Disclaimer: All characters, with the exception of Arphenion, belong to Tolkien.
Rhîw, SA 739
Two dozen years have not lessened the man's fascination with the elf-king, Celebrimbor observes. True, Gil-galad is fair, but others are accounted more fair. The intensity of his eyes, however, has held more than a few in thrall. The Calaquendi have a distance in their eyes that cools the light of the Two Trees; the flame is watered in age and memory. Gil-galad's eyes, in contrast, pierce with their brightness. Advisors shift uncomfortably under his gaze, their manipulations transparent before him. Those without guile, however, feel as if they have the whole of the King's attention.
Small wonder, then, that Aldarion returns to Forlond, though his voyages displease his father. Celebrimbor might be jealous of this friendship - of Gil-galad's easy, informal manner with Aldarion and their constant companionship, if he did not know his lover so well. Gil-galad fears loss too much to invest his heart in a mortal.
He hurries up the stairs to the gallery and touches Gil-galad on the shoulder.
"Tyel-Celebrimbor," Gil-galad amends, but cannot hide the radiance in his eyes. "I trust your journey was uneventful?"
"Indeed, Tauren." He turns to the man and nods in greeting. "Hîr Aldarion."
You have been away too long, Gil-galad tells him silently. He turns to lead the way toward the dining hall. "Let us meet after supper. I am eager to discuss your stay at Hadhodrond."
And what do you suggest I wear to this 'meeting', Tauren?
Gil-galad's answering grin needs no words of thought or speech: nothing at all.
"You mentioned that Tar Elendil intends to pass the sceptre to your father in the coming year," Gil-galad says to Aldarion. Turning toward Celebrimbor, he adds, "It has been the custom, since the days of Vardamir, for kings of Númenor to abdicate rather than rule until death."
"How interesting." He tastes his soup and finds it a bit salty, no doubt a concession to the less refined senses of their Mannish guests. His mind wanders to a technique described to him by a dwarven stone-cutter with whom he had spent a good deal of time at Hadhodrond. He has not the tools for such a thing, but perhaps-.
"Celebrimbor?"
He realises that Aldarion has spoken to him. "My apologies. I fear I am a bit weary from my journey."
Gil-galad raises an eyebrow at him: Not too weary, I hope. To Aldarion, he says, "You do not expect much change under your father's rule?"
"I think he is unlikely to veer from my grandfather's policies."
The discussion drifts to the design of ships; at least he shall not be expected to comment on that subject, but Varda, would this meal never end?
As a small child, he would pick up everything: ancient bone-thin vases; delicate sculptures; sparkling gems in his father's workshop. "Tyelpë, do not touch!" his mother would say, exasperated as she pried another ornament from his tiny hands. With his father, it was different - Curufin understood the need to feel rather than see. Art, after all, is the making of illusion - the rendering of a likeness that tricks the eye into belief.
He feels, now: the sharp rise of a collarbone; the smoothness of a pectoral muscle; the softness of slightly parted lips. He feels the languid press of a lover well used and satisfied, the flutter of a pulse returning to normal, the heat of pleasantly sore muscles. He traces the juncture of skin, where it had seemed strange a few moments ago that he should find a seam between their bodies.
Yet, that separation is there, has always been there. His mere presence is wanted, and some would call this love, but he wonders if his lover will ever want to know the demons of fire within, not only those of his shameful past, but also those of his birthright.
Gil-galad does not so much watch as stare at him, as if he might suddenly disappear. "You were gone longer than I expected."
"It was a more profitable visit than we foresaw." He reaches for a silk bag on the bedside table. "I have brought you a gift."
Gil-galad takes the bag and draws out the clasp within. Even in the dim light, the metal sparkles. "But this is mithril, Tyelpë. How...wherever did you get such a quantity?"
