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When Celebrimbor heard two peredhil twins had arrived at court, having escaped from long captivity with his uncles, he locked himself in his room and wept. It was long since he had held any hope for House Fëanor, but still it found ways to disappoint him. He had believed the tales of Maedhros searching for twins lost in the forest after the kinslaying at Doriath, but if this was any indication, his motives had not been half as pure as Celebrimbor had hoped. How low had he and Maglor fallen to hold children captive for so long? Even if they had hoped to ransom them for a Silmaril, surely they could have released them after the new star appeared in the sky.
The best Celebrimbor could do for them, he decided, was make himself scarce. He looked enough like his grandfather to make the family connection plain and last thing they needed was another reminder of the horrors they had endured haunting their steps. But he listened, and every whisper he heard made his skin crawl. The peredhil spoke with a strange accent, not the Sirion accent of their youth. One was a healer, and Celebrimbor could not help but shudder at the thought of what might turn a child to healing at such a young age. But it was not until they were introduced to court that the rumours exploded, and Celebrimbor could not bear to hear another word. He made his way to Gil-galad without delay.
“Ah, Celebrimbor, welcome. I was wondering when you would come to visit.”
“Is it true?” Celebrimbor asked, his heart pounding in his chest. “The peredhil. I heard”--
The door behind him opened and the sound of twin gasps came from the entrance. The small smile that had been lurking on Gil-galad’s face widened, even as Celebrimbor’s heart fell. He did his best to make himself look small and unobtrusive, but there was only so much he could do, and he could not quell the sudden storm of rage he felt at the king for smiling. He was supposed to have taken personal responsibility for the twins. Did he not care for his charges? Did he not realize the harm exposing them to Celebrimbor could do?
“Cousin Tyelpe?”
Celebrimbor’s eyes widened even as his brow pulled together in bafflement. He turned at his name and was met by twin squeals of delight. Before he knew what was happening, the twins had launched themselves across the room and pulled him into the same kind of fierce, affectionate embrace that had been shared so often between his uncles. He held his arms out wide and his hands up, terrified to return the embrace for fear of frightening them. Several seconds passed before he realized both twins were speaking in rapid-fire Quenya, their Fëanorian accent so thick he might have thought himself back in Aman. He looked at the king, hoping for help, only to find him openly laughing.
“Hey, Elrond, why do you think he isn’t answering?” one twin asked. The second, apparently Elrond, hummed, then said,
“Oh! He’s forgotten how to speak properly!”
Both twins stepped back, pink with both embarrassment and delight. Elrond offered him a small bow and said in Sindarin,
“I apologize for our enthusiasm, Cousin Celebrimbor. We did not think to find family here. I am Elrond, son by adoption to both Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorion, and this is my brother, Elros. Our fathers told us much about you.”
“They kidnapped you!” Celebrimbor protested. Elrond merely shrugged, but Elros looked delighted.
“You know, you’re the first person here to actually try and argue that point after we declared our lineage,” he said happily. “Most people act like we’re only saying it because we’re scared or confused. Yes, we were hostages to begin with, though we were always treated well. It was not so long before we came to love them. After all, you know what our fathers are like.”
The last sentence was delivered with a shrug that was a mirror to his brother and a casual confidence as though he had not upended Celebrimbor’s world. Yes, he knew what Maedhros and Maglor were like, the good and the bad. If they had somehow managed to show the twins only the good, and they had seen even a shadow of the uncles Celebrimbor had known as a child, then perhaps it was not a surprise their hostages had come to love them so fiercely. Tears pricked in the corners of his eyes. The thought that they might still be the uncles he had adored despite all the horrors they had wrought was somehow worse than telling himself they had become mindless monsters.
“If they were good to you, then I am glad. My house has done enough to yours,” Celebrimbor told them. The twins exchanged a long look. At length, Elrond pasted on a gentle smile and said,
“You are not entirely wrong, though not, I think, for the reasons you intended. House Fëanor has indeed done much harm to itself. This is our chance to mend the divide within our family. Our fathers spoke of you with fondness, and oft expressed relief that you had not sworn the Oath with them.”
Celebrimbor opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was not quite sure where to begin with that. There were a dozen different points he wanted to make, from the wisdom of associating themselves with a doomed house to the implicit horror of the peredhil abandoning the culture of their birth for his. Instead, his mind stuck on one point.
“They were relieved?”
Elros’ mouth twitched into a smirk. “Do you want the full lecture on the folly of oaths? Shall I include the lament for being bound to value objects more than loved ones?”
“It was a good lament, but you do not have half the talent to pull it off,” Elrond said, and before Celebrimbor knew what was happening, the twins were bickering in Quenya. Not knowing what to do, he looked to Gil-galad, who sighed and beckoned him over.
