Archive of Our Own

“Celebrimbor?” Frodo’s voice says from just below the doorknob. “It's us.”

Celebrimbor throws the arm from his face and sits up hastily. “Come in,” he manages, straightening his tunic and crossing his legs, self-conscious about the memory of arousal, even though the spike of fear and the nausea on its heels have driven away any external evidence.

He probably shouldn't have spoken so quickly. He should have said, “Just a moment.” There is no way to retain any semblance of dignity, as tearstained and rumpled as he is right now. Frodo has seen him in tears before, but never with his lips still tingling from kissing the man who destroyed them all.

But, “Oh dear,” is all Frodo says, and Celebrimbor’s eyes are closed again when the bed dips under the Ringbearer’s very slight weight. “Hug?” he asks, and Celebrimbor laughs wetly and nods, and oh. Frodo stands on the bed, and it is different, hugging him like this, when he is standing on the surface where Celebrimbor is sitting, when Frodo’s arms can reach all the way around his neck.

When Celebrimbor opens his eyes, Finrod has appeared but is standing closer to the doorway, as if on guard. Celebrimbor wants to wave him away, to say it’s not necessary, but he cannot imagine that his current state is much of an endorsement to his sense of good judgement.

“Hail, cousin,” he says, and Finrod gives a sad little smile and makes the rude gesture that so often used to accompany that greeting.

“Tell us what you need,” Finrod says.

“Nothing. Nothing happened,” he says, voice billowing dreadfully even on so few syllables. “He didn’t – I’m not –”

But he cannot say he did not do anything wrong. He cannot say I’m not hurt. And they all know it.

“I’m sorry,” Frodo says against his hair, and then pulls back. His face is gentle and serious, eyes intent with all the focused compassion of one of the Wise. He leaves a hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder, steadying both of them, and looks back at Finrod before asking, “Is it all right that we’re here? I didn’t think to check if you’d asked for us, or if he was simply assuming.”

“He was assuming,” Celebrimbor says, “but he was absolutely correct; you are the only ones who could possibly –” He cuts himself off before he can do something stupid like imply that they understand what it’s like to tumble into bed with the man who murdered you. Fuck.

“If you are willing, that is,” he finishes.

Frodo flicks a finger against the tip of Celebrimbor’s ear, a tiny sting, but enough to distract from the memory of pain. At Celebrimbor’s surprise, he says, “Rosie used to pinch the skin on the back of my hand when she thought I might be about to lose myself.”

“Thank goodness for Rosie,” Celebrimbor says, trying desperately to remember who that is. It had seemed to him there were not a great many women in Frodo’s stories, so it should not be so difficult, but his mind doesn’t seem to be working at the moment.

“I knew I liked her,” Finrod agrees, and then after a moment, “Tyelpe – when you say that nothing happened – what kind of nothing, exactly?”

“I let him kiss me,” Celebrimbor answers grimly, and stops, closing his eyes and trying not to imagine how good it had felt, how right. Until it hadn’t. “I should not have, apparently. It was too much for my delicate disposition. It cannot have taken more than ninety seconds for me to flash back.”

“Please stop berating yourself,” Frodo says. “Unless this is the way you think of us when we are triggered with entirely reasonable cause, in which case I suppose it’s best for us to know that.”

“No!” Celebrimbor says, and drops his face into his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m not thinking clearly. You’re right; there should be no shame in this.”

“That is a mean trick, Frodo,” Finrod says admiringly. “Good job.” He moves away from the door, and at Celebrimbor’s glance, says, “He’s gone. Went towards the sitting room. He won’t bother you tonight.” He steps around to settle into one of the chairs by the window, and then asks, “Was the kiss the mistake?”

“Finrod,” Frodo says, with an air of disapproval.

“I’m just curious,” Finrod says. “That wasn’t the first thing that occurred to me when he said mistake; you can’t tell me it was the first thing that occurred to you, either.”

“Kissing is never the first thing that occurs to me,” Frodo says, with no small measure of exasperation.

“Wait,” Celebrimbor says, catching up. “Who said he made a mistake?”

“Annatar did,” Frodo answers.

“He didn’t say much,” Finrod puts in, “just that you needed help and it couldn’t be him, and then that he made a mistake. And he said please,” he adds as an afterthought.

“He also said it was memories,” Frodo adds.

“Oh, he did,” Finrod acknowledges. “I was distracted by the way he was holding himself. He was very tense.”

“Shush, Finrod,” Frodo says. “Celebrimbor doesn’t need to worry about Annatar.”

“If I don’t, who will?” Celebrimbor says.

“He is not your responsibility right now,” Frodo says, a touch sharply.

“He is always going to be my responsibility,” Celebrimbor returns in kind, “from now until the end of the world.”

“Allow me to amend my statement,” Frodo says. “His feelings are not your responsibility.”

“He hardly even knows what feelings are,” Celebrimbor bites back. “He – there are so many things he doesn’t know, or doesn’t understand; he keeps asking me things that have never occurred to me to tell someone. He asked me questions about breathing properly. He didn’t know how to use the privy!”

Frodo looks as if he is fighting the urge to laugh, but it’s probably hysteria and not humor. “You are not the only person in the house who has experience with embodiment,” he says firmly. “If Annatar has questions about flatulence or gets the hiccups or needs help with the concept of socks, I am certain someone else will be delighted to explain it to him.”

Oh. No, he definitely thinks it’s funny.

“Let me try this again. Finrod,” Celebrimbor says, turning to his cousin.

“Hey,” Frodo objects.

“You are not an entirely informed audience, since you are not much for kissing,” Celebrimbor says to Frodo, as tactfully as he can. “Finrod, at the moment, Annatar is feeling that he has made the terrible mistake of setting one hand on my chest while he kissed me. How reasonable does this seem to you?”

“I mean,” Finrod says uncomfortably. “He killed you, so.”

“I am not asking how reasonable it is for me to be panicking,” Celebrimbor says, although as he says it, he notes that the worst of the panic has actually faded, its memory just barely coloring him, a refracted afterimage of light. “I am asking how reasonable it is for my lover, who is newly Incarnate, to feel that he has done something horrifically wrong and worthy of being expelled from my presence when the sin in question was –” He needs to be clear. He stands, takes two long strides to stand in front of Finrod, and sets a slightly cupped palm over Finrod’s heart, just as Annatar had with him. The lightest pressure; clearly, in retrospect, a gesture of treasuring, although – certainly it had felt like being treasured too, in a very different way, when Annatar’s hand had been inside of him –

Fuck. His breath releases in an upsetting sort of whine, and Finrod knocks his arm away on the way to leaping to his feet and tugging Celebrimbor into an embrace.

“But you’re right,” Celebrimbor whispers. “He killed me, he killed me, he tortured me, I don’t know what I’m doing, why did I think I could do this? He killed you – what right did I have?”

“Tyelpe,” Finrod says, “We have you. Frodo and I have you; and we are not upset with you. I will not pretend to understand your choices, but I am not angry with you about them, and they do not make me love you any less. Do you hear me? You are safe, here and now. Maedhros and Maglor and their brothers and father are here, and Frodo and I are here, and you are safe. Your body is safe.”

“I wasn’t afraid of him,” Celebrimbor says weakly. “Just – I remembered. And it hurt, and he saw, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t –”

“Ósanwë?” Finrod asks, and when Celebrimbor nods, “Well. That may have been ill-advised. Is it bad that I’m a little bit glad? I mean, that means he was partially so shaken because he saw what he did to you, and I think if we follow the assumption that he is genuine in his motivations for the moment, that can only be a good thing.”

Frodo makes a face as if he isn’t sure he agrees, but doesn’t say anything.

“But – I don’t want him to be afraid to touch me,” Celebrimbor gasps, vision blurring with tears again. “Just – oh, I should go to him – just to make sure he knows – let me go tell him, it wasn’t a mistake, he didn’t make a mistake –”

“I am not going to let you go to him,” Finrod says, with a firmness that reminds Celebrimbor with an odd and thundering intensity of Finwë – his great-grandfather, Finrod’s grandfather. “If you need someone to check on him, and make sure he isn’t thinking of doing something stupid, and he knows where to look if he needs help – I can do that.”

