Disclaimer: This world and its major characters belong to Tolkien. I'm just painting pictures in the gaps. The names of several minor characters and place names appearing in this chapter, including Forug, Siar, Har and Galadriel's residence, Galadhadobel, are entirely invented.
Eregion, SA 1150
"Híren, have you forgotten that you are expected at Galadhadobel?"
"At aduial." He glances out the window to see the blaze of Anor as she descends toward Valinor and curses.
Erestor purses his lips. "And you have a visitor - a Man - awaiting you in your sitting room."
"Why do I have a visitor when I am obviously late?"
"He was very insistent."
"Is it not your duty to ensure that I am not late for my appointments and that I do not have visitors assailing me at their convenience?"
Erestor rolls his eyes. "You are somewhat...disagreeable when you are disturbed at your work."
This, Celebrimbor supposes, is the result one should expect from an attempt to turn an uninspired apprentice into a secretary. "I do not suppose you had the wits to get his name and business?"
"He said that his name is not known to you."
"Excellent. I am expected at a very important ceremony," he glances out the window again, "now, I have a strange man in my private quarters and you cannot even explain his presence." Galadriel is like as not to begin without him, which would be both tactically and personally unpleasant. With this in mind, he throws open the door to his sitting room and opens his mouth to dismiss the man awaiting him.
"Hîr Celebrimbor!" The man's accent grates like a rasp against stone. "I am honoured to make your acquaintance."
"And you are?"
"Forgive me. I am no one of any importance - Forug, son of Hoshu, they call me in my own land - but I come on errand of my teacher."
The man's coarse features, accent and mealy smile bring to mind the Easterlings Celebrimbor had seen in Beleriand. He is instantly wary; not all such men had proved evil, but many had. Efforts to probe his mind encounter resistance, however, and despite his haste, Celebrimbor is intrigued.
"Then, be quick about it, for I have other matters to which I must attend."
"As I say, I come in the service of my teacher, a great ithron, who in turn learnt his arts from the one you name Aulë. He wishes to bestow gifts of knowledge upon Elves and Men, and is particularly eager to make your acquaintance, for he has heard much of your great talent." (1)
"Is Curumo the ithron of whom you speak?"
"I do not know that name. My teacher calls himself Annatar. He would call on you, if you would receive him."
He does not recognise the name, but he had spent relatively little time under Aulë's tutorship, and not all his Maiar would have been devoted to teaching.
"Naturally, I will receive him." More than intrigued now, he has a dozen questions he would ask, but he does not want this man in his sitting room any longer than necessary. He is clean enough - indeed, in dress at least, he resembles a Númenórean lord - but his presence is somehow odious. "Now, if you will excuse me, I am very late. Erestor will see you out."
"Taur Ereinion Gil-galad." Celebrimbor bows and kisses the hand extended to him. "Welcome to Eregion. We have long desired your presence." You do not know how I have desired it.
"I have long delayed this journey. Perhaps too long." Gil-galad looks at him meaningfully, but Celebrimbor cannot decipher him.
Galadriel and Celeborn step forward to extend their formal greetings. The ceremony complete, the crowd disperses and the chief artisans from the various guilds follow their lords into Galadhadobel for the feast made in the High King's honour.
In the salon, young elves eager to be introduced wait on the fringes of more powerful guild masters and lords looking to secure the High King's favour. He is radiant tonight - such affairs are his element. The youngsters will leave feeling that he has bestowed a special greeting upon them, and the lords will be certain that their status has risen in his eyes. Celebrimbor is hard-pressed to catch Gil-galad alone, and not until after the banquet does he find an opportunity to speak to him. "I trust your journey has not wearied you too much?"
"We arrived quite early in the day - we might have pressed on last night, but I wished to send notice of our arrival. What delayed you so long?"
"I had the oddest visitor," he commences, but Gil-galad has turned to greet Pengolodh with genuine delight.
"Taur fael nín! How I have missed your midnight haunts in the library." (2)
"As I have missed you. Elrond has a peculiar habit of sleeping at night - he is never about when I want something obscure."
"Speaking of obscure, I have new histories that might interest you."