“They do this sometimes,” Gil-galad said. “It is good for them, I think, given how readily they use osanwë. And they are only playing at fighting. It will not be long before they are united in driving both of us to madness.”
Celebrimbor watched for a moment. His expression twisted a few moments later, torn between amusement, shock, and grief. “Elros truly is dreadful at impersonations. Maedhros would be livid if he saw himself mocked like that.”
“Mm. He might make him go to bed without dessert,” Gil-galad said idly, then smiled when Celebrimbor gaped at him. “Oh, I have no doubt he could and would slaughter nearly every elf in my service if the mood took him, but look at them, Celebrimbor. Any fear they had of your family is long forgotten. I cannot imagine he was harsh with them.”
Begrudgingly, Celebrimbor allowed, “Maedhros was always good with children.”
There was a break in the laughter, and the twins looked over.
“Tyelpe, will you come to tea with us this afternoon? If you tell us stories of our fathers’ in Aman, I can share Atya’s latest songs with you.”
“He’s not bad. He’s no Atya, but he’s not bad.”
“He will. For now, the two of you do have lessons,” Gil-galad said, taking the decision from his hands. The twins sighed, but with the promise of a future visit from their cousin, they settled down quickly. Celebrimbor stayed a little longer to see what the king was teaching them and raised an eyebrow in question. He knew Gil-galad had no heirs, but to train the peredhil twins to rule as kings seemed hasty. But perhaps there was wisdom there he could not see. Whatever the case, he left quickly, his head spinning with the new information he had learnt and the inescapable resignation he was not going to escape the name ‘Cousin Tyelpe’ for a very long time.
*
After nearly a month of being referred to as “Tyelpe”, Celebrimbor slipped and winced. The twins were not so blind as to miss his reaction and looked at him in askance, and he explained,
“In truth, I prefer Celebrimbor.”
He watched open confusion spread over their faces. They exchanged a long look, communicating silently, before the blood drained from Elrond’s face and Elros spat his father’s favourite swear words.
“We’ve been doing it to you, haven’t we?”
“It?”
“If one more person calls me `Eärendilion`, I just might take a leaf our of our mother’s book and leap from a tower,” Elros said bitterly. The snort of laughter from Elrond suggested there was little truth to the action threatened in those words, even if the bitterness was all too earnest. For his part, Elrond explained,
“They call our fathers kidnappers, they flinch if we forget to use Sindarin, they do not know the right songs or the right stories, and they refuse to even use the right name. Gil-galad is doing his best and I love him for it, but it is awful, cousin! I want to go home.”
Though his voice started out level and calm, by the end, a childish grief had crept into it. It was a sharp reminder that, for all Elrond and Elros appeared on the brink of adulthood, they were still so very young. And, from their perspective, they had just been ripped from the only home they had ever known and thrown into a strange culture where their parents were hated enemies. There was little Celebrimbor could do about that, but he did what he could. And in turn, he never heard the name “Tyelpe” from the twins again.
*
“Ah, Celebrimbor,” Gil-galad said when he stepped into the room. Celebrimbor took a moment to assess the situation. The king was seated across from the peredhil, separated by a low coffee table covered in historical documents. Elros’ glared at Gil-galad in open mutiny. Beside him, Elrond wore a small, neutral little smile that gave nothing away. Celebrimbor glanced at the door, wondering if it was too late to run. Despite his instincts, he took a seat when invited to and peered curiously at the documents on the table. None of them held happy memories. Each and every record specified some doom or curse laid upon the Noldor or House Fëanor directly.
“We have been discussing the practicality of Elrond’s plan to attach himself to the House of Fëanor in the long term. His loyalty and affection for his foster-fathers is admirable, but I worry he is neglecting the full weight of history that comes with the name. I thought perhaps hearing some of it first hand may persuade him.”
It was not a happy task, but if he could spare the peredhil this fate, it was one Celebrimbor would gladly accept. But before he could even put his thoughts in order, Elrond said,
“You assume I have not heard such arguments already. But to such arguments I ask this: are the Valar good?”
Celebrimbor blanched. He exchanged a look with Gil-galad, who looked like he was going to be sick. His heart pounded in his chest. This, then, was where the corruption of his uncles would come to light. And to think, until that moment he had dared to hope that his uncles might have been truly good to the twins and done no harm to their body or fëa. Grief moved in his heart, and he cursed his uncles for twisting the faith of one so young. Gil-galad recovered first, leaning forward and clasping Elrond’s hands in his own.
“I assure you, my friend, the Valar are good, whatever you have been told.”