Celebrimbor can’t answer. Finrod and Frodo exchange glances, mutually guide him back to the bed, and then Finrod disappears out the door before he can think.

“Fuck,” Celebrimbor says, and levers himself down onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. “Fuck,” he says again; the pillow smells like Annatar, this Annatar, the newly embodied one who smells like confusion and hope and not even a little bit like iron or blood. He growls, throws the pillow off of the bed and onto the floor, and then throws himself off of the bed quickly enough that the mattress squeaks and bounces behind him. He sits on the floor with his back to the bed, pulls his knees to his chest, crosses his arms around them, and looks at Frodo. Frodo looks back, his face still and open, as if none of this is even the slightest bit surprising, which Celebrimbor supposes is fair.

“Who is Rosie?” Celebrimbor asks.

“Oh! Rosie Cotton – Rosie Gamgee, I should say,” Frodo says. “I’m sorry, I have such an unfair advantage on remembering all the names of your friends and family.”

“Ha!” Celebrimbor says, because it’s true – if he had grown up with a shelf full of books about Frodo’s friends and family and journeys, he would more easily remember them. “I had not thought of it that way. Thank you, my friend. You always know what to say to help me feel better.” He swallows. “Tell me about Rosie.”

Frodo tilts his head, considering, and natters on for a bit, clearly understanding precisely what is called for at the moment. Celebrimbor listens as much as he can, between the flares of memory, between the fire and the chisels and the feeling of being a specimen, and eventually finds a train of thought that distracts him enough to keep following it even when his vision goes dark.

He has wondered, sometimes, if Frodo’s avowed disinterest in kissing might be a result of having been interested in kissing the wrong sort of person, but he always thinks better of it when he hears Frodo talking about his friends.

Frodo had loved Rosie, his best friend’s wife, and loves her still, although he will never see her again. Frodo loves Sam with everything that he was and everything that he is, and there is longing in that love, sometimes, but it is not the kind of longing that Celebrimbor had once taught Annatar to recognize, the desire to be one with another person and to know them in every way.

Frodo loves Olórin, who is as old as the Music and just as unknowable, and Elrond, who sent him to his death, as some would tell it. Frodo, whose people have never had any use for monarchs, loves Beren’s descendent as his King; Frodo loves his eccentric uncle like a father; Frodo loves Celebrimbor.

Frodo loves Celebrimbor, whose craft was used to strip away his joy and his spirit until he was too wounded for the world.

Frodo has never been afraid to love unconventionally, or to love in ways that might be misunderstood.

“She insisted that the baby would not come until she was ready for it,” Frodo is saying, with a sort of fond wistfulness.

“That is not how it works,” says Finrod, who has returned sometime when Celebrimbor was not inhabiting his senses. “Ask Nerdanel!”

“It worked with little Elanor, or at least it seemed to,” Frodo says, “but although I know it is not mine to say, I still feel that she really should not have been so stubborn about it! Rosie herself was a twin, you know; she and her brother Jolly were born nearly a month before Ms Donnamira had told. I was frightfully worried that I was going to have to do the delivery myself. That would never have happened, of course, I can look back and see that – it was her first, after all, and the babe did not come quickly, not to mention that those yells would have summoned every midwife from Oatbarton to Sam Ford.”

“Elanor,” Celebrimbor says, and they both look at him in some surprise; he wonders how long he has been gone. “Like the flower?”

“Just so!” Frodo says, beaming.

“What a lovely name,” Celebrimbor says.

“Thank you!” Frodo says, and laughs. “It was my idea. I think I named most of Sam’s children, actually.”

“How many did he have?” Finrod asks.

“Oh, only Elanorellë when I left,” Frodo says, “but I left them a good passel of names, and I’m sure there are – well, has it been three years yet? I think Rosie was almost ready to announce when I left, she did an awful lot of hinting but the Cottons thought it was bad luck to come out and say it too soon. I thought about asking Sam, because if they were expecting I can only imagine he would have wanted me to know before I sailed. But it seemed unkind; he wouldn’t have been able to deny me, and I hated to put him in that position. Still, I rather think it was going to be my namesake. So by now there is probably a little Fro running around, and if I know Sam and Rosie there are one or two more to boot. Or three or four, if she is prone to twins!” He looks downright cheerful at the thought. Celebrimbor finds, somewhat to his surprise, that he is cheered by it too. The idea of a little Frodo back in the Shire, tearing through Bag End, leaving crumb-trails and sowing mischief.

“I feel as if we should raise our cups to the families we choose,” Finrod says, “but I haven’t poured the wine yet. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to ask if it is a good idea, tonight.”

“Oh, it probably isn’t,” Celebrimbor says, and reaches over to snag the bottle from where it sits at Finrod’s side. He opens it with a flick of his thumb and pours a glass for himself, then hands it to Frodo with brows up.

“I… do not think so, tonight,” Frodo says.

“I really don’t think he’s going to kill us all,” Celebrimbor says. “Setting aside all evidence to the contrary.”

“I don’t either, for what it’s worth,” Finrod says. “But then of course, I couldn’t see treachery even if it was tap-dancing for me.”

“It’s not because I think if I drink a glass of wine that we will all be murdered in our sleep,” Frodo says, clearly amused.

“We know,” Finrod says, apologetic, setting a hand on Frodo’s knee.

“It does smell quite fine,” Frodo says. “Well. I think we have found I can manage a small glass, yes?”

Finrod and Celebrimbor are both prone to weepiness when they drink, a fact that has never seemed to bother Frodo even when he stays dry-eyed and mostly sober. This time, however, seems as if it may be different.

“I really did think that you and Amarië had made love that night,” Celebrimbor says.

“We were not chaste, Tyelpe,” Finrod says, “but we were at least careful enough not to risk scandal.”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Well, after Amarië, it would have been quite a while before you had a chance,” he says, aware that this is not a tactful thing to point out. Finrod snorts.

“You Fëanorians have the strangest ideas about the Helcaraxë,” he says. “It is true that I did not have a bed-partner, at the time, but I could have, and there were plenty who did keep each other warm. It wasn’t as if there was any choice you could make that would make you safer from the hunger of the ice.”

“I was partially thinking of the Helcaraxë,” Celebrimbor admits, “but I was partially thinking about the fact that you were traveling with Artanis, and you told me some time later that she rarely let you out of her sight.”

“Mm, fair,” Finrod says.

“That’s Galadriel?” Frodo puts in. “Do I have that right?”

“Mm-hm,” Finrod says. “It’s so weird that you know my little sister, by the way; Middle-Earth is not that small.” He shakes his head. “But I guess she did always make an impression. Tyelpe, were you ever there when Fëanáro asked for a strand of her hair?”

“Ugh. Once,” Celebrimbor says. “Did he ever ask for yours?”

“Nope,” Finrod says. “And I would have given him one, if it would have gotten him to leave her alone. It was weird.”

“He was always weird about light,” Celebrimbor offers, slightly apologetically.

“Do you know,” Frodo says, “she gave three strands to my friend Gimli, when we came through Lothlorien. Sam and Merry and Pippin didn’t understand, and I’m quite sure Gimli didn’t know the history. I don’t know if Boromir did. But of course Legolas and Strider and I did.”

“That is glorious,” Finrod says. “And I am torn between begging you never to tell Fëanáro that story, and insisting that we march out right this minute to find him and tell him, because he would hate that so much.”

“He would,” Celebrimbor murmurs. “Let’s not. He would probably set out to find Artanis right away and demand an explanation.”

“Okay,” Finrod says. “New plan. If Fëanáro shows any signs of making trouble with my father or Eärendil, Frodo, we are going to deploy you to tell him about Gimli right away.”

“Do we think that's terribly likely?” Frodo asks.

“Eh,” Celebrimbor says. “Nnnn… ooooo?”