He steps away; he will have Gil-galad's full attention soon enough. He sips his wine and shakes his head in feigned regret at elf-maids who try to persuade him to dance. At last, his fixed expression of good humour feels too heavy for his face. He slips out to the balcony and breathes the silence with relief. He hopes that Gil-galad will not want to remain much longer.
Almost on cue, Elwandor appears in the doorway. "My lord bids me tell you that he has gone up to his rooms."
Nonplussed, he follows Elwandor to the guest wing. Gil-galad gestures to the wine on the table before him and dismisses his valet. Celebrimbor takes a glass but remains standing. "I assumed that you would stay at Bar-i-Mírdain - you said nothing of other arrangements." (3)
"Your apartments are not suitable. It would be too blatant."
"I do not think it was a great secret that I shared your bed at Minas Silivren."
Gil-galad sighs. "Things have changed. This is just the sort of thing we are trying to discourage."
"You are serious," Celebrimbor says, after a searching moment. "That must be easy to enforce, with the High King and several of his chief advisors inclined in another direction."
"I do not enforce anything, Tyelpë," Gil-galad protests.
"No, you need not. The people believe that the Valar smile upon you, that you have their guidance. What you proclaim as right and just, they believe is right and just by the Laws of the Eldar."
"I did not come all this way to argue policy with you."
Celebrimbor swallows. In days past, they had been of the same mind. "No. Forgive me."
I am trying to.
He releases his breath slowly. He is caught unawares, so much had he anticipated this visit.
"I am not...averse to your remaining here tonight," Gil-galad says softly.
He grasps the line as his feet submerge in quicksand. The footing outside the pit is hardly more firm, however. He used to know the way around it.
"Har is anxious that you do not see his father's absence at tonight's feast as a slight. King Siar was eager to make your acquaintance, but his health will not permit it." Celebrimbor butters his bread and glances to the side, daring the Oliphaunt in the room to come closer. "He is not likely to see the snow fall again, I fear."
Gil-galad stirs his tea. "Durin ruled a long time - Siar is his youngest son, no? The others preceded him in death." (4)
"He is. And you should know that the dwarves say that Durin has 'returned to his long sleep'. The sages among them think he will not be long in rising, however."
"Oh?"
"Make of it what you will," Celebrimbor shrugs. "Perhaps it is wishful thinking, for Durin's rule was profitable for them. Yet, they also believe Durin will return in time of need."
"The Shadow. Durin spoke of it in his last letter. Dwarves, at least, remain vigilant, if Men do not."
"The elves in Tharbad say they have not seen the men of Númenor these four dozen years. How came this?"
"Since Aldarion's death," Gil-galad says, hesitating as if the subject is still tender, "his daughter will not respond to my letters. What news I have comes from the Lord of Andúnië - he thinks the Queen is quite mad. Vinyalondë is lost, Arphenion says - in ruins."
Celebrimbor nods. "So I have heard." Such matters hardly constitute his preferred breakfast conversation, but at least the subject is unlikely to cause disagreement, and it fills the silence between them.
Bar-i-Mírdain occupies four square furlongs on a hill near the centre of the city, arranged in a great square around a spacious courtyard. Many of the work rooms are only semi-enclosed, to allow as much light as possible, and the Mírdain have built their great forges in plain air, in outcroppings of stone that nearly blend into the courtyard's gardens.
"We are fortunate to have dry weather here under the eaves of the mountains, and save a spell or two in Rhîw, it is warm enough to be out of doors. Even the snow, when it comes, does not remain long." Celebrimbor leads the way into the repository, nodding at the two guards who stand duty. "Here, we keep the jewels the Mírdain make of their own will - those that are not designed for a buyer."
Gil-galad picks up a necklace of amethyst and gold. "Your work?"
Celebrimbor nods. "Unfortunately, my mate is overly fond of mithril and wears little jewellery."
Gil-galad smiles at this. "You have amassed great wealth here. I see I do not levy enough tax on the Gwaith-i-Mírdain."
"We have no complaint of the tax code, Tauren." They shall be right again, Celebrimbor thinks with relief - they only need time to accustom themselves to one another.
As they leave the repository, a dwarf hails them from the entrance to the east wing.
"Glad, I am that I have found you! The couriers from my father want your letter, and that secretary of yours cannot locate it."