"It has been found in Celebdil. The lode is quite extensive, the dwarves believe." (1)
"It is exquisite." He turns the piece over, examining the delicate design of stars and twining serpents. "Celebdil, you say? Then Durin's crowning must have been an especially joyous occasion for the dwarves."
"Indeed. The mithril is a gift from the new king - I hope you do not mind that I took the liberty of fashioning it into something more useful than a shiny ingot."
"You know I do not."
"It comes with an invitation - Durin wishes to forge a partnership with the Elves."
Gil-galad returns the clasp to its silk bag and sets it aside. "Oh? We are already in constant correspondence. I think our relationship with Hadhodrond is quite solid. Perhaps the new king is not aware of this."
"This is Durin, Artanáro. The dwarves believe him to be Durin the First reborn - they call him 'Durin the Deathless'. I have met him, and I believe it.
"In any event, he has much more than correspondence between kings in mind." Celebrimbor pauses. "He has already exchanged letters with Galadriel on the subject, and she has proposed that the elves build a settlement near Hadhodrond."
"Has she?" Gil-galad says evenly.
"You must forgive him - dwarves are quite straightforward in their dealings with one another. And Galadriel can be most obscure."
"Devious, you mean. She might have consulted me before she took it upon herself to represent the Elves before another king." He runs his hand through his hair in irritation. "Her involvement aside, our alliances have never been so important."
"And the Anfangrim have been our most valiant and reliable friends among the Dwarves." (2)
"Yes, there is that, too. Were we to extend our presence into Eriador, we should make that land less welcome to the shadow. I hate it, though, that I am giving Galadriel exactly what she wants."
Talk drifts into silence as the patrons turn as one to stare at the newcomers. Under his hood, Celebrimbor watches them surreptitiously; Elemmakil and his companions can have no good purpose at a tavern frequented by the people of Fëanor. Moreover, if their movements are sound, their eyes betray the sense-muddling effects of alcohol.
Elemmakil, oblivious to the stares, marches across the tavern to a table and hauls up a short, wiry elf by the front of his tunic. "It is over two weeks since you promised me delivery, yet I am still without my knives."
"I have told you, híren, that I cannot repair your knives without like material. That alloy is made only at Hadhodrond. I cannot hurry dwarves."
"My company leaves for the Ered Luin in four days. Again, and again, you have made excuses, but then, I should have expected such faithlessness from your kind."
The knife-maker's companion, a giant of an elf who works in the quarries, rumbles to his feet. "I think you are in the wrong tavern, híren."
Elemmakil clenches his fists. "Indeed, it is not my habit to drink where rats hide."
Celebrimbor sighs and leaves his corner. With a nod at the tavern owner, he takes hold of Elemmakil and leaves Aland to handle the meaty stone-delver.
"Remember who you are," he says in a low voice. "Remember where you are."
Elemmakil twists around, almost spitting with contempt. "Aye, I remember. And I remember who you are, even if the King has forgotten."
"I think it best that you leave my tavern, now. I run a quiet house. I have no need for rabble-rousers here to make trouble," Aland says.
Celebrimbor claps his hand over Elemmakil's mouth to silence his retort and walks him toward the door. His companions scowl but follow without further encouragement.
"Go," he advises, when they reach the street. "Do not be a fool, Elemmakil. I will see to it that your knives - and your money - are returned to you. You can hardly lead your company from the gaol."
"Why should I trust your word, Curufinion? Bad enough, it is, that we are forced to live among Kinslayers, but it is worse that the King lies with their lord. We have not all forgotten that we were betrayed at Lond Sirion, nor that the traitor was never found." (3)
Celebrimbor had not imagined that some would still think him the source of Maedhros' information. "My loyalties are not your concern. I answer only to the High King - do not imagine that it is your place to question me."
"You do not deny it, then."
He pushes Elemmakil toward his companions. "Take him home. I suggest that he be more cautious with drink in the future, lest his tongue run too freely."
Weary, more at heart than from the lateness of the hour, he is dismayed to find that another elf, likewise cloaked and hidden from prying eyes, has joined him at his table.