Finrod pours another drink. Celebrimbor is about fifty percent sure that his stony expression is performative. Possibly forty percent.

“So,” Frodo says, “what was Lady Galadriel like when she was young?”

“An absolute pain in the ass,” Finrod says, at the same time as Celebrimbor says, “Incredible,” in a tone of voice some might call worshipful. Finrod laughs.

“No, it's true, she was always very intense and very true and very good at seeing into people's hearts,” he says. “But I think you knew her more in her element than we, Frodo. She was always becoming, that was very clear. But we didn't live to see what she became.”

“I did not know her for long,” Frodo says. “But she seemed very sad, to me.”

“I have heard that Nenya was a heavy burden,” Celebrimbor says. “I cannot regret it. It belonged with her, and of my original Bearers, she alone kept it for all those long Ages, so I know I chose well. But… it wears on a soul, to be all that stands between the darkness and the light for so long.”

Frodo raises a brow and drinks to that, draining his glass. Celebrimbor winces.

“She was my baby sister. I knew her in the Treelight, and then in the ice, and then in war,” Finrod says plainly. “And now I know her hardly at all, but I do love her still.”

“She kept me company on the ship over,” Frodo says. “Gandalf was oddly quiet, and Bilbo slept most of the way, and Elrond was terribly sad. Well – she was too, I know. But I think she needed a task, a distraction.”

“You, Frodo Baggins, do yourself too little credit,” Finrod says. “What she needed was a friend, and I thank you for being that for her. She has been held above for so long, among my people; I am sure she feels as we do, that it is comforting to be treated as a person rather than a legend.”

Frodo blushes. “Perhaps the truth is something between,” he says. “Certainly she and Elrond both seemed to feel awkward with one another. It took me a while to articulate why, but I think that I figured it out.”

“What was it?” Celebrimbor asks.

“Oh, well, I think it was because it is hard to be excited for a reunion and grieved for a parting at the same time,” Frodo says, “and all the harder when there is someone else there feeling the same things who might… judge you, I suppose, for feeling too much of one thing while they feel the other.”

“You are a hobbit-philosopher,” Finrod says staunchly, offering the last of the wine to Celebrimbor and then pouring it for himself when Celebrimbor demurs. “You are always able to articulate these matters of… things. So well.”

Frodo pats him on the knee.

“Tyelpe,” Finrod says, and Celebrimbor senses that he has veered into intoxication rather sharply. “Is it the right thing, that we are distracting you from your troubles? I feel as if we might perhaps… should… talk about him. You know. Him, Annatar.”

“Yes, thank you, Findaráto, we know who you mean,” Celebrimbor says dryly.

“I get the sense he is going to be here quite a lot, unless you send him away,” Finrod says. “So if you want to talk – we might take advantage of him. Not being here.”

“Oh, he’ll leave the room any time Celebrimbor asks,” Frodo says, in the sweet tone of voice of a person who will ensure that what they are saying is true by any means necessary. Oddly, Celebrimbor thinks that even if Annatar did hesitate to leave him, Frodo’s glare really would be an effective tool to that end.

“But it’s true, I might not ask very often,” Celebrimbor concedes. “I don’t like being away from him. Even now, when it is quite undeniably what I needed.”

“Quite,” Finrod says firmly. “Nevertheless. The offer stands. If you would like to be distracted, say the word; if you would like to talk about it – we are here for you, Tyelperinquar.”

“And I thank you for it,” Celebrimbor says gently. “I… do not know what I want right now, in truth. I don’t particularly want to think about the particular memories that set me off tonight, but you are not wrong that it is a good time to talk with both of you about what this means to me.”

“We were there,” Frodo says quietly. “When you spoke to him, when he was dead. We have helped you in your grief when you believed he was lost to you indefinitely.”

But you have not asked me about my visions for the world, Celebrimbor does not say. You have not questioned the power I am wielding over him. You have not asked what I intend to do with the surrender he has offered.

“You were, and you have,” he says instead, quietly.

“I am glad to see that grief undone,” Frodo says. “But I think now there is a different kind of grieving that you must do. For your past self, and his, and what might have been.”

“Must I?” Celebrimbor says, before he can think better of it.

“No, I suppose not,” Frodo concedes, much more quickly than Celebrimbor would have expected. “I think I would, if I were you. But only you can say what you need.”

“For tonight,” Celebrimbor says, “I need only you, my friends. But then tomorrow –” He stops, and sighs. “We should talk about tomorrow.”

“What about it?” Finrod asks warily. “What are we expecting tomorrow to bring? If there is something important happening, you might have mentioned it sooner; I could have poured for myself with a lighter hand.”

“No, nothing like that,” Celebrimbor says. “But I know I've put you in an impossible situation. I would not feel abandoned if you decided to go home.”

“I do not want to go home,” Finrod says, with the careful and intense articulation of the drunk, “and if you tell me again that I can, I am going to start wondering if you want me to go home. Are we going to talk about Annatar, or not?”

“Nice,” Frodo murmurs, and they turn to high-five one another, because they are terrible.

“I don't know if I should talk about Annatar,” Celebrimbor says. “I'm not sure what I would say.”

“Well, it seems like maybe it would be a good idea for you to find out,” Finrod says, a little bit tartly, which Celebrimbor supposes he deserves.

Celebrimbor sets his face in his hands for a moment, and the task seems more manageable and less as if he might fly apart and flee back to Mandos if he says the wrong thing, so he peeks out between his fingers and there, of course, are his friends, steady and patient, and he says weakly, “He is so gentle. He was many things, before, but never that.”

Frodo makes a sound of encouragement. Celebrimbor feels that possibly he should not do that, but he cannot help it; he is encouraged, and continues.

“There were moments today when I thought I could almost… forget,” he admits. “But I don't think I can. He is still himself, and –” He takes down his hands to look at Frodo, to be sure he can stop if Frodo’s Shadows overtake him, and says apologetically, “When last I saw him, he had me captive for… I don't even know how long it was. But it was not a matter of hours.” Frodo grimaces, but his eyes are clear and present. “I wonder if the histories say,” he says. “I have not read them. I know you understand.” They have talked, before, about how it feels for your greatest failure to be sung across the Realms like a victory.

“I don't think you should forget,” Finrod says.

“Oh no, I certainly shouldn't,” Celebrimbor agrees. “But it would have been nice to, just for a moment. While he was kissing me.” Finrod looks as if he might disagree, but he doesn't need to agree.

“There are so many parts to what you feel about him,” Frodo says. “It is not just one thing to forget. You hate that you did not see him for what he was, before, and you hate that he knew you so well and manipulated you, but I know you also hate the feeling that you were not enough for him. I think there is something very powerful for you in the feeling that he has chosen you, this time, above everything else.” He gives a sad little smile. “I know it is hard to believe it is real. But I do think I believe the One would not have sent him back thus if his heart was not truly changed.”

“The problem,” Celebrimbor says, “is that there is no small part of me that whispers that Annatar, diminished as he was, could have found a way to come back without the One's interference. What evidence do we have, really, that that is what happened? A new shape? Is there no possibility in your minds that he might have crafted that himself?”

“Not in a day,” Frodo says.

“But perhaps in the week prior,” Finrod acknowledges grimly. “We did make you give him that week. And we do not know how Time works, in the Void.”

“Oh,” Frodo says, and goes to take another sip of wine, but the glass is empty. His brow furrows. “I,” he says, and then huffs with irritation. “I had not honestly considered that. We heard Manwë.”

“And surely Sauron the Deceiver could not deceive even them,” Finrod says, in a voice that is lightly cruel with its mocking. Frodo’s will collapses, his face folding into a quiet misery, and Finrod reaches out at once in apology.

“No,” Frodo says, “you're right; of course you are. We want very badly to believe, but we cannot be sure. In honesty, I do not think this, but there was a voice in my head just now that said, You cannot pretend to understand what Celebrimbor wrought, and how could I know if there might have been aught in the looking-glass for a Power like Sauron to use to his advantage?”