“I have been told the Valar are good,” Elrond assured him, and Celebrimbor near collapsed in relief. “So my fathers told me, and I do wish to believe that the Valar are good and merciful. But I have also been told of the Doom of the Noldor, promising tears unnumbered to those in Beleriand with no rest or respite to be found in Aman.”
“A just punishment for kinslaying, some would say,” Celebrimbor said, quietly. Elrond looked at him, his eyes filled with pity.
“I have been told never to question the Valar. And yet had they the power, my fathers would not have laid such a doom on me or any of our folk no matter the crime.”
The hair on the back of Celebrimbor’s neck prickled uncomfortably. He was not sure what was worse, the implication that the Valar were to be obeyed blindly through fear, or the absolute confidence Elrond had in the mercy of his fathers. Elrond gave them a moment to consider, then continued,
“I know that on House Fëanor, a Doom was laid that all things that they begin well shall turn to evil. I know not what good can come from damning even the best action to evil.”
“And you still choose to associate with House Fëanor?” Gil-galad asked, disbelieving.
“Am I not already Doomed twice over? Though Elros and I were not yet born when the Noldor left Aman, we have shed our share of tears. Unless some new mercy comes, I am not exempt from punishment, though I was not yet alive when the crime was committed. As for the House of Fëanor, whether or not I acknowledge my kin or not, I am a product of the sons of Fëanor. If all good they do is doomed to turn to evil, then I was doomed the moment Maglor laid eyes on me, because he would never have left me to die. If you truly believe that is the fate of House Fëanor, my king, it would be kinder of you to slay me now.”
“You know very well I’m not about to let anyone hurt you,” Gil-galad scolded gently. “But do you truly think your adoption was something wholly good, coming from Sirion as it did?
Elrond pulled back from his friend, and for the first time, Celebrimbor saw a faint glare on his face. Elros, who had stayed quiet throughout the discussion, raised an eyebrow.
“Do we think our fathers butchering a city over a stupid gem was good?” he asked, incredulous. “Do you know what my first memory of Maedhros is? We stepped into the courtyard just in time to see him kill one of the soldiers charged with protecting us. I thought him monstrous, and Maglor no better. The best I hoped for was a quick death.”
Nausea churned in Celebrimbor’s gut. He could not bring himself to look either the twins nor the king in the eye, but the king looked nauseous, his hand flying to cover his open mouth. For all he could feel the seat below him, in that moment Celebrimbor could smell the salt and blood that had marked the first kinslaying. The screams of gulls and elves had mingled in the air and death after death flashed before his eyes. The memories from the one kinslaying Celebrimbor had witnessed haunted him still, and if the rumours were true, his uncles had grown only worse with time.
“And yet they did not hurt us, nor even speak cruelly to us, even when we rebelled. They apologized. We learnt not to fear them, then to trust them,” Elrond said. His voice shook a little, curt despite his desperate attempt to keep his usual calm in place. “In time, I forgave them. And longer after that, I came to love them.”
“We both did, eventually,” Elros conceded. Despite his rage, a smile twisted his face, and he knocked his knee against Elrond’s and said, “Atto went from the cause of my nightmares to the best protection against them.”
Some of the tension eased out of Elrond’s frame and he exhaled slowly with his eyes closed. When he opened his eyes, he was calm once more.
“I apologize. I did not mean to be rude or to cause either of you distress.”
“I do not accept your apology,” Gil-galad said. His face held no more colour than before and there was a dreadful uncertainty in his movements, but he moved to sit beside Elrond and put an arm around his shoulders. He could not reach his arms around both of them, but he did stretch out to put a hand on Elros’ shoulder. “No apology is needed. What you endured was – unthinkable. It is only natural that you still feel distress.”
“But I love them,” Elrond whined, for once sounding every bit like the youth he ought to have been. “They’re my parents, I wouldn’t want any others.”
“I love them, but I’m not pretending I always did,” Elros reminded him. “Remember that time Atto caught us escaping and I bit him? He’s still got a scar on his wrist.”
That startled a small snort of laughter out of Elrond. He wiped away the tears that had started to fall and said, “How could I forget? Atya wrote a song about how brave you were for doing it.”
“You bit Maedhros?” Celebrimbor asked, incredulous. Elros nodded, a smug grin spreading across his face as he began to relay the tale.
It was a story from the early days of their abduction, so it was not half as affectionate as anything Celebrimbor had heard so far, but even so, small details stuck out to him. From the start, the twins had been kept in a comfortable room close to Maedhros and Maglor, not the dungeons as prisoners might expect. They attempted to escape regularly, but it did not seem to have cost them any privileges, because Elros spoke of supervised walks around the fortress and meals equal to what the lords of the fortress were given. This particular escape happened in the dead of night and may well have been successful if not for Maedhros’ insomnia. He alone had chased the twins down as far as the gates of the fortress. He seized Elrond first, tucking him under his right arm and pinning him with his elbow. Once cornered, Elros had leaped at him in a rage and bit him with all his might.