"Arphenion assured me that the drink served here was not fit even for men, but I do not think he did it justice. How can you drink that poison?"
"Why are you here, Galadriel?"
"I wished to speak with you."
"And you could not come to Minas Silivren?"
"I wanted to speak privately."
"If you want to speak outside the High King's hearing, I am probably not your best choice of confidant."
"I have nothing to hide from Gil-galad. Rather, I want you to approach him with this. If it comes from me, it will seem an attempt to usurp his position."
"I cannot think why."
"I am sure I do not know why Gil-galad is so suspicious of me. I have never given him anything but my support."
'But not necessarily your acknowledgement,' he thinks. Less than real intent to undermine the High King, her sense of entitlement is what rankles.
"It is as if she measures all that I do against what she would do in my place, and too often, I come up wanting," Gil-galad had once complained.
"Will you hear me before you judge?" Galadriel asks.
Celebrimbor nods. "Go on."
"As you know, I have been in correspondence with King Durin." (4)
"Does it not seem to you that matters between kings should be carried out between kings?"
"I am certain that he broached the matter with you during your visit, and that you have made it known to Gil-galad," she continues, blithely ignoring his question. "I have put much thought into this, and I believe you should be a part of it."
"I am not sure that I understand you."
"Look around, Celebrimbor. These elves look to you as their lord. If you lead them to the new city, they will follow you. They are the finest smiths among the Noldor and would profit most from exchange of knowledge with the dwarves."
"And how do you profit, Galadriel?"
"If I 'profit', as you say, it is only in the course of duty."
"Of course. I very much doubt, however, that you act without a role foreseen for yourself."
"That is what I wish for you to discuss with Gil-galad." For a moment, Galadriel seems unsure of herself. "Someone must manage the city, and you have little patience for such things."
"And what of Celeborn's lordship of Harlindon?"
"He is hardly needed - the Sindar manage their day to day affairs well enough, and would follow Círdan in matters of consequence."
'Moreover, they see you as Celeborn's consort,' Celebrimbor thinks. "Well, I will tell the King of your wishes, though I am sure that he has anticipated you and already made his decision. As for me, I have no interest in the settlement. My place is here, for reasons that should be obvious."
"Your órë may be here, but is your enda? I have known you since the Years of the Trees, and your craft has always been your first love. Nai sanuval tan, Tyelperinquar," she says, and drifts out of the tavern. (5, 6)
Think about that, Celebrimbor.
He would reject her idea without consideration, but his mind fairly reels at the possibilities.
He could immerse himself in his craft with like-minded dwarves and elves, learn what he can of Aulë's children and perhaps become the artist he is meant to become. Not since he worked on the building of Minas Silivren has he felt that he was creating something of lasting value, of meaning to someone other than himself and his customer. Before he made the Silmarilli, his grandfather had given wondrous things to the Noldor: lamps in which the light never died; the Tengwar now in common use. He wants to give elves reason to once again speak of his House with awe rather than anger.
And yes, he wants to escape the political vortex of Forlond. He tires of making small talk over supper with lords of consequence; he has never had the spleen for the scheming and intrigue so relished by his father. And yet, he does not wish to leave Gil-galad; he had felt his absence acutely during nights in the tunnels of Hadhodrond. Perhaps his enda still belongs to his craft, but his fëa belongs to Artanáro.
He expects Gil-galad to have turned in for the night by the time he reaches the palace. Instead, he frowns at rumpled sheets and goes looking for their recent occupant.
Gil-galad sits bent over a heavy volume in his study, his hair gathered into a long braid coming loose from his habit of pulling at it. The confident and unworried monarch seen by his subjects is gone; he looks tense and drained.
"You cannot go on like this."
"No." Gil-galad plucks a page from a stack on his desk. "What do you make of this?"