“I would not,” Celebrimbor says darkly.

“Not intentionally, cousin,” Finrod says gently.

“But no,” Frodo says, “I am sorry – stop. Please. This is what the Shadow wants. I do not know what to be certain of, but I refuse to distrust you. You are my dearest friends, and I know you, and – what I said just now – I recognize it. That was the voice of the Ring. Its echo on my spirit.”

“I thought he removed the curse,” Finrod says.

“He did, and that was real,” Frodo answers firmly. “But – when you throw yourself for years against a wall of hatred and poison in your mind, it leaves wounds that last even after the wall is gone. My mind was shaped by the Ring; it still knows those pathways well. Please, for the sake of all that is good in all of the worlds, I ask you to cast out the specter of doubt between us. It is as you said earlier, Finrod. We may not wholly understand one another – what two thinking beings can? But we are together in this, or the Shadows have already won.”

“Yes,” Finrod says. “I am sorry, you are right.”

Celebrimbor nods, because he recognizes it, too. That seed of doubt, of self-doubt, is Shadow as deep and certain as any he has known; he imagines that seed, and holds it in his palm, and crushes it.

“So, I have chosen to believe that he is earnest,” Frodo says. “That does not mean that he is good, or that he is not dangerous, or that we should not check in with one another often, but I think to believe otherwise would be to give in to Darkness, and I do not choose to do so.” He settles that unsettling gray gaze on Celebrimbor. “For you – for all of us, but especially for you – this does not mean that you must discard your fear, or deny your memories. Do not berate yourself for not knowing how to feel, Tyelperinquar. Do not try to choose how to feel and ignore things that do not match your paradigm. But most especially: I think that you must not pretend not to love him, even to yourself.”

Celebrimbor loved Annatar when Annatar’s fingers pressed in past the flesh and viscera, when Annatar’s hand pushing in meant other things were pushed out. There is no point pretending he does not love him now. He nods.

“But,” Frodo says, “and you will have to forgive me if this is my difference talking, but – I think we know between us that you can love a man, deeply and truly and purely, without wanting to make love with him. Are you sure, Celebrimbor, that having that sort of intimacy with him is a good idea, so soon?”

Celebrimbor takes this question and turns it over in his hands until he understands the contours of it.

“No,” he says. “I am not sure. I can even go so far as to say, I suspect it is unwise of me to even try to pursue that way of being together. But at the same time – it is good for me, I think, to feel his body against mine in something other than violence. And –” He is back to the beginning. “He is so gentle. If nothing else reminds me of how different he is, that would be enough all on its own.”

Frodo sits back, but instead of disappointment, he looks satisfied. “Good,” he says. “Those seem like sound reasons. I am content.”

“Thank you,” Celebrimbor says gravely.

“You are both extremely bizarre,” Finrod says, “and I am inordinately fond of you. And I am drunk.”

“Go to sleep, Findaráto,” Celebrimbor says. “I am soothed.”

Finrod and Frodo exchange glances, and Finrod climbs to his feet and then pulls them up as well, so that he can embrace them. Celebrimbor grumbles at being pulled up, but it is for show.

Finrod’s hugs are very good.

“I am going to bed,” Finrod’s voice says from just behind his ear. “But I am just over here. Do not hesitate to fetch me, if I can be a comfort to you, cousin; I love you very much. In fact, I don't know what the One made me for but I am fairly sure being your friend is quite near the top of the list.” He withdraws slowly, possibly embarrassed to have said something too honest. “That goes for you, too, Master Baggins,” he says, with the form of address that always flusters Frodo adorably. This time, Frodo gives Finrod the look that says ‘I know exactly what you are doing’.

“Love you too, Findaráto,” Frodo says, and bundles a very slightly swaying Finrod to the door. When he is gone, he turns back to Celebrimbor assessingly. “All right,” he says. “Is there anything more that we need, before we two try for sleep?”

Celebrimbor looks at him, slightly discombobulated. Somehow, in the past few minutes, he had gotten the sense that Finrod was going away and Frodo was staying – but even as he thinks that, he realizes how absurd it is. It had been late by any standards by the time Celebrimbor and Annatar had retired, and they are all exhausted from the road, and the encounter with Manwë, and – well, Celebrimbor only has the one bed, and Frodo is – they are very dear to each other, but even in his darkest days at home, Frodo had slept in a guest room, or –

“I don’t – know,” Celebrimbor says, with some difficulty. “I think I – it would be safe? For you to go.”

Frodo’s expression is so full and so kind and so clearly seeing him that it almost breaks him open.

“No, no,” he says. “That isn’t what I meant. I am not going anywhere, except a brief foray back to my own room for nightclothes. If you’d like, I can drag my own mattress in, and sleep on the floor; I am entirely willing to do that if you think it would be difficult to sleep next to someone right now. I will not be hurt.”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says, and then without even a shudder as herald, he is crying again, sobs unearthing themselves from deep inside of him. He hides his face in his arms and pulls his knees in close to his chest. “No, please,” he manages, gasping it out, “please stay, please stay with me, please,” and Frodo stands beside him and moves Tyelpe’s arms, gently, until he is crying into Frodo’s shirt instead, and he stays there for a long time.

“There,” Frodo says eventually, obviously feeling something of the way that Celebrimbor’s body is too tired to cry any longer. “I think you have needed that for a very long time.”

“You’re probably right,” Celebrimbor says weakly. He wipes his face on his sleeve and sits up, dimming the lamps to their more typical evening setting, a warm orange glow like a campfire without the flicker. “You – ah – you were going to get your nightclothes…”

“I thought it might be better not to do that until after we were done crying,” Frodo says without rebuke.

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says. “Right. Or, ah. You could wear one of my night-shirts; I’m more likely to be able to find another one to fit me, if I run out before we do laundry next?”

Frodo assesses him. “Did you want me to bring my mattress in?” he asks.

“No,” Celebrimbor says. “The bed is plenty big enough for two. If you don’t mind.”

“Not in the slightest,” Frodo says. “In that case, yes, I will take one of your sleep-shirts; it will serve as a gown for me, and then I don’t have to go out and risk having someone ask questions.”

“No questions,” Celebrimbor murmurs in agreement, and pulls himself up to his feet, stepping over to his travel bag to fetch two clean sleep-shirts, one for himself and one for Frodo. He chooses the softest shirts he has, one his usual from the spring, when it was cold in the mornings even in the lowlands, and one nearly new but finer than anything he'd worn in Middle-Earth. They change in silence and then Celebrimbor picks up the pillow that smells like Annatar from the floor, considering which of them will be worse affected by it. Frodo probably doesn't know Annatar’s smell the way he does, but it still seems discourteous.

“It’s all right,” Frodo says. “I don’t need a pillow.”

“We can share, if you don’t mind snuggling,” Celebrimbor says, a little embarrassed to be so transparent.

“I adore snuggling,” Frodo says, “and it has been quite a while since I have had a chance. Although I have not done very much snuggling with Big People since the early days of the Quest.” He extinguishes the lamps, clambers up onto the bed, and then hesitates. “May I hold you? I know my proportions might suggest it makes more sense the other way, but I don’t need the comfort right now the way that you do.”

Celebrimbor doesn’t dare to speak, because he is too tired to start crying again, but he nods and turns his body away from Frodo, and Frodo curls up at his back. He is indeed too small to wrap an arm around Celebrimbor’s waist or chest, but he does set his small, warm hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder, and his breath on the back of Celebrimbor’s head is nothing like Annatar’s might be, so there is no shade of memory in it.

“I am here,” Frodo says quietly against his neck, and Celebrimbor shivers and tries not to think about I surrender, and tries to let himself fall back out of this strange, unbelievable day and find some measure of peace. But his mind keeps whirling, slower now but no better for it, sick and dizzy. He sees his father's face, the raw, fierce joy in it as they had leapt into one another's arms, and he sees the tall, ominous walls of Mandos, and –

He sees Annatar – Annatar in Ost-in-Edhil, the first time Celebrimbor had wanted him. He was naked from the waist up, lying back in a pool of clear water in the gardens, his coppery hair spread out like a wavering halo, and the ripples echoing across the surface of the water. His eyes were closed; his face was peaceful. The vulnerability of Annatar at rest, he remembers thinking, surely was a gift unto itself.

