Chapter 2: In The Shadow Of Námo's Halls

They ride down the cliffside path to Avallónë as a fresh spring wind drives the dawn mists from the shore; the ferry to Alqualondë as Arien rises proper, great sunlit columns limning the white shores with gold; up through the Pass of Calacirya as the sun reaches its zenith, and a secluded grove of trees at the foot of Túna as the sky washes aflame with the setting sun.

Elrond is smiling faintly as they both roll out their bedrolls on either side of the fire.

Celebrimbor raises an eyebrow. "Does camping like thieves within bowshot of our kin amuse you so?"

"Oh, I am laughing at my own expense," Elrond says, chuckling. "This is not the first time I have camped like a thief at the foot of Túna."

"You did?" The notion is enough to stop Celebrimbor short. "When?"

"When I first came west," Elrond says, stooping to add another branch to the fire. "I was riding for Máhanaxar to plead the case of grandfather's house, and did not wish to intrude on our cousins in the city. My subterfuge failed in the end; Findekáno and Findaráto happened upon me at dawn, and, well– the rest you know."

Elrond's voice is all lightness, but Celebrimbor knows well the rest of that particular story – Elrond had suffered much for the sake of his foster fathers and their kin, and all Fëanor's house owes Elrond a debt for it.

"I do," Celebrimbor murmurs. "And thank you."

"None of that," Elrond says amiably. "It took grandfather the better part of fifty years to stop mentioning it every other moment. It makes you sound terribly old."

It is at moments like these that Celebrimbor is reminded that he can no longer claim to be Elrond's elder by very many years. Celebrimbor had seen Elrond grow into his role as Gil-Galad's herald with the detached pride of a distant cousin; but then Annatar had come, and Eregion had fallen, and when Celebrimbor had next laid eyes on his cousin Elrond had gained the wisdom of long millennia in his gaze, and the unshakable, fiery spirit of a determined Fëanorian.

All the same, it is somewhat freeing that Celebrimbor can now speak to Elrond as an equal. It was never an easy task being the youngest of Fëanor's line, and it is a relief to be able to share that burden.

"We must be sure to break camp before dawn, then," Celebrimbor says, feeling the pull of a smile at his lips. "For fear any inquisitive cousins should happen upon us."

They share a laugh at that, and bed down on either side of the fire as the cool stars wheel above.

(:~:)

Northwest past the ruins of Formenos as Arien wheels above; onwards to the northern shores of Aman, where the air grows chill.

They are two days out of Formenos when Elrond speaks.

"Cousin," he says uneasily, "Where are the birds?"

Celebrimbor twists in the saddle to look at Elrond, surprised. He opens his mouth to reply, and stops partway through the first syllable.

He pulls his horse to a halt. Elrond draws even with him and stops, shoulder-to-shoulder.

The pine forest about them is not particularly dim or shadowed; the patches of sky overhead are a dusky grey, and the great towering pines are of a deep, almost shimmering green.

And yet, there is no birdsong.

There are no squirrels running underfoot, or animals rustling in the undergrowth; indeed there is very little undergrowth at all, only great, thick-barked trees fanning out in every direction. There is no wind, and no rain; the sky overhead remains endlessly grey, with no movement in the clouds to be seen.

Celebrimbor notes with a vague sense of disquiet that his horse's ears are pressed back, as though she is being hunted; even the mare's huffing breaths have quieted. Beside them, Elrond's horse is doing the same.

It is as though Celebrimbor, Elrond, and their horses are the only living things between the sky and the forest floor.

"Cousin?" Elrond murmurs, the whisper like a shout in the stillness.

Celebrimbor shakes his head once, grasping at words.

He had travelled these lands once before, borne swiftly southwards by one of Nienna's own horses, barefoot and clothed in the white raiment of those newly rebodied; Celebrimbor had stopped not for sleep or sustenance then until he had galloped into the courtyard of the King.

Perhaps it is because then he had been riding away from the Halls and towards the lands of the Noldor that he had not noted the strangeness of the lands about Námo's halls.

"We must be close," Celebrimbor murmurs. "I remember coming this way."

He urges his horse into an uneasy trot, hearing Elrond do the same.

"I have no love for this place," Elrond says. There is an undercurrent of quiet horror his voice. "It is like the stillness of a sickroom when a patient passes at last."

"It is only rest," Celebrimbor says, as they pass under the shadow of a great conifer. He sees Elrond fight a shiver. "It is only rest," Celebrimbor repeats, taking a slow breath. "The peace of the Eldar in Námo's halls, healing, before they return."

"Rest?" Elrond whispers. "This is no rest. There is rest in the mist before the thundering waterfalls of Imladris, with birdsong in the air and spring flowers in the grass. There is even rest in the weeping of the widow over the grave of her fallen husband. But this– this is breath trapped in its last exhale. Forever."

Celebrimbor twists sharply in the saddle to stare at his cousin.