At this point in the story, Elrond snickered a little. “I still haven’t heard him curse like that since.”
“He must have been terribly angry,” Celebrimbor observed. Elros shrugged.
“He was, but what could he do? We were six. He returned us to our rooms, comforted us as best we could, then went to bandage his wrist. The next day, he sat us down with some maps and explained how far we were from any help and told us we would be in danger if we left. And if we ran away, how could he return us to our mother when she answered his letters?”
There was a clear tone of bitterness running through the last sentence, and Elros finished his story by glaring sullenly at the table as if it were to blame for his past. Elrond, on the other hand, hummed thoughtfully.
“That was clever of him, in retrospect. I think that was our last serious escape attempt.”
“And the last time I was afraid of him,” Elros conceded, his glare relenting. “It’s hard to be afraid of someone who reads you a bedtime story less than an hour after you bite them.”
Another surge of grief hit Celebrimbor, and he admitted, “That does sound like the Maedhros I knew in my youth.”
“And I can readily believe Elros bit him,” Gil-galad said, startling a laugh from both the twins. They took turns, then, painting a story as beautiful as it was heartbreaking about the long path they had taken from there to family. They spoke of hot summer days running free in the fields under the watchful eye of their guardians; of Maglor turning each moment, whether mundane or otherwise, into a song for them; of cold winter nights in the hall by the fire, cheerfully losing game after game of chess to Maedhros.
“They raised you well,” Gil-galad conceded, but then risked a question, “but does that mean tying your fate to their House?”
Elrond gave him a crooked smile. “If I am to be doomed for this, it will be unjust, and it will at least be a doom I bring on myself! And I would have to be a coward indeed to turn my back on my kin and my people.”
Celebrimbor made a choked sound, staring at Elrond as if he had seen a ghost. When the others looked at him in askance, he said,
“If there is such a doom, you have just brought it on yourself! If you were not so calm, I might have thought I was listening to Fëanor himself!”
Though the pink flush dusting Elrond’s cheeks did nothing to enhance the comparison, the way his chest puffed out with pride certainly did. Beside him, Gil-galad sighed.
“My friend, that is not a compliment.”
“Oh, good luck convincing him of that,” Elros said, his eyes bright with amusement. “Cousin, we just spent the afternoon arguing we are our fathers’ sons, and would not forsake our family even if we could. Now you have told my brother he could not forsake them, even if he would! What did you expect?”
Celebrimbor considered that. He considered what lengths his uncles had gone to for their father’s approval and how happy they would have been to hear their son compared to Fëanor and, having considered the whole of the evidence, let out an exhausted sigh. Yes, he thought, this was exactly what a son of Maglor or Maedhros would do.
*
The messenger came for him in the dead of night. With the war over, Celebrimbor thought he had heard the last of such messengers, but it was apparently not to be. Celebrimbor dressed swiftly and rushed to the peredhil’s shared room as ordered. King Gil-galad himself sat on one of the beds with a twin on either side, both clinging to one other and him while weeping. Celebrimbor stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. When the door clicked shut, Elrond’s head shot up and his eyes narrowed. He gave an ugly sniff and said,
“The Oath. What were the words?”
Baffled, Celebrimbor took a moment to gather his thoughts, silently mouthing the dreaded words as he called them back to mind. He found a quill and some paper and wrote them down, passing them to Elrond despite the heaviness in his heart. Whatever he looked for there, he would not find it. Indeed, only a few moments later, Elrond let out a dreadful wail.
“Ai, it is all three of them! Atto!”
He then collapsed against Gil-galad, burying his face in his shoulder with great heaving sobs, and no more words could be drawn from him. But Elros took the paper with the oath and read it, eyes clear and focused even as tears streamed down his face. Tentatively, Celebrimbor took a seat and put a hand on Elrond’s shoulder. He could guess the shape of what had happened, but not the details. Gil-galad explained in a low voice, making the theft of the Silmaril’s and Maedhros’ suicide sound as gentle as possible. Despite his anger at his house, Celebrimbor felt tears track down his face. It was a dreadful way to die. And for all the dreadful things Maedhros had done, the twins had also forced Celebrimbor to accept he was also the uncle he had always turned to for advice in his youth.
It was not until the grey light of dawn that Elrond calmed enough to look up from Gil-galad’s shoulder. The hollowness in his eyes was dreadful, but Elros squeezed his shoulder.