What a fool he had been.

The blanket atop them is thick enough to hold in their body heat, and Frodo’s breath is quiet and smooth, but Celebrimbor does not think he is asleep yet. He tries to keep his own breaths even. He tries not to hate himself for the choices he had made millennia ago.

It hadn't felt like a choice, wanting Annatar. Loving him.

“Tyelperinquar,” Frodo whispers behind him, the Quenya name he only uses when he is cross or particularly tender. “Here – turn around.”

Celebrimbor obeys. There is no resistance in him. Frodo's eyes glint in the dim, very close.

“What do you need?” Frodo asks.

“He,” Celebrimbor starts, his voice too rough for whispering. “He brought me my family. We didn't even talk about… He didn't have to do that.”

“Yes,” Frodo says.

“He hurt me. He hurt me so badly, and for so long. Not just the torture, I – Frodo, he left me. He left me alone. When he realized that I wasn't going to be his in the way that he wanted – he just left. He didn't even say goodbye.”

Frodo swallows hard, and his eyes flash and go suddenly glassy.

“No,” Celebrimbor says desperately, desolately, grabbing at his shoulder, trying to anchor him, “no, I'm sorry, Frodo, I –”

“It's all right,” Frodo says, blinking it off just as quickly as it had begun. “Just a flash, this time, and it wasn't Shadowed, or… I suppose it was, but not the way they usually are. I saw your city. Your room. He was there. He – he watched you sleep. He touched your hair, and your lips. He was sad to leave you. He knew it would never be the same. And you had been happy, once.”

Hearing this from Frodo is almost unbearable, but it also helps. He does not think that Annatar will tell him these things, or perhaps not for a long time. These are things that make it true, that make the Annatar of the past a person, a person who had tried to – who had wanted to love him – who had loved him, badly, messily, accidentally, unhappily, but who had loved him with fire and loved him with anguish and loved him, loved him, loved him –

Annatar has not, so far, seemed prone to showing Celebrimbor anything that will make that version of him sympathetic.

“I am so afraid, Frodo,” Celebrimbor whispers. “I am so afraid of making the mistakes of my past life all over again.”

“I am not afraid of that,” Frodo says. “You didn’t have your family, then.”

“Trusting my family was one of those mistakes.”

“You didn’t have me,” Frodo says, stubbornly. “And loving Finrod, I think, was never a mistake. We can do this, Celebrimbor. If we are wrong – we will be wrong together. We will not be alone.”

“He could kill you,” Celebrimbor whispers.

“He could,” Frodo says. “But if he did, Gandalf would be very upset. And I think Bilbo would march into Mandos to have words with Námo.”

There is a silence between them.

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says, “oh, he would.” And then they are both laughing, and Celebrimbor lets himself set his face in the crook of Frodo’s neck. Frodo is warm and quivering as he chuckles, and there is something so comforting about being so close to a body that does not want anything from him that he is not able to give.

“I know you are going to yell at me for saying this,” Celebrimbor murmurs.

“You could just not say it,” Frodo says, exasperated.

“I could not,” Celebrimbor says. “I just – I think you know this, but I want to warn you, I do not think I am going to have the most restful night. If you decide to go back to your room – I will be all right. Truly.”

Frodo pulls back. The look on his face is familiar, the fond exasperation that Celebrimbor expected, but it is also sad.

“I used to have nightmares, back home,” Frodo says, and it sounds like the beginning of a story, but he pauses there and does not go on.

After a moment, Celebrimbor says, “Yes?”

“Sorry,” Frodo says, his voice odd. “Back at Bag End, I mean.”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says.

“Sorry,” Frodo says again. “It's just, I haven't – it's been a long time since I called it home.” He shakes his head as if dispelling the thought. “Never mind. What I was saying is, I used to have nightmares – terrible ones. I would wake screaming and thrashing, and… I don't remember much of it, honestly. It was always a bit of a blur, even the next morning. But Sam would come and bring me back to his bed, and we'd bundle in next to each other, because... that was always how it was, you know, on the road.

“It shouldn’t have helped, to be like things were on the road. On the Quest, I mean. Now I think about it and wonder why it helped. We weren’t safe. We weren’t happy. But we were together, and I suppose that must have been enough, for what was happening in my mind.

“When he and Rosie were married, I went away at first, just to give them some time. I stayed with our friend Merry, and I thought I would just wander around Buckland, places I had rambled when I was growing up, and – Merry wasn’t with me all through it, you know; we parted at Tol Brandir. But he was there on the way back, so he knew about the nightmares. I don’t know if Sam told him or if he just knew, but Merry held me too, when I was disturbed.

“I thought it would be two or three months, at least, but at the end of the second week after the wedding, Sam rode up to Brandy Hall on a pony – which was very much not his way – and brought me back…” He takes a deep breath, and finishes, “back home,” with a mixed wryness and reverence that makes Celebrimbor’s chest ache.

“I teased him about it on the way,” Frodo continues, “and he didn't take kindly to it. I mean, I teased him about coming to get me when he was a newlywed, and... Just because I'm not that way doesn't mean I don't know that other people are, you know? I knew that it was strange, or at least that people would think that it was strange. People had never understood Sam and I, and I had thought this was his chance to set the record straight, as it were. But it turned out he wasn’t particularly interested in that.”

“And?” Celebrimbor prompts, when it becomes clear that Frodo has trailed off again.

“Well, so we just settled back in, as if everything was... but Rosie was there. And... She's very wise, Rosie. We don't think of hobbits as being wise very much –”

“Speak for yourself,” Celebrimbor says dryly.

“Well, all right, flatter me if you like, but you only know Bilbo and I,” Frodo says, bemused. “It’s not exactly a representative sample, knowing the two of us who live in Aman, is it? We're a very homey people, hobbits, by and large. We don't look much outside our borders, or even much outside ourselves. But Rosie – I suppose it is fair to say that Rosie understood that there were things that she didn't understand.”

“You were saying earlier,” Celebrimbor says, “that when you were about to become lost, she would pinch the back of your hand. That does seem to me like the sort of thing that requires a certain kind of wisdom.”

“It took being able to look outside of herself,” Frodo agrees. “When I came back, I still had nightmares sometimes, but I tried to quiet myself. I didn't want to disturb Rosie, to take Sam away from her. I knew that if Sam heard me cry out, that he would come to me, and I thought he might even curl up with me in my own bed. He felt responsible for me; everyone had told him to look out for me, you know –”

Celebrimbor does not think that Sam felt responsible because everyone had told him to, but this doesn't feel like the time for an interruption.

“But no, the first time it happened, it was just the same as ever. He picked me up like I was a child and bundled me into their room, and – Rosie was there, in their bed. She was in her night-clothes – of course, I mean, all of us were; it was the middle of the night. I was horribly embarrassed, and when Sam tried to set me down in the bed, I climbed right back out at once and said I couldn't possibly. But Rosie stood up, took my hands in her hands, and actually pulled me back onto the bed, and set me between them. And then she snuggled up on one side, and Sam on the other. And I had never been so safe in all my life.”

He says this last with an amazement that Celebrimbor thinks might break his heart, if he gave it half a chance. Frodo should have been safe – he should have been at peace – he should have been able to live his life among his people.

But Frodo, it transpires, is not done. Celebrimbor thinks a little bit wildly that Annatar had opened Celebrimbor’s chest, and now Frodo is opening his own.

“It doesn't have to be right now,” Frodo says, meeting his eyes. “I know Finrod was rather drunk; he might not respond well, and I haven't explained all of this to him, either. And I know that bed-sharing can be complicated for people who are not me, and – if you would rather not, I understand. But I think it could do you good sometime, to curl up between two people who love you, and to be safe like that.”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says, and it turns out that he has not spent the last of his tears, after all.

