie to his kin was bizarre.

His gaze slips past the vibrant, colorful flowers to his own hands that carry the uprooted plants, and Mairon pauses in the empty street.  

Mairon is still wearing his war gauntlets. They cover his hands with hard, cold metal, and when he flexes the fingers of one hand, sharp spines flare up from the backs of knuckles, designed to deliver a cruel blow to anyone he may strike with his fist. His entire body is covered in similarly sharp points, for after all he did arrive here anticipating war.

He had… forgotten that, admittedly. He had left his helmet behind to hold conference with Celebrimbor at the wall, and the absence of metal obscuring his view had allowed him to forget he was dressed for war. It is a wonder he had not yet hurt Celebrimbor himself, given each spike and spine was as sharp as a blade. It was also far more understandable now why Celebrimbor had been so distressed at the sight of him. Annatar never wore such outfits.

This will not do. He cannot have spent all this time ensuring Celebrimbor’s safety, only to return to him wearing a suit of a thousand knives.

He pivots abruptly, turning away from the road that leads to Celebrimbor’s home and down a familiar street. This entire city remains familiar to him, though when he last roamed these streets they were filled with elves. The roads are empty now, and the sharp click of metal from his boots echoes in the silence with every step he takes.

He had not paid it much mind before, but now it is hard to ignore the moss growing in the shade, or the ivy that slithers up the sides of houses. The cobbled stones underfoot are laced with delicate, fine cracks, through which small weeds have begun to take root. With no one to trim them, once well maintained flower beds now grow wild, smothering the doors they had once delicately framed.

The corners of stone houses are crumbling. The glass of some windows he passes have cracked or outright shattered. Wooden door frames are beginning to rot.

Such changes do not occur within a matter of months. That question of how long Celebrimbor has haunted this place on his own is beginning to have an answer Mairon does not care for.

He tries to ignore that thought as he stops briefly in front of a familiar door, just long enough to push aside a few overzealous bushes that have invaded the front walkway. His hand finds the handle and while it is unsurprising to find the door locked, it does not stop him. His grip upon the door handle tightens and twists, and after a few moments molten metal drips from his palm and sizzles loudly as it strikes the cool stone at his feet.

He flicks his hand slightly to shake away any remnants of the handle, then pushes the base of the door with the pointed toe of his shoe. Without the handle, the door admits him readily.

He is not certain if he should be surprised that this place is as he left it. The inside of the house is dimly lit only by sunlight streaming in through cracked windows, but it looks largely untouched from how his memory remembers leaving it. Dusty from the time he has been away, but not nearly as much as he would have expected given the length of his absence.

It is a moment frozen in time. Every trinket remains more or less where he left it. Plates still set out upon the table, never used and never to be used. His tools hang from their shelf next to the door, where he had left them quietly in the night. Crystal flowers sit in a vase atop a dresser near the wall. They had been a gift from Celebrimbor at one time. Too long ago.

Mairon drifts past his previous personal effects-Annatar’s personal effects-to instead find his way to the bedroom. As he passes he temporarily deposits the flowers he collected upon the table, then begins to shed pieces of his armor as he walks, leaving them abandoned upon the floor with every step. He tosses aside his gauntlets and his shoulder plates, pries his breastplate off and casts it aside. No part of his armor is spared, not even pieces that lack deadly spines such as the vambraces.

It is only when all of his armor lies upon the floor, and Mairon stands before what was once his closet that he begins to add clothing rather than remove it. As with the rest of his home, the closet has been untouched, and fortunately the clothes within have weathered well with time.

He slips a black, slim fitting shirt with a grey collar over his head, replacing his dark armor with something of a familiar color, but far softer. For the lower half he opts for something silky in the same dark grey color as the collar of the shirt, with a light blue belt to keep it in place. His iron boots he replaces with soft, brown leather. It is an outfit he wore many times before as Annatar, and with no sharp edges will not be dangerous for him to wear around Celebrimbor.

Both familiar and comfortable.

Safe.

Properly dressed for the task at hand now, Mairon turns his gaze to his once-bed. Never had it truly been used for its intended purpose as he had no need to sleep, but to maintain some illusion of normalcy it was still decorated with linens and pillows and-more importantly-furs. Furs are likely at least somewhat safer than linens, and unlike Mairon Celebrimbor does require occasional rest. 