"Taur Gil-galad, may I present the younger son of Siar, King of Hadhodrond?"
The dwarf bows deeply. "It is my honour."
"Mine, also," Gil-galad replies, bowing his head in turn.
"Will you excuse me a moment?" He hurries off to sort out the disorder on his desk and smooth the feathers of a much put-out Erestor.
"As if this muddle is my fault!" Erestor glares at the couriers.
"It is mine - I expected to return last night and give the letter into your hand." He locates it and gives it to Erestor to be sealed. "I trust I will not be interrupted again."
Back in the corridor, Siar's son shifts his feet nervously, a strange thing in a Dwarf.
"Evidently, I have violated all propriety by entering the baths," Gil-galad explains, his eyebrows furrowed in amusement.
Celebrimbor groans inwardly. "The baths are sacred - only the Aulendili and the servants of Mahal are permitted to enter." Even the other guilds think this devotion to Aulë strange, and he cannot predict Gil-galad's reaction. He had hoped it would pass beneath notice.
"Mahal?"
"It is a Dwarven custom - to take Aulë as if he were one's spouse, and have no other before him. The apprentices dedicate themselves during their tutorship, and many of the Mírdain continue to follow the custom."
The mirth is gone. "Perhaps that is common among Dwarves, but it is not natural to Elves."
"Neither, according to your Laws, are we," Celebrimbor snaps before he gets hold of his tongue. He imagines that Gil-galad has reasons for his policies, but he must know the difference between policy and truth. "Surely, that is not what you believe."
"No." Gil-galad meets his eyes. "I do not." He stalks off toward the courtyard, leaving Celebrimbor perplexed.
He had expected incomprehension, not anger, and stares at the courtyard door as if it will tell him how to navigate Gil-galad's changeable mood. No answers forthcoming, he follows Gil-galad through the door. "We were going to visit some of the smiths at work," he says.
Gil-galad nods and falls into step by his side. Near the forges, several smiths have set up a trestle and brought their designs or filing work out to enjoy the fine day and one another's company. They pause to watch a dwarf at work on a particularly intricate design and then visit Enerdhil and Aranwë. "You will understand better what they are doing when you have seen my work." He has a workroom in the west wing, but uses it only for teaching. He leads Gil-galad through quickly. "I have another forge in my quarters that gives me more privacy."
The Noldor like to display their art, often piling richly-rendered ceilings upon paintings upon stone carvings. Minas Silivren had been designed by Celebrimbor and furnished by other Noldor, but they had done so with its master in mind. It is perhaps more elaborate than Gil-galad would have liked, but far less so than the Noldor thought proper for the High King's palace. Gil-galad's own quarters reflect the severity of his mother and Círdan. The Sindar prefer beautiful things that are also practical, and the most ornate items in Gil-galad's possession are items of everyday use: a heavy comb rendered in jade and mithril; a crystal washbasin; furniture carved with delicate leaves and blossoms by the Laegrim. Celebrimbor catches a grimace as they pass through the antechamber of his rooms. (5)
"It is not to your liking, I gather?"
"It is...a bit much," Gil-galad admits.
He laughs, expecting such a reaction. If he has one taste in common with his father that he does not regret, it is a preference for opulent lodgings. His rooms reflect the best of Noldorin excess, from overabundance of ornaments to heavy furniture rich with inlaid gold. Gil-galad looks curiously at two chairs in the passageway; low to the ground, they match the style but not the size of their mates.
"I entertain Dwarves too often to be insensitive to their comfort," he explains. It occurs to Celebrimbor that Gil-galad might well wonder why his bed is made in the Dwarven style. He can hardly tell him that Narvi had complained of the softness of Elven beds.
The thought fills him with both guilt and grief; if he had never been physically unfaithful, he had certainly found comfort beyond the bounds of friendship. Narvi had revealed to him the secrets of the cult of Mahal - techniques that allowed the fëa to transcend the hroa, making all things possible, even things that should not, by the laws of metallurgy and physical existence, be possible. They had joined minds in lieu of bodies and had experienced ecstasy at the hand of Aulë.
Such abilities are not strange to Elves - all can separate the fëa from hroa in living dream, and some of the princes of the Noldor - Finrod, Fëanor, perhaps Galadriel - could do it at will.