It is a little bit awkward in the morning. Celebrimbor ordinarily does not need as much sleep as a hobbit, but when he wakes, Frodo has rolled away and is sitting against the headboard, trying to read a book that Celebrimbor doesn’t recognize.

“Good morning,” Frodo says.

“Mmmph,” Celebrimbor says.

“Was this your room, growing up?” he asks.

“No,” Celebrimbor says. “I didn’t have a room of my own, in this house. When we visited, when I was too old to stay in my father’s room –” Or when his father was in a mood, he does not say. “– I used to sleep in the spare bed in Maglor’s room.”

“I think I like Maglor,” Frodo says, not looking up from the book. “Are you going to try to go back to sleep?”

Celebrimbor considers. He is exhausted, a kind of triumvirate physical, mental, and spiritual weariness that he has not felt in a very long time, and that under any other circumstances would probably drive him to visit a healer; under these circumstances, it is not surprising.

“Not right at the moment,” he says. “But I don’t know if I’m up for doing anything, either.”

“You should eat,” Frodo says, ever the hobbit.

“Mmph,” Celebrimbor says, slightly more expressively.

“I’m sure there is something available downstairs,” Frodo says.

“Poor Grandmother,” Celebrimbor says. “She expected three of us.”

“Ha!” Frodo says. “I do not think she is sorry to have been wrong.”

“Not yet,” Celebrimbor says, aware that he is in a dark mood this morning and aware that Frodo does not deserve it and also aware that there is not much of anything either of them can do about it. Except, perhaps, to eat.

Frodo closes the book and looks at Celebrimbor levelly. “I can go fetch us something, if you like? I imagine you don’t feel like going out to see everyone, just yet.”

Celebrimbor makes a face. “Perhaps I should, though. The Returned are far outnumbering those of us who have been here longer, at the moment; someone needs to make sure Annatar finds something to eat –”

“Someone who was not murdered by him can handle it,” Frodo says, a light kind of chirping pronouncement that almost makes Celebrimbor choke on his breath.

“I should see him,” he says. “Make sure he’s okay.”

“Oh, you must not have been here when Finrod brought back his report last night,” Frodo says, as if remembering that Celebrimbor was running errands in another part of the house, rather than that he was present and completely senseless to the world. “Maedhros was handling it. Finrod was very firm that everyone was doing all right. Annatar was upset, but ‘not unduly’ –” Celebrimbor snorts. “– and Maedhros was distracting him and promised not to let him stay up too late.” Frodo pauses. “Also, Annatar wanted you to know that he loves you,” he says, as if that is a simple, uncomplicated message to pass along.

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says. “I really think I should go.”

“You really, really should not,” Frodo says. “I’m sorry, Celebrimbor, but you look terrible; if you go out there, everyone will worry, and your father and his brothers are going to be all over you with questions, and I don’t think that’s going to help anyone, right now.”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says, because no, it isn’t.

Frodo slides out of the bed, setting the book on the bedside table. He is adorably rumpled, and he looks much more like a child than usual, drowning in Celebrimbor’s sleep shirt as he is. He disappears into the washroom to change back into his clothes from the previous day, but the shirt is still very damp from Celebrimbor crying all over it, and he plucks at it irritably until Celebrimbor hesitantly suggests he could go back to his own room to change.

“Ah, you’re right,” Frodo says. “Thank you. Is there anything particular you want or don’t want for breakfast?”

“Hot drink,” Celebrimbor says. “For food – nothing too heavy, please?” He hesitates, and then decides that he should be explicit about this, because even the thought is turning his stomach: “No meat.”

“Would you prefer I avoid meat, as well?” Frodo asks, completely unperturbed. Celebrimbor takes a breath and asks himself the question. The answer is unfortunately clear.

“Yes, please,” he says. “If –”

“I do not mind,” Frodo cuts him off, “or I would not have asked,” and he disappears.

He’s gone for a while, maybe as long as twenty minutes. Celebrimbor reminds himself, when the waiting becomes anxious, that Frodo is changing clothes, freshening up – possibly brushing his teeth, relieving himself – going downstairs, where there are undoubtedly a lot of ‘Big People’, as Frodo had so charmingly sleepily referred to them last night, all bustling about and getting their own meals. Avoiding Annatar, probably. Maybe reassuring people that Celebrimbor is well; if Maedhros had been managing Annatar, last night, that means that he knows – probably more than Celebrimbor would have liked him to know about the situation.

Frodo is doing things so that Celebrimbor does not have to. It is profoundly unfair, and he is grateful.

He paces. It doesn’t occur to him until after Frodo slips back into the room, looking pleased with himself and holding a tray with two plates and two mugs and also two glasses of what must be fruit juice, that he could have gotten dressed and freshened himself, in the interim.

The food looks wonderful. It’s fresh fruit and buttered toast and fried potatoes. There is a dark tea, liberally sweetened the way that Celebrimbor likes it when he’s having a particularly bad day, and the juice is some kind of berry that he vaguely remembers Carnistir and Maglor had particularly enjoyed, before – everything.

“Thank you,” Celebrimbor says, and tucks in.

Sometime after they have finished breakfast and set the meal-tray outside the door, when they have been sitting quietly together for some time, Celebrimbor looks up at his friend across the room and says, “Frodo?”

“Hmm?” Frodo asks, looking up from his embroidery. “Yes?”

“Did you have any other plans for the day?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Frodo admits. “Are you asking if you should be expecting my company indefinitely? I think the answer to that is really up to you, you know. I am here for you, whatever you might need.”

“I do know that,” Celebrimbor says. “You shouldn't feel that you have to, though. I think I'm all right now.” Frodo tilts his head, which is neither agreement nor disagreement, so Celebrimbor concedes, “You were right not to leave me alone last night. It was… it helped, having you there. But if you wanted to do something else…” He casts about for examples, and doesn’t find any; he says, “I know I'm not good company right now.”

“You're not bad company,” Frodo says, pushing his needle through the fabric again. He is not meeting Celebrimbor’s eyes – he does not seem to be avoiding it; he is simply occupied with what is in his hands. “You know I don't mind a bit of quiet now and then, and there is precious little of that to be found in this house, from what I have seen so far.”

“That's entirely fair,” Celebrimbor says.

“Did you want me to go?” Frodo asks.

“I don't think so,” Celebrimbor says. “I just don't want you to feel that you have to stay. But I suppose you probably don't want to be out and about in the house when he is walking out there, and I'm not, and the others don't really know him. Not the way that we do.”

“Hmm,” Frodo says, with an expression that suggests that he thinks that Celebrimbor is being wrong-headed about something, but doesn't want to say it directly. “I don't think it's like that for me, actually. Everything that Sauron did to me, he did from a distance. He was never embodied, or even pretending to be embodied, in the time that I knew him. I never saw him in a physical form.”

“Ah,” Celebrimbor says. “And so Annatar's body does not read as a threat to you, in the way that it might to Findaráto, or to me.”

“Yes,” Frodo says. “I don’t have any memories of him… standing behind me, say. Of a physical presence that was menacing, or that I should be afraid of. He was with me for years, from thousands of miles away, and even now… well, I don't know if he still has the powers of the mind that he had before. But if he does, he could hurt me in the way that he used to hurt me at any moment. We wouldn't have to be in the same room. We wouldn't even have to be in the same house.”

“That is not much of a reassurance,” Celebrimbor says faintly.

“I didn't intend for it to be,” Frodo says simply, knotting one color and starting on the next. “It is simply the truth. Celebrimbor: if you would like some time alone, I am comfortable leaving you; I will not feel abandoned, and neither should you. But I am content to keep you company here as long as you would like the company – or my company, in particular, I suppose I should say! If you would like to spend time with some of your family, or with Finrod, I could fetch them for you as well. I am assuming that you don't want to go out yet, to –” He hesitates.