“Elrond,” he said, then spoke in a Mannish tongue that neither Gil-galad nor Celebrimbor knew. Elrond pinched his eyebrows together, either unfamiliar with the language or unable to comprehend what had been said in the wake of his grief. Elros repeated himself, and this time Celebrimbor heard Fëanor’s name amongst the foreign words. Elrond repeated the phrase with Fëanor’s name, and this time Elros responded with Eärendil’s name. A grim look of determination entered Elrond’s eyes. He nodded, then said in Quenya,
“I do not swear it, for it was an Oath sworn in grief that lead to this. But I will not forget.”
“Elrond,” Gil-galad said in alarm. Elrond looked at him, his eyes rimmed red from weeping but steady.
“Fear not. Whatever my heart urges me to do, my fathers taught me never to act in grief.”
“Besides, Elrond will not sail west for many centuries,” Elros said. That sentence raised a hundred more questions in Celebrimbor, like why Elros spoke of Elrond sailing and not himself, but now was not the time to interrogate him.
*
A week later, a messenger was sent for Celebrimbor again, this time late in the afternoon. This time, instead of cautious relief, the messenger looked to him with open fear.
“The king summons you. A host of Noldor in crimson marches from the northeast.”
Celebrimbor’s blood turned to ice. He rushed to the king’s public chamber, but a young Noldor prince waited outside. He started a moment later to realize the glittering prince was not a stranger but Elrond, who pulled him aside and spoke to him in a low voice.
“Cousin Celebrimbor. I know, I think, why our people have come. It may be best if we present a united front. Elros will deal with the Men.”
“Our people?” Celebrimbor echoed, recoiling. Elrond looked at him, his expression carefully neutral.
“With Atya missing, you are the eldest descent of Fëanor, though I count my descent by the eldest son.”
For the first time, Celebrimbor looked at Elrond with a trickle of fear. The circlet he wore was no crown, but bore the eight-pointed star upon his brow, and he had clothed himself in red trimmed with gold. Every item he wore from his boots to the decoration in his hair loudly declared his loyalty.
“I am loyal to High King Gil-galad.”
He watched Elrond pinch his brow as if frustrated, then exhale slowly and smooth his features. “Very well.”
Frozen in horror, he watched as Elrond burst into the king’s hall. The hall immediately broke out in murmurs both fearful and confused as courtiers and advisers tried to reconcile their knowledge of Elrond with the Fëanorian prince striding confidently towards their king. When the door remained open, Celebrimbor sidled in, watching from the rear of the hall. To his astonishment, Elrond stopped the appropriate distance from Gil-galad and bowed. When granted permission to stand, he did so with the same warm smile he always greeted Gil-galad with.
“My king. You took my brother and I in and showed us kindness, even though our ways are strange and our kin have been long sundered from one another. I beg you to show that kindness once more.”
Gil-galad looked at him with an indulgent smile. “Elrond, they haven’t even sent a messenger yet.”
Belatedly, Celebrimbor realized the mistake he had made and cursed his haste. Never again would he be so quick to mistrust! Elrond had not been conspiring treason, but offering Celebrimbor a chance at a role in a conspiracy designed with the king’s blessing. It was a kind thought, although an unwanted one. Celebrimbor had no desire for leadership of an army of kinslayers, and though his feelings towards his House may be gentling, he could not imagine himself striding around with such pageantry as Elrond.
The court debated the ethics and feasibility of integrating the Fëanorians into Gil-galad’s host. Elrond spoke for integration, reminding them of the times they had stood together and speaking persuasively on the need for peace above holding on to old grudges. It was not long before, as predicted, a messenger arrived from the approaching army. After some discussion, it was agreed Elrond would wait in an adjoining room where he could see and not be seen, in case he was wrong about the Fëanorians intent. Elrond protested this loudly, but on this and this alone, Gil-galad would not be moved.
“Hail, Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor East of the Sea,” she said, and bowed. It was a better start than Celebrimbor had hoped for. She continued:
“I am Captain to the Fëanorian host. We seek Lord Elrond Nelyafinwion.”
Discontented murmuring broke out amongst the court, though Gil-galad’s face did not so much as twitch. A rush of relief flooded through Celebrimbor. It was not so long ago those words would have horrified him, but if his guess was true and Gil-galad was in on the scheme, then this was nothing more than assurance that the peredhil had not been the only ones to see themselves as sons of Maedhros and Maglor. It was a bittersweet relief, but relief nonetheless.
“Elrond is my ward. For what purpose do you seek him?”
“Lord Maedhros is dead and Lord Maglor cannot be found. We seek the leader of the House of Fëanor.”
“You cannot turn a hostage into your lord!” someone shouted, and arguments broke out across the hall. Gil-galad gave a small gesture, and at that moment, Elrond stepped out from the anteroom. He ignored the bickering court and indeed all formal procedure, instead crossing the room to greet the messenger with a hug. They shared a brief conversation, too low for anyone else to hear, before Elrond turned and bowed to the king again. Silence fell as the court waited to hear his words.