Forcing him to sleep on a bare mattress seems unnecessarily cruel when there is an alternative before him.

So he gathers up some of the furs in his arms and slips from the bedroom, pausing only to add the flowers he had abandoned upon the table to the bundle in his arms before hurrying from the house. He leaves the door ajar as he leaves, unwilling to waste time repairing the lock.

It is only then that he returns to Celebrimbor’s home, moving briskly down the streets. Perhaps, when Celebrimbor is feeling better, he shall be able to dedicate some time to taming the wild plants overrunning the buildings. Perhaps that could be a good project for Celebrimbor himself to work on, as gardening is far safer than smithing.

Unfortunately, Mairon doubts Celebrimbor will be permitted to return to the forges any time soon. It simply is not practical to put a hammer in his hands, and his body before an inferno.

He arrives back at Celebrimbor’s door swiftly and is met with his own spell upon the house. It is clearly intact, meaning Celebrimbor has not taken his absence to attempt to escape. And given Mairon had removed everything dangerous from the house before leaving, that means Celebrimbor is likely still safe within. Good, good.

He dismisses the spell with a word across his lips, then shifts the furs and flowers to one hand so he can open the door. It admits him readily, and he crosses the threshold into the quiet, taking no time in seeking Celebrimbor out in the bedroom.

Celebrimbor has not moved far from where Mairon had ordered him to rest, moving only from the doorway to sit upon the side of the bed on the bare mattress. His hands rest limply in his own lap, his head bowed, back bent forward as if carrying a great burden upon his shoulders. He does not lift his head at Mairon’s return, nor does he speak at all.

Mairon places the flowers and furs down gently at the foot of the bed before slipping around the side to Celebrimbor’s side. He moves quietly, a task far easier to accomplish now that his boots are not metal-soled. Celebrimbor does not watch his approach, does not move at all as Mairon comes to stand before him. He simply sits, head bowed, still as stone.

“Oh, my friend,” Mairon murmurs softly, reaching out, his fingers brushing past long, black hair to cradle Celebrimbor’s cheek in the palm of his hand. He coaxes Celebrimbor’s head to rise gently, and with his other hand sweeps Celebrimbor’s dark hair aside until Mairon can see his brilliant blue eyes. There was a time when Celebrimbor would have leaned into his touch, but he does not now. Yet he does not recoil from Mairon’s touch either, something that would be a good sign if not for the death in his eyes.

He does not even look at Mairon, but rather past him to some distant land or memory.

“My friend,” Mairon repeats softly, letting the hand not cradling Celebrimbor’s cheek drift to the back of his head. Celebrimbor does not resist him as Mairon guides his head closer until his forehead is pressed against Mairon’s chest. Mairon shifts, curling his hands around Celebrimbor’s head in a protective embrace, careful fingers winding gently through his hair in a repetitive, petting motion. Across his scalp, down the back of his neck. Freeing the strands from the tie that binds them, then brushing down Celebrimbor’s back. “My Celebrimbor,” he whispers, letting his chin rest upon the crown of Celebrimbor’s head.

Celebrimbor does respond, all but comatose.

That is fine. He is still here, he is still present. He is still safe . In time, Mairon can ensure that physical security becomes a spiritual one too, but that is something he can only accomplish if Celebrimbor is within his reach. If he were to die…

Mairon tilts his head forward so he can press his lips gently to the top Celebrimbor’s head. It truly is fortunate he realized how peculiar Celebrimbor had been acting at the gates. He does not wish to think what sight he may have seen if he had only returned later to investigate Celebrimbor’s bizarre behavior.

“You shall be safe here,” Mairon declares as he sits beside him upon the bed, a promise to no one for Celebrimbor does not hear him now. “I shall keep you safe, be it from your enemies, or your own hand,” he adds as he plucks a wildflower he had picked from the pile at the foot of the bed, and threads the stem through Celebrimbor’s hair. It is followed by another, then another and another until Mairon threads his own fingers through Celebrimbor’s hair again, separating it into pieces so that he can braid it. Celebrimbor often braided Mairon’s own hair, but seldom did Mairon return the favor. He does so now, working the hair into a loose braid so as not to pull too hard on Celebrimbor’s scalp, weaving flowers in as he goes. “No harm shall fall upon you while I watch over you.”

“You shall be safe with me,” Mairon promises, and his words bind him.