“To see him,” Celebrimbor finishes. “No, I suppose I don't yet. I wouldn't mind talking more to my family, but I don't feel a particular need to. I have time. There's no reason to… I don't want them to think of me like this.”

“Like what?” Frodo asks, as if Celebrimbor is not rumpled and unwashed and puffy-faced from sleep and crying, as if Frodo himself had not pointed out how terrible he looks not an hour ago.

“You have seen me morose enough as it is,” Celebrimbor says. “But it will hurt them in a way that it couldn't hurt you, because you didn't know me before. You're the only one in the house who can look at me, I think, much the way that I try to look at myself, not comparing to who or what I was, but just… this is who I am now. It's not a good thing or a bad thing. It just is.”

“I think Finrod does, too,” Frodo says.

“Sometimes,” Celebrimbor concedes.

“I think I understand,” Frodo says. “Bilbo does have trouble with it sometimes. With me, I mean. He remembers what I was like as a lad, and a tween, and even in my young adulthood. We were very close, Bilbo and I.”

“I know. I could see it when you were together. Both the closeness and… the fractures in that closeness. And…” Celebrimbor pauses. This is not a tactful thing to say, and he knows that among mortals, it can be a touchy subject. “He is old, in the way of the Secondborn. I know he doesn't remember everything very clearly, and it seems to me that is especially true when it comes to you and the Ring and what happened.”

“Elrond told me about people that he has known,” Frodo says, “who have been through some sort of a great trauma, and then afterwards have separated themselves in the wake of it, sort of torn off the piece of themselves that experienced that, and put it away somewhere. And having done that, they are sometimes able to go back to what they were before. For a while, I thought he was saying that I should hope to do that myself. That I should try to… sunder myself.”

Celebrimbor is too raw to neutralize the shudder that runs through him at that idea.

“Indeed,” Frodo says quietly. “But what I came to understand was that the people who experience this often lose things they did not wish to or intend to. They lose what they were in the in-between times. Every part of them that was hurting, yes, but also every… every goodness that happened to them when they were hurting, every part of them that was on a path to healing, or that was shown kindness, or…”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says, aching. He imagines tearing out Annatar, and along with that tearing out Narvi and Ost-in-Edhil and the Three and Galadriel and Gil-galad and ithildin and the great Gates and Narvi –

“Yes,” Frodo says softly. “I don't think Bilbo did it on purpose. I don't even know if it could be rightly said to be something he did at all, but it seems to me that what has happened to Bilbo is something like that. Losing the Ring, and losing me – these were wounds that struck him so deeply that when he draws anywhere near them in his mind…”

Frodo takes a breath, and looks up at Celebrimbor. “It's like touching a hot pan,” he says, intent. “Your body will struggle to allow it. Even if you walked up to a hearth, knowing this pan is hot, and you say to yourself, I am going to touch the hot pan – your body doesn't want to.” And then Frodo says, “Oh. Oh, Tyelpe, I'm sorry. I didn't think.”

Celebrimbor isn't sure what he is doing, that is showing Frodo something here. But: he remembers how the body responds to burns. The desperate, scrabbling attempt to withdraw, the nearly mindless terror of it.

There was no getting away, of course.

“It's all right,” he says. “We trip each other up fairly often, don't we? It's never so bad, when it's you.”

“Thank you,” Frodo says. “That helps to hear. And I feel the same. It's difficult when the shadows are caused by something neutral or meaningless to me. But when it's you, it's worth it. Because I'm hearing something that you have to say, or I'm spending time with you. And I want that, and I wouldn't give that up.”

“Precisely,” Celebrimbor says. “So... are we here together for now?”

“I think we are,” Frodo says. “Did you want your embroidery as well?”

“Mmm. Maybe not quite yet. I'm still very tired.”

Frodo looks briefly hesitant, and then sets his embroidery down deliberately. “Would you like to try to go back to sleep?” he asks, and Celebrimbor sees that what he is asking, delicately, is whether Celebrimbor would like to be held again, and the answer is very definitely yes. Instead of answering out loud, which will inevitably involve his voice shaking and might set Frodo’s lip to trembling as well, Celebrimbor straightens up a bit against the headboard and then opens his arms.

This is more often a gesture that Finrod makes to Frodo, the silent offering, and Frodo does sometimes demur. This is not one of those times. Frodo bounds across the room, up onto the bed, and into Celebrimbor’s arms. He buries his face in Celebrimbor’s chest, and they wrap their arms around one another and cling for a moment.

“I am so glad that we found each other,” Frodo says, muffled against Celebrimbor’s sleep-shirt.

“Me too,” Celebrimbor says.

“And that you brought me to Finrod,” Frodo adds.

“Mm-hm.”

“I would never have thought to seek him out,” Frodo says.

“You are shy about your fame,” Celebrimbor observes.

“I read about you in books,” Frodo says, leaning back to look up at Celebrimbor’s face. “You were a character in the songs my uncle sang to me, in the summers when I visited Bag End, and on our birthday.”

“And here I am,” Celebrimbor says. “It is very odd, I must say, to think of being a children’s story.”

“Oh, it was horribly inappropriate for children,” Frodo says, tucking himself in against Celebrimbor’s right side, nudging him a little to the left to make room on the edge of the bed. “Bilbo never thought that was particularly important. He told us about trolls and dragon-fire and goblins and the fell Spiders and battle-fear. My mother chided him more than once for giving me nightmares, when I was very small, and he was always very fierce in return. He said that a child with a mind like mine was going to learn one way or another that the world was not half so neat and predictable and pretty as it was in fairy-stories, and he would rather I learn about the dangers from someone who could tell me about bravery and kindness, too.”

Celebrimbor’s throat is tight. “And I was bravery, was I?” he asks softly.

Frodo, somewhat to his surprise, laughs. “You know, I don’t think I thought much about it,” he says. “I just liked you, even when you were only a name in a story.”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says. “I like that better.”

Frodo leans his head against Celebrimbor’s ribcage and closes his eyes. Then, as if the thought, the dream of sleep has summoned it, a knock comes at the door.

They pause. Frodo looks at Celebrimbor, assessing, and calls, “Who is it?”

“It’s only me,” Finrod’s voice says. “I’m not waking you, am I?”

“No, no,” Celebrimbor says, rolling himself across the bed to slide out of it without displacing Frodo and hurriedly ransacking his travel bag. “Just a moment, I’m still a mess –”

But by the time he rises with a change of clothes, Frodo has opened the door already. He looks back at Celebrimbor a bit sheepishly. “Sorry,” Frodo says. “It’s only Finrod, though.”

“Surely I have seen worse,” Finrod agrees, closing the door behind himself. He peers at Celebrimbor for a moment, assessing. “You don’t look hung over.”

“You drank almost the entire bottle yourself,” Celebrimbor says.

“Oh,” Finrod says, looking abashed. “My apologies.”

“You seemed to need it,” Celebrimbor says.

“I ought to have saved some for this morning,” Finrod says tartly. “Your father and Tyelkormo cornered me when I came down for breakfast –”

“Oh no,” Celebrimbor says; Finrod waves a hand.

“It’s all right,” he says. “They wanted to apologize. But they seemed to think I should graciously accept that apology. And it wasn't even a good one. Would you like to guess who rescued me?”

“Maedhros?” Celebrimbor says hopefully, and then feels guilty about it for Maedhros’s sake.

“Annatar,” Finrod says. “I have no idea what to do with him, Tyelpe; if we forget about the part where he tortured all three of us and murdered two of us, I think I would be calling him magnificent right now.”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says.

“Precisely,” Finrod says, and throws himself into one of the armchairs hard enough that it rocks briefly onto its back legs.

“Well,” Celebrimbor says.

“Do not start feeling guilty,” Finrod says fiercely.

“Finrod,” Frodo says, his voice firm, “why don’t we set that topic aside until Celebrimbor is ready for it, hmm?”

“Oh cousin,” Finrod says. “I am sorry; I am entirely out of sorts, but you are right, Frodo; I will temper my energy.”