He skims over the document, a petition for redress from a householder complaining that his neighbour plays the trumpet at all hours of the night. All attempts to resolve the dispute have been met with insult and indifference.
"Is this not a matter for the magistrates?"
"It is, but that is not the point. Everything in that stack pertains to similar complaints. Why so many?"
"You think it is the shadow."
"Morgoth made great use of dissention between us. Whatever has now arisen, it learned much of the Destroyer."
'And the wounds that fester are old ones,' Celebrimbor thinks, recognising a lieutenant of Maedhros as the complainant. Perhaps drink had been less responsible for Elemmakil's behaviour than he thought. He takes a seat. "Galadriel is here in Forlond. She approached me at the tavern."
"Oh?"
"She wants to have rule of the new settlement."
"No," Gil-galad says flatly. "I will not allow it."
"I am not sure that you have a choice."
"Perhaps it is time to test her supposed deference." He worries at his braid, pulling out more strands in his frustration. "And yet, no one is more suited to it."
Pengolodh's study is hardly more than an alcove deep in the forest of shelves and armaria in the King's Library. The room seems even smaller with the disorganisation that prevails - parchment and books and scrolls stacked on every surface and in every corner.
"Sit down, sit down." Pengolodh moves a pile of books to free a chair. Small of stature, his movements are as quick as his mind. "You are just the elf I wished to see."
"Oh?"
He fishes a scrap of parchment from a stack of books and hands it to Celebrimbor, who eyes the wobbling stack with distrust. "Does that look to you like the writing of the Noegyth Nibin?"
He reaches over to steady the stack and then examines the paper. This is evidently a copy, as the parchment is new. "I think so - these tails are characteristic of their runes. How did you come by this?"
"It was copied from the walls of a tunnel in the Ered Luin."
"I did not know they ever resided there."
"No - that is why this find intrigues me." Pengolodh slips the copy into a book - Celebrimbor cannot see the title, but he suspects that it has nothing to do with Noegyth Nibin and that Pengolodh will struggle to lay hands upon the copy in another week. "Now, what I truly wished to discuss is the new settlement that has so many tongues wagging. I have asked the King to give me leave, for I wish to expand my knowledge of Dwarven tongues and customs. Herdir Elrond is more than capable of running the King's Library."
"I am glad for you, and I do not see that Gil-galad would refuse your request, save that he will miss your counsel."
"So he has told me."
"Then, if you are not asking for my support, what is it that you want of me?"
"Ah, I ask nothing of you. I only suggest that you consider the same for yourself."
"Though it tempts me, my place is here."
"Perhaps. Yet no Elf knows Dwarves as you do - your knowledge of Khuzdûl far surpasses my own, and you understand them as if they are kin."
"You know it is not possible."
"One makes sacrifices, Celebrimbor, for one's beloved - even if one is High King. Tell me, at the least, that you will ask him to consider it."
"I will," he says weakly. He knows that he will do no such thing.
The council, for once, is in agreement and endorses the proposed settlement without persuasion. Already, the lords look to their advantage in the expansion into Eriador: Arphenion proposes a garrison at Tharbad to protect the trade routes - an outpost he has undoubtedly long coveted. Others see an opportunity to revise the tax code. Aldarion talks of establishing a permanent port and Númenórean presence in Eriador.
Celebrimbor means to speak to Enerdhil about the mírdain who wish to emigrate, but the task slips by him until Enerdhil approaches him directly.
"I have heard that you intend to take the Guild to Eriador, but you have said nothing to us. Many of the smiths and apprentices await your decision, for it will influence their own."
Celebrimbor pulls the silver he is working from its wash. "I have said nothing because I have no plan to do so, but I hope I do not keep others from going." He sets aside the tongs and faces Enerdhil. "But from whom did you hear that I intend to quit Forlond?"
"Forgive me, híren, but I made the error of believing common gossip."