“My king. I asked once before, and you said no messenger had been sent. She is here! Will we be joined as one kin again?”
“We shall,” Gil-galad declared, and the smile Elrond gave in return was as bright as the sun. “Go now and lead your people to the place we discussed and instruct them as needed to adapt.”
Elrond bowed a final time and left the hall, shadowed by his new captain. As soon as the door shut behind him, the argument exploded once more. Gil-galad sighed.
“I understand the objections, but I ask you all to consider if you would prefer the Fëanorians in our court and led by a trusted friend or elsewhere.”
One elf, either very foolish or very brave, suggested Elrond should not be counted as “trusted”. The look Gil-galad sent was so venomous they retracted their statement with an apology and no other elf dared speak up.
Although he was not the one with grounds to argue, Celebrimbor considered the argument. According to the peredhil, they had come to Gil-galad at the behest of their fathers, for they were no longer safe with Maglor and Maedhros themselves and Beleriand was not safe for them to wander alone. As leader of the remaining Fëanorian forces, Elrond was no longer contingent on Gil-galad for protection. The only thing keeping him here was his apparent affection for Gil-galad. Had Elrond not decided Gil-galad was his friend, the arrival of the Fëanorian army could have led to sudden bloodshed.
*
Red tents and banners emblazoned with an eight-pointed star in gold appeared on the outskirts of Gil-galad’s camp with terrifying efficiency. Even now, with Morgoth defeated and peace between the divided Eldar, the Fëanorians took time to drive stakes into the ground around their camp to deter a mounted assault and kept an active guard at all times. Celebrimbor visited the day after they arrived, accompanied by Elros.
“It is strange to me they sought only your brother, not you,” he admitted.
“A Man cannot lead the Noldor. In time, I will go to the Isle of the Gift.”
Celebrimbor froze. Elros halted a few paces a head and looked back at him, his brow furrowing in concern. “I’m sorry. Did you not know?”
“I did not think the choice had been put to you yet,” Celebrimbor admitted. Elros stared at him for a moment and then dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head.
“There’s going to be a formal choice? Why? I have known for years.”
“You are young. You could change your mind,” Celebrimbor said gently, and Elros snorted.
“It is Elrond you should pity, not I. Even if he is permitted to sail West, what peace will he find in Aman? He has no kin waiting for him there, and we see all too clearly how Fëanorians are welcomed by most. I will live many lives by the count of ordinary men and I intend my life to be a full life. But my brother will linger in this world, in doubt and grief, until Arda itself is made anew. Do not try to persuade me to be counted amongst the elves, cousin. If I will not do it for my brother, there is nothing you can say.”
“He knows?”
“From the instant I knew myself,” Elros confirmed, and Celebrimbor felt himself relax just a fraction.
“If the two of you are content, then my opinion matters little.”
Elros face cracked into a smile. “On that point, we are in agreement. Now come! No more grief. We cannot leave Elrond to do all the work organising the camp, eh?”
They were admitted to the camp without question, though Celebrimbor doubted anyone else would have been waved through so casually. Elros lead the way through the chaos with practised ease. People called out to him as they walked, some shouting greetings, some acknowledging his rank, and a few quietly expressing their sorrow for the loss of his father. The reaction to Celebrimbor himself was mixed, some greeting him joyfully as a fellow Fëanorian and others remembering how he had turned away from them.
They found Elrond in the heart of the camp, bending over a table and shaking his head as he pointed to some documents. Once they got closer, Celebrimbor realized he was in the midst of an argument about the latrines. All pretence of speaking Sindarin was gone, both Elrond and his folk speaking in Quenya. Elrond cut off the debate as they arrived, rephrasing his request as an order and dismissing his people. To Celebrimbor’s astonishment, the three scarred, grim elves he had been arguing with responded by bowing and disappearing into the crowd.
“Trouble?” Elros asked, sounding far too cheerful for the situation.
“They want to install plumbing,” Elrond said despairingly. “I’ve received six different suggestions for improvements that could be made to the king’s camp, two of which were blatantly treasonous and three of which, if I understand them correctly, would make him weep with joy. I do want to show him the modifications our people made to the wagons, because they will make the journey East much easier if his people adopt them, and everyone wants to know where we will settle when the march is done so they can begin planning the city.”
“Well, you did agree to lead our people,” Elros laughed. “What did you expect?”
“Atto made it look so easy. I do not want to disappoint them, nor him.”
“You will not,” Celebrimbor said. The sudden Sindarin sounded strange, even to his ears, and the twins winced to hear it, even as Elrond turned his eyes on him and bit his lip.