To his Children, Mahal had only revealed what he wished them to know, and Dwarves are innately practical. They put their knowledge to use in doors that could open at the will of the maker alone and charms that could bring luck or misfortune to the wearer.
Much more might be done, and this is what he wants to show Gil-galad. Their separation is an ache he cannot transcend, yet it is impossible for him to leave the life he has made for himself in Eregion. Here, he lives his work, rather than does it, among like-minded artists with visions to match his own. In the stratified and organised society of Forlond, with its increasingly rigid morals, he would feel caged.
With this in mind, he leads the way to his private forge. "We are experimenting with the receptive properties of metal and stone. The dwarves know how to bring Aulë's protection into a magic door, and that is what we did with the gates to the city and the West Door of Hadhodrond. Still, there are other ways to influence stone and metal - it is possible to link your fëa with an element, so that it reflects your deepest desires."
"Such as?" Gil-galad looks uneasy.
"You have seen the Elessar that Enerdhil made in Gondolin. He merged within it the light of Anor so that it would have Arien's power to heal and regenerate. Enerdhil has helped us much in our work, but he only knows how to tap the power of another. Our own ability to heal ourselves could be captured, and perhaps used to heal Ennor, and our immortality used to slow the ruin of time. Aulë spoke of such things - he taught that the fëa's existence is separate from that of the hroa, and can transcend the hroa, even in life. I was only beginning to learn of such things." He unlocks the cabinet in which he keeps his most valuable works and takes out a velvet bag. "This is one of my experiments that has borne fruit, though it is not all that I want to do." He unties the bag and removes the object within.
Gil-galad draws a sharp breath. "I have not seen such light since Elwing's flight. Tyelpë-."
"It is not what you think. That light can never be created again, but it can be captured, as Eärendil voyages through the sky."
"I remember the Elessar - Idril once said that it brought them light and warmth as they fled Gondolin. What good use may come of this phial, I cannot say, but there is something wholesome about it. Yet, to tie your very fëa to a piece of jewellery - if such a thing is possible-."
"It can be done, Artanáro."
"It is not a matter of whether it can be done but whether it should be done. What if the object should be destroyed, or come into the hands of evil? You know not what it might cost you."
With effort, he suppresses the hurt and its spawn of fury. Gil-galad will not understand because he is determined not to understand. Celebrimbor now sees that he has come to Eregion not to visit with him but to persuade him - or compel him - to return to Forlond.
They have little to say as they return to Galadhadobel, their way slowed by elf-children who run up with flowers and ribbons for the High King. Out of the corner of his eye, Celebrimbor catches sight of Forug in the shadow of a doorway. He knows that he should inform Gil-galad of Forug's visit, but he remains silent. Gil-galad seems too eager to find fault, and would undoubtedly find some objection to the man, or the Maia Annatar. He finds that he cannot trust Gil-galad's judgement.
Last night, they had dined with the elf-lords of Eregion; tonight, they dine with King Siar's heir and other dwarves of significance. A fortnight hence, the Master of Tharbad and such men as he deems sufficiently important are expected. Celebrimbor has to admire Galadriel's strategy; all of the region's most powerful leaders are thus honoured.
"Dwarven ale is barely drinkable, but strong, and Har is shrewd enough to see his advantage if he suspects that your senses are less than acute. If you do not wish to wake up with a new trade agreement, I suggest moderation," Celebrimbor says as Galadriel's footman announces their arrival.
If the previous night's affair had been elegant and polite, this feast has a more jovial air. Not even Galadriel's regal detachment and Celeborn's obvious discomfort with the evening's guests can repress the dwarves' warm good spirits. Gil-galad, almost from the beginning of the feast, passes the night in close conversation with Har. If confronted, he would insist upon the importance of Har's good will, but Celebrimbor is certain now that Gil-galad avoids his company.
In truth, he is disappointed; he had imagined presenting the city to Gil-galad, revealing what most visitors would miss. He wants to take him to the Apprentices' Market, where musicians play their harps for coins and smiths offer their works for sale or swap, all with a cheery air of jest and good humour more reminiscent of a faire than a marketplace. He wants to show him the school for those of lesser means, where young elves are taught by the guilds, learning their letters from some of the finest hands among Elvenkind and reckoning with weights and measures under the tutelage of alchemists. He wants to take him to Hadhodrond and climb the Endless Stair to Durin's Tower.