Elrond's face is deathly pale.

Celebrimbor's breath catches in his throat. "But of course. You are Peredhel. But I had thought you chose–"

"I did," Elrond murmurs. "I chose the Eldar. I am fully Eldar, at this moment; I think I cannot afford to be Peredhel. Not here."

Celebrimbor leans out of his saddle and clasps a hand about Elrond's wrist, feeling the chill of his cousin's skin. "Perhaps you should turn back," he says, although a part of him quails at the thought of continuing alone. "You can wait for me where the birdsong begins again."

Elrond meets his gaze then, and smiles, faint and bloodless.

"Come now," Elrond says. "I am not so poor a cousin as that."

Celebrimbor tightens his fingers about Elrond's wrist briefly in a wordless expression of thanks.

They ride on in silence.

(:~:)

Námo's Halls present themselves as a forbidding wall of grey stone that casts a chasm of unforgiving shadow across the short-bladed grass before the treeline.

A short, grassy mound lies just within the shadow of the walls, and set in the side of the mound is a single iron-bound door.

And there before the door itself, standing in the weak grey sunlight before the expanse of shadow, is Eönwë, Herald of Manwë.

Celebrimbor pulls his horse to a halt and dismounts, inclining his head in greeting; beside him, Elrond does the same.

"Telperinquar Curufinwion," Eönwë speaks. "And Elrond Kanafinwion Nelyafinwion Eärendiliion. I know why you have come."

Celebrimbor swallows past his dry throat. "Is it permitted to see the prisoner?"

Eönwë turns his bright gaze upon him, and Celebrimbor grits his teeth. It is not unlike being examined by his grandfather, only that Fëanor's gaze is a blazing forge, while Eönwë's is a spear of light.

"It is permitted," Eönwë says. "But not recommended."

The door is still and dark and silent behind Eönwë. Celebrimbor finds himself staring at it; for a moment it looks horribly like the ones he designed himself to fit the cellars of the citadel of Ost-In-Edhil.

Then he blinks, and the door is once more only a door, and nothing more.

Eönwë's eyes narrow.

A swirl of dark blue sleeves in the corner of Celebrimbor's vision, and before he can do any more than blink Elrond has stepped forward and bowed graciously to Manwë's herald.

"We are thankful for your advice," Elrond says quietly. "But we are decided." He turns to Celebrimbor, and Celebrimbor sees the same fear in Elrond's eyes that clenches about his own heart.

"Cousin?" Elrond says, holding out a hand, steady despite the paleness of his skin.

Celebrimbor takes a breath, clasps Elrond's hand, and they step into the shadow of the walls together.

The air is colder here, and utterly still. Celebrimbor nods once in thanks to Elrond before releasing his hand to pull at the iron ring of the door; the hinges give way soundlessly, revealing a set of narrow stone steps leading downwards, lit by torches every few paces.

Celebrimbor descends.

Each step echoes against the stone walls like a shout. The steps to the citadel dungeons had been cut similarly; Celebrimbor had felt every one of them against his screaming spine as he fought against Annatar's grip around his wrist, his fingernails clawing thin lines of blood down his captor's silken sleeve as he writhed and struggled despite the leaden agony of his broken leg and the rasp of blood in his throat–

Firelight.

The stairs open into a plain stone chamber no more than eight paces wide, and there at its centre, lit by the flickering light of many charcoal braziers, is a single cage wrought of silvery metal etched with many runes.

And within the cage–

"Celebrimbor," a soft, smooth voice exclaims, like a wounded man utterly delighted to see a friend at his sickbed. "You have come at last."

Celebrimbor shudders. He hears rather than feels Elrond scrabble for his wrist to steady him.

Long silver hair, the shade of the harvest moon on water; golden eyes, piercing and keen like a blade of flame; lips already curving into a sharp, knowing smile. Quick-fingered hands tapering to deft wrists, and tattered robes of silken ivory.

The figure in the cage may be wavering in its outline, a mere shade of a glamour thrown on over a disembodied spirit – but it is still unmistakably Annatar, once Celebrimbor's closest friend.

–Familiar fingers brushing past Celebrimbor's cheek, turning to claws that pierce his skin as his head is thrust underwater, his choked scream bubbling past his cheeks, the cruel laughter above muffled by the churning water–

"I knew you would come," Annatar says, a wistful note to his words even as his smile widens like a wound, beautiful and terrible all at once. "I have missed you so, my dear Tyelpë."

Celebrimbor stares at those smiling golden eyes, and knows without looking that his hands have begun to shake.

Within the cage, Annatar begins to laugh.

Next up: Annatar speaks, and Celebrimbor struggles to stay afloat.

I admit I had a little too much fun writing Annatar's first words to Celebrimbor.

Thank you for the wonderful reviews! I had to cut this chapter short or the next section would have been far too long. I'm still on holiday for the next few days though so the next chapter should be coming promptly.