“After all you have told me, I do not believe Maedhros capable of being disappointed in you. As for the people of this camp, I think you should worry less about disappointing them and more about persuading them you are truly happy in the king’s company.”
Elrond cast his eyes around the camp, then looked back to Celebrimbor and said, “They know. There is to be a memorial celebration for Atto two night’s hence. You are, of course, invited. And I would like Gil-galad to be there, if he could bear it, and if it would not distress anyone else.”
“He’ll be there,” Elros said, and Celebrimbor thought that was likely to be the reaction of the rest of the camp, whether or not Gil-galad consented. The fierce loyalty that had led the Fëanorians to follow both Fëanor and Maedhros had transferred to Elrond. If Elrond wanted the High King at their memorial than the High King was going to be at their memorial.
*
“A memorial,” Gil-galad said, and whatever skepticism he tried to force into his voice, Celebrimbor knew he was going to go. Despite clear efforts to hide it his need, Elrond’s eyes were wide, his expression near pleading.
“I know you did not know him, but Atto was close to Fingon the Valiant, your father. And,” here Elrond hesitated, glanced at his brother, then turned back to the king and continued, “I have come to think of you as a friend. It would be a comfort to have you there.”
Gil-galad visibly melted. Idly, Celebrimbor wondered why his uncles had not simply sent Elrond to ask for the Silmarils, because surely they could not have said ‘no’ even to that. Gil-galad, certainly, would have caved after five minutes.
“Of course,” Gil-galad said, as if it were every day he agreed to walk into a camp of elves who mere weeks earlier would have killed him. “What should I expect?”
Elrond explained the celebrations planned, advising Gil-galad to warn his people near the Fëanorian camp to keep away that night, for they would sing songs and make no deference to the political mood.
“And also, though none of us have Atya’s, that is, Maglor’s talent, I judge it likely our sorrow will creep into our song. I would not inflict such grief on those who did not consent.”
Celebrimbor and Gil-galad exchanged helpless looks. For his part, Celebrimbor had no desire to spend a night weeping for an uncle who had committed kinslaying so many times over, but if it brought peace to the peredhil, what choice did they have? They could not leave the twins to mourn alone.
The night of the memorial, Gil-galad pulled Celebrimbor aside and asked, “Do you think this wise?”
Celebrimbor considered all he had seen of the camp, what he knew of the Fëanorians, and the stories Elrond had told of them. At length, he said,
“Not wise, but not unsafe. Near every soldier in that camp followed Fëanor and my uncles through a sea of blood. They have lost near as much as they took from their victims. But they followed their orders out of love, not fear, and Elrond is the son of Maedhros and Maglor both. They watched him grow and love him as their own. I judge there is nothing they would not do for him. And he has told them you were kind to him, and that you held him on the night Maedhros died, and tried to comfort him.”
Gil-galad laughed. “Coming from any other family, I would take that as a threat, but I know you mean it as a comfort. And I am sure you are right! Well, there is little use in a king who will not trust in his friends. Let us go on.”
Even before they entered the Fëanorian camp, they heard music drifting on the cool evening air. For all a night of mourning was planned, Celebrimbor’s heart lifted at the tone, and he found himself thinking of days long-past in Treelight. Within the camp, a feasting table had been set and laid with as many luxuries as a marching army could provide. A small dais had been raised for musicians, and all around torches blazed, lighting the area for mourners. An old bard Celebrimbor recognized from Aman stood on the stage, singing a ballad about the better days.
They found the twins near the dais. Elrond greeted them both with an embrace, clinging tighter than he usually did. The singing lasted through the night, with many different artists taking the stage. Some sang vigorous war chants that made Celebrimbor’s blood turn to fire in his veins, something inside him demanding he go out there and fight, take vengeance in his uncle’s name. Others sang ballads of Maedhros’ famous battles, or his rescue by Fingon the Valiant. But some sang songs of mourning that pulled up every tangled bit of grief in Celebrimbor’s heart and had even Gil-galad weeping for a man he had never known.
The best and worst of the night was when Elrond sang. It was one thing to listen to a people mourn beloved lord and friend, but when Elrond sang, Celebrimbor was struck by how very young he was. Here was a child, lamenting the loss of his father, while not too far away elves celebrated Maedhros’ death and made tasteless jokes about his fall. But here Elrond sang of grief, and love, and lamented to the stars that no Valar would hear his pleas for mercy for his father. Elrond mourned and the entire camp mourned with him.
“I can’t believe I have to send people to search for Maglor,” Gil-galad whispered to Celebrimbor.
“Have to?” Celebrimbor asked, and Gil-galad gestured to Elrond singing, then to Elros surrounded by Fëanorian elves, all clinging to one another and openly sobbing. Celebrimbor took his point immediately.