“I need to get dressed,” Celebrimbor says, and flees into the washroom. Once inside, he can hear only the tones of his friends’ voices; Frodo is soft and slightly reproachful, Finrod apologetic and still very clearly unsettled. He turns on the water to drown out even that much, and strips, and washes himself, and then stands with the water running and his eyes closed for several minutes longer than is strictly necessary, until he hears another knock at the outer door to the hallway.

There are far too many people that could be, and if it is Annatar, Celebrimbor is fairly sure they will turn him away, but if it is anyone else he can’t be sure what his friends will do, and he isn’t sure what he would do, so he dries himself and dresses as fast as he can and emerges to find – just Finrod and Frodo, Finrod in the chair and Frodo sitting on the foot of Celebrimbor’s bed.

“I heard the door?” he says, fumbling in his bag for his comb and then hurrying to the mirror to make himself slightly more presentable.

“It was Maedhros,” Frodo says. “I told him to come back in a little bit and see if you were up for more company.”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says, and pauses to consider. “I think I am. For Maedhros, at least.”

“Sorry again, Tyelpe,” Finrod says, abashed.

“Don’t worry about it,” Celebrimbor says. “It is a very strange situation, and it is wholly of my making; when the strangeness is too much for me, I have no one to blame but myself.”

“There might be one or two other people who can take some blame,” Finrod says, but his tone is light, now, teasing. “Would you like help with your hair, cousin?”

That surprises him enough that he pauses, seeking out the reflection of Finrod in the mirror. His face is open and curious.

“Would you?” he asks.

“Of course,” Finrod says. “Come over to the bed.”

“Should I go?” Frodo asks.

“Why?” Finrod asks in return.

“I’m not sure,” Frodo says honestly. “I have gotten the sense that there is a certain intimacy to hairstyling, among Elves.”

“I suppose there is,” Finrod says slowly.

“There’s no taboo with us, like there is with Dwarves,” Celebrimbor puts in, settling on the bed between Finrod’s legs. “It’s a sign of affection, some would say of family.”

“But I think Tyelpe and I both count you within that category,” Finrod says, and Frodo, who is such an odd little fellow, puts his hand on his chest and bows over it solemnly.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I feel the same. Since the day we met, I have felt a certain kinship with you – both of you.”

“Perhaps someday we can do your hair,” Celebrimbor dares to say. “Finrod and I are peculiar among Elves, you know; we both made friends among the Secondborn, so we know how to work with hair like yours.”

Frodo looks bemused. “I will not offer to return the favor,” he says, “since I have never been able to do anything with hair. Besides flower-crowns, I suppose.”

“Flower-crowns are a perfectly respectable form of the craft,” Finrod says, combing and parting Celebrimbor’s damp hair with his fingers. “Do you use anything for this, Tyelpe?”

Maedhros comes back twenty minutes later, when Finrod has nearly finished a simple and elegant styling that keeps Celebrimbor’s hair from his face but will not make him feel guilty if he musses it. Or if Celebrimbor’s uncles muss it, he supposes. Maedhros stands in the door for a moment, looking in over Frodo’s head with a sort of longing that hurts Celebrimbor’s heart.

“Come in here and give me a hug,” Celebrimbor says, and Maedhros does, awkward and careful but also firm and beautifully sincere. He touches Celebrimbor’s chin with his hand as he draws back, and smiles.

“Tyelpe,” he says. “You’re all right?”

“I’m all right,” Celebrimbor reassures him. “How is Annatar doing?”

“Fine,” Maedhros says. “He was upset last night, but it sounded like there was good reason; he said he’d touched off some bad memories.”

“He handled it very well, all in all,” Celebrimbor says. “He went at once when I asked him to go, and within three minutes he had these two at my door; I didn’t even have to ask.”

“That’s good,” Maedhros says. “Anyway, this morning he seemed – I mean, it’s odd to say normal, for him, he is not at all a normal person, but he’s not panicking, and he was the first person to help when your father and Celegorm made asses of themselves – again, I am sorry about that, Finrod –”

“Not in the slightest bit your responsibility, but thanks,” Finrod says too lightly.

“– and – if I didn’t know who he was, I would be complimenting you on your choice of partner right now, little nephew.”

“But alas,” Celebrimbor says dryly.

“Well, yeah,” Maedhros says. “So. What’s the plan?”

“I’m not sure –” Frodo begins, with the same tactful firmness he had used on Finrod before Celebrimbor’s retreat to the wash-room.

“No, it’s all right,” Celebrimbor says. Finrod pats his shoulder to signal that his hair is done; he turns his head back and forth to feel the satisfying swish of twists and braids over his shoulders, and smiles back. “Thank you, cousin. Much better than I could have done myself.” He turns back to Maedhros, and levers himself off of the bed to give his uncle a better hug. “Uncle,” he whispers, and then pulls back to hold Maedhros by the shoulders. “Thank you for taking care of him, last night,” he says, pressing his sincerity into the words. “It means a lot to me.”

“Mm,” Maedhros says. “Of course.”

“At some point I’m going to ask what very normal Incarnate things he didn’t know how to do,” Frodo says.

“Sleep,” Maedhros says. “Stop panicking, although to be fair, a lot of us are bad at that, no matter how long we’ve been around. He’s definitely still having trouble with food –”

“I thought so,” Finrod says grimly. “I was hoping I was wrong and that he’d eaten before.”

“Nah. But Mags made extra tea for him,” Maedhros says, “and I think I can pressure him into lunch.”

Celebrimbor follows the conversation around the room. Frodo looks a little bit guilty to have poked at Annatar’s Incarnate confusion, when the others all seem to be taking it very seriously; Celebrimbor catches his eye and shakes his head a little bit, hoping that Frodo can read his reassurance.

“So,” Maedhros says, “you were kissing, right? When he did whatever he did that upset you.”

“I don’t see how that’s any –” Frodo begins, but Celebrimbor cuts him off again.

“It’s all right, Frodo,” he says. “Maedhros has the right to ask; he knows I won’t answer if I don’t want to.” He’s not sure that Maedhros did know that, actually, but now he does. He takes a steadying breath and decides he does, in fact, want them to understand, at least as much as he doesn’t want to want them to understand. “We were, yes. I’m not going to apologize for that.”

“I would never ask you to,” Maedhros says, looking genuinely taken aback. “We – Tyelpe, we talked in Mandos, a lot. I’m not going to pretend I trust him, or that I can trust that his motives are as simple as he says, but there’s no question how he feels about you. I know your father doesn’t agree, but most of us are smart enough to understand that getting in the way of a love like that doesn’t work.”

“Well,” Celebrimbor says bitterly, “we will see how he feels now.”

“He loves you,” Finrod says. “And he wants to make it up to you. You must have missed that part last night; I did pass on the messages.” This last is directed, somewhat defensively, to Maedhros; Maedhros holds up his arms, not making any accusations.

“You’re worried – what?” Maedhros asks.

“That he’ll think I didn’t think this through,” Celebrimbor says. “Or that he’ll decide that he’s not good for me. It was – I should not have reacted the way I did. He made an innocent gesture, and I responded as if it was violence.”

“Did you hit him?” Maedhros asks slowly.

“No,” Celebrimbor says.

“Didn’t think so,” he says. “Did you – what, yell at him?”

Celebrimbor looks at him, befuddled. “I told him to go away,” he says.

“Oh,” Maedhros says. “Did he know why?”

Celebrimbor tries to make himself answer, and finds the words stuck in his throat.

“They were in communion,” Finrod says grimly.

“Oh,” Maedhros says. “That… explains some things, I think.” He thinks for a moment. “As far as I can tell, he’s just waiting to talk to you, and I think he’ll take your lead on where you want to go next. He did ask last night if he should leave, but he seemed very relieved when we said no.”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says, and starts feeling that ache in his throat that means he’s near tears again. “Fuck,” he says, “I don’t – I don’t want to cry about this anymore.”

“Yeah, you’re not going to feel any better until you talk to him,” Maedhros says. “So let’s do that. Where do you want it to be?”