Common gossip, Enerdhil names it, but Celebrimbor knows its source. Perhaps Galadriel spreads the lie to manipulate him or to encourage others to join the settlement, but she is more likely to simply obscure the truth. Either she presumes - or worse, foresees - that he will lose this battle with his conscience.
He immerses himself in his work, always his refuge from unwished-for thoughts. He leaves the forge late; though the eastern sky is still dark, Eärendil has begun his voyage westward.
He undresses in the dark and slides carefully into bed, hoping not to disturb Gil-galad.
"It is nearly dawn."
"I did not mean to wake you."
"You did not."
He feels a chill, as if a storm has come up suddenly out of the west.
"I heard today that some of the Sindar who lived under my father's rule have decided to join the new settlement," Gil-galad says quietly.
Celebrimbor knows the deception in that soft voice; he knows how Gil-galad uses it so effectively to mask feeling behind outward calm.
He is furious, as angry as Celebrimbor has ever known him to be.
"It seems that your lordship of the city has persuaded them, and I am lost as to when this was proposed."
"Galadriel suggested it and I refused. Yet, I cannot say it did not appeal to me."
"Then it is true."
"You have asked me to sit on the King's Council and to advise and support you, and these things have I done without complaint. Yet I do so only to please you - I am an artisan, Artanáro. You see the new city as a move in a chess match, but to me, it is an opportunity to learn and improve my craft."
"This has nothing to do with your craft and everything to do with your penchant for self-flagellation."
"Perhaps it is both. Still, if I want to make amends, is that not a noble cause?"
"And you cannot do that here?"
"I accomplish nothing as one of your counsellors. My hope lies in my hands - I would bleed my life into my creations."
"It is as much my life as yours that you bleed."
He winces at the obvious manipulation. "Lovers separate for long periods quite often. You take this as final, yet it is not. I will come back, Artanáro."
"Forgive me if I do not see that."
Not until Gil-galad has risen and left to meet with Aldarion does sleep find him. When he wakes in the early afternoon, Gil-galad is moving about the room, dressed in tunic and leggings.
"I am leaving with the Númerrámar for Mithlond," he says, without turning around from the satchel he is fastening.
Celebrimbor blinks the glaze of sleep from his eyes. "When do you plan to return?"
"I do not know. Elrond will manage things in my absence."
"We need to speak-."
Gil-galad holds up his hand. "I am in no mood to speak of anything." He takes his cloak and satchel and is gone.
Celebrimbor seethes - he cannot argue with the eight hundred and some-odd year-old ghost of a child pining for his family. He is cautious with his temper - it has never served his family well - and not until he reaches the privacy of his forge does he dare to let that temper loose in a string of obscenities and flying tools.
He very nearly brains Elrond with a lathe. "What is it?"
"You did not really think he would take this well?"
"Why?" he rages. "I am not going to walk into Sauron's lair or march off to battle with some fool Adan."
"And yet, this is what he fears," Elrond says calmly. "Those who let him go do not return for him."
He winces. If Gil-galad still feels the pain of loss, Elrond must feel it more so. "Yes, I suppose you would know."
Elrond leans against the wall, his expression as inscrutable as ever. "My experience has been quite unlike that of anyone else. As has his - and yours. Sometimes, we do not recover from our past.
"He will save you, if you will let him. My heart warns me that you will not elsewhere find peace."
Rhîw passes swiftly and those planning to remove to the new settlement make their last arrangements. Leave-taking is planned for the last week in echuir. Celebrimbor makes his own preparations, but uncertainty hangs over him. Officially, he needs Gil-galad's permission, and in any case, he cannot leave with so much anger between them. With the date of departure drawing nearer, however, he must have it settled, one way or the other. Resigned that he will have to go to Mithlond himself, he arranges for passage on a fishing boat returning to its home. Back in his rooms, he packs lightly - regardless of the outcome, he will not be gone long.
"Bring the ginger root here, please," he says, when his slovenly chambermaid at last returns from the kitchens. Yet, the hand that holds the seasickness remedy is the hand of no maid.