Eventually, Elrond’s turn came to an end, and another elf took up the task of singing. Elrond himself passed among his people, embracing them and weeping openly. Many wept with him, clinging back, but some, especially those marked by their scars and grim expressions as older, pulled him close and protectively and murmured soothing words to him. It was not until hours passed that he was returned to Celebrimbor and Gil-galad. Grief had rendered him all but insensate and he clung to a grizzled and scarred elf as if his life depended on it, but his companion fixed Gil-galad with a glare said,
“Your friend will take care of you.”
With some coaxing, Elrond was convinced to transfer his clinging to Gil-galad. Elros returned to them a little after, and though he was at least standing on his own, there was a terrible emptiness in his eyes that made Celebrimbor shudder.
The celebrations ended a little after dawn. With some effort, Gil-galad and Celebrimbor shepherded the twins back to their quarters and saw them safely put to bed before retiring to their own rooms to sleep.
*
“Elrond, cousin! Welcome to Eregion,” Celebrimbor called. It was not the formal greeting due to the herald of the High King, but he knew Elrond would not expect such formality. Sure enough, Elrond vaulted from his horse and threw himself into Celebrimbor’s open arms. Quietly, so that only Celebrimbor could hear him, he murmured,
“I missed you, Celebrimbor.”
“I missed you too, Elrond,” Celebrimbor told him. When they pulled back, Elrond took the opportunity to straighten his clothes and go through the motions of a proper formal greeting. Neither of them could quiet keep a straight face throughout, and once Celebrimbor invited Elrond back to his quarters for a drink, Elrond started to laugh.
“I might not have agreed to be herald had I known how much statecraft it was going to be.”
“Yes, you would. It’s the easiest way for Gil-galad to keep you close without making you his heir, and we both know how you feel about that.”
“He tried to get the Greenwood delegation to suggest it, you know. I had to be aggressively Fëanorian all week to get them to drop it.”
“Which differs from your usual behaviour how?” Celebrimbor asked drily.
He and Elrond talked long into the night, trading stories and catching up on missed events in each others lives. It was late into the evening when the door to Celebrimbor’s quarters opened and a voice like molten gold called out,
“Tyelpe, darling.”
Elrond’s eyebrows shot up. Celebrimbor scarcely noticed, too distracted by the sight of his beloved sidling into the room and coming to stand behind his chair, draping an arm around his shoulder.
“Annatar, you remember my cousin, Lord Elrond?”
“A pleasure,” Elrond said, inclining his head politely. Celebrimbor let out a small exhale. He knew Elrond disapproved of Annatar. Annatar had been convinced that Elrond would use the opportunity to insult him or drive a wedge between them, but Celebrimbor’s trust in his cousin was justified. The three of them made small talk for a few minutes before Annatar made his excuses, mentioning something about being "on the brink of a breakthrough with the mirror image problem we were working on.”
“What kind of a breakthrough?” Celebrimbor asked, unable to help himself. Satisfaction flared bright in Annatar’s eyes. Celebrimbor was half way out of his chair before he remembered his guest and turned with a chuckle, waving Annatar off. “No, no, tell me in the morning. I have not seen my cousin for too long.”
It was not until after Annatar left that Elrond said, “Didn’t I warn you about him?”
“You, Gil-galad, Galadriel, there’s a list,” Celebrimbor said bitterly, sinking into his chair and glaring at Elrond. Perhaps this trip was not going so smoothly. “You know, of all the Fëanorian traits you picked up, paranoia and envy suit you the least.”
“Celebrimbor, you told me you hated being called Tyelpe,” Elrond said gently.
For a moment, rage and grief warred in Celebrimbor, his thoughts tangled and unclear. It was the concern that undid Celebrimbor in the end. He cast his eyes to the ground, unable to look his cousin in the eye. When had little Elrond gotten so wise? If he had argued, or raged, or said very nearly anything else, then the miasma of rage and suspicion clouding Celebrimbor’s mind would have grown only thicker, but Elrond’s tender concern cut through.
“It sounds different when Annatar says it.”
“It does sound different from him, yes,” Elrond said carefully, but Celebrimbor did not think they were in agreement. Celebrimbor opened his mouth to argue, but Elrond held up a hand.
“I will not push the matter. This is your decision. But I am frightened for you, Celebrimbor.”
For the first time, looking his cousin in the eyes, Celebrimbor found himself frightened, too. His work with Annatar was glorious, but in the wrong hands it could be disastrous. These fears were nothing, doubtlessly latent Fëanorian paranoia stirred up by Elrond’s foolish dislike of his friend, but still, perhaps it was time to work on a project independently.