"You were not really going to sail for Mithlond?" He has colour in his face, as if he has at last had some rest, and much of the tightness is gone from his eyes.
"You look well."
Gil-galad raises his eyebrows. "Surely, one argument has not made us such strangers that we must resort to inanities." He wraps his arms warmly around Celebrimbor and kisses him with passion. "I do not know how I shall manage without you."
"I wish you understood why I must do this."
"I think I do," Gil-galad says, his voice tinged with sadness. "Yet, I wish you would not."
'Círdan,' Celebrimbor thinks. Círdan can make Gil-galad see sense as no one else can do. 'He has been a good father to you, Artanáro, perhaps better than your own might have been.'
"I will be but four weeks' ride from Forlond," he says aloud. "And I intend to make that journey as often as I can."
Gil-galad frowns.
"What?"
"Nothing. I was thinking of something Círdan said...but it is nothing."
Uneasily, he wonders if Círdan's words resemble Elrond's warning. "If you ask me to stay, I will."
Gil-galad swallows audibly and refuses to meet his eyes. "It is better if you do not give me a choice."
His eyes moisten. "My heart-."
"I know," Gil-galad says softly. "I know."
(1) Celebdil
As near as I can figure, the lodes of mithril were initially found under Celebdil (Silvertine). In LOTR, Gandalf tells us "The lodes lead away north toward Caradhras, and down to darkness." (emphasis mine) The name of the mountain certainly implies that this is where the silver was found, though we would have to assume that it originally had another name. (ref FOTR, Book Two, IV p 309 pub Houghton Mifflin)
(2) Anfangrim
'Longbeards' (class pl of anfang) - the kindred of Durin and thus of Gimli and the dwarves of The Hobbit. The dwarves of Nogrod who sacked Doriath were, in contrast, apparently Firebeards, though Christopher Tolkien notes that the text is somewhat confused and that his father intended to revise it. (The Peoples of Middle-earth, 'Of Dwarves and Men' p 301 and pp 322-323, notes 24 and 25, pub Houghton Mifflin; see also Unfinished Tales, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' p 246 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)
(3) Lond Sirion
'Havens of Sirion'. In the prequel to this story, Maedhros was aided by information from Arphenion in the third Kinslaying. Obviously, I've entirely fabricated this 'betrayal'.
(4) I have been in correspondence with King Durin.
I've gone first with the few details on the Second Age given in LOTR, and then with Unfinished Tales, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn: Amroth and Nimrodel' and lastly with 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn: Concerning Galadriel and Celeborn'. The founding of Eregion does not occur until SA 750, according to the 'Tale of Years', but in Unfinished Tales, Tolkien states that Galadriel and Celeborn went to Eregion around SA 700 and that the building of Ost-in-Edhil was begun in SA 750. For the initial emigration, I've selected a date in between the two in order to coincide with Aldarion's voyage from SA 735-739. Considering that it took decades for the elves to begin building permanent dwellings during the First Age, it seems perfectly plausible it would take ten years to draw up plans for Ost-in-Edhil. We do know that Durin was king at some point in this period because he is named on the West Door.
(5) órë (Q); enda (Q)
órë: 'heart, inner mind' (LOTR, Appendix E p 1096 pub Houghton Mifflin, further defined in Vinyar Tengwar Number 41 p 11, July 2000)
enda: 'centre, heart' (Vinyar Tengwar Number 39, p 32, July 1998)
The difference between the two words is subtle - the former refers to emotions, the latter to the soul.
(6) Nai sanuval tan, Tyelperinquar (Q)
'Think about that, Celebrimbor.' (lit. 'May it be that you will think about it.') sana- is a theoretical verb corresponding to sanar, 'mind', literally meaning 'thinking'. tan is the presumable dative construction of ta, 'that, it'. Tyelperinquar is Celebrimbor's proper Quenya name.