All of this he had imagined, but the agenda leaves no time for such foolery - nor for him. He accompanies Gil-galad on his errands to the various guilds and to endless suppers with self-important lords; they make love without feeling and speak only the most necessary words. He is weary of the games - they are both well past their sixth Valian year and members of a people that had named themselves for their facility with words. Had they been of courting age, they could not be more inarticulate.
His forge, normally his refuge, feels tainted by Gil-galad's disapproval, and he finds angry haste to be a poor substitute for patient experimentation. In two days, Gil-galad will leave Eregion, and the wall between them might as well be Hithaeglir. Frustrated, he leaves the forge, having produced work fit only to be melted down. A walk will clear his head, perhaps.
The days are hot, but cool air rushes down swiftly from the mountains at night, and on the high plateau of Eregion, the stars are nearly close enough to touch. Surely, no prayer to Varda can go unheard here.
He has not the skill to repair this - he comes from a line of failed bonds, from the fateful severing of Míriel and Finwë, through his grandmother's return to the house of her father, to his mother's refusal to follow Curufin into Doom and death. 'Do not take this from me,' he pleads with the Lady. 'I will die, if you take this from me. It is life itself.'
Is it your lover or your craft of which you speak, Tyelperinquar? For one will fall to fire, the other shall live in death. Which do you choose?
He finds himself now opposite Galadhadobel, though he had not intended to return there tonight. A sole figure walks among the trees - clearly, Varda has drawn him hither. At the gate, a sharp-eyed guard lets him into the grounds.
"Such moonlight meetings are certain to cause talk, Tauren."
Gil-galad frowns. "I expected you to be at the feast tonight."
"The affairs of Men are your interest, not mine."
"True, and you concern yourself very little with my interests these days."
"I might say the same for you. I tire of playing squire to you - do you remember that once, we were lovers? Even in bed, though your body has been willing enough, your fëa pulls away. Have I become so inconvenient to you?"
"You speak boldly for one who has refused my every invitation," Gil-galad says, a warning edge in his voice.
"Would you have come here otherwise? I hoped that you would see - that you would understand why Forlond would be a prison to me. But your eyes are dimmed to all but your own petty desires. You have an unfortunate wont to see your tragedy as unique, Artanáro. It is not only the politics of court that weary me - your needs are endless." (6)
"I weary you," Gil-galad says softly. "I was not aware that I had become a burden. Perhaps you wish to swear yourself to Aulë, in the hopes that he will reveal all his secrets to you? Or perhaps there is another. I cannot read your heart anymore - the secrets you keep are too well guarded."
Celebrimbor freezes. "Neither," he finds his voice. "I have been true to you, in intention and deed."
Gil-galad looks at him a long while. "You have. Yet still, you withhold from me."
To speak of Narvi is too painful, and he does not know how to do so in a manner that would satisfy Gil-galad's limited understanding of the transcendence of the fëa and yet not reduce Narvi to a passing fancy. In any event, he does not believe that Gil-galad seeks this from him, but if it is not Narvi, he cannot fathom what secret Gil-galad believes him to be keeping.
"I am not weary of you, Artanáro. I am weary of being led hither and yon, as it suits you and your policies."
"Think you that I like to curry favour with lords who followed Maedhros to the last, who still see me as a usurper and their inferior? My heart is ever with you. Duty demands that I be discreet."
"Now it is you who is dishonest," he says, feeling fresh heat spread over his face. "Duty, you say - it is another excuse, Artanáro. You are lonely because you trust no one."
"How dare you?" Gil-galad stops in his tracks. "At every turn, you have followed your will. You chose to leave Aman. You chose to lift your sword against your kin. You chose to disown your father and you chose not to go to Tumhalad. You chose to seduce me and you chose to leave Forlond. You know nothing about duty - you have spent your life avoiding it." He grasps Celebrimbor's arm, forcing him to face him. "Bonds cannot be severed, Tyelpë, no matter how you might wish it. But they can become so strained as to disappear altogether."
Aland's fire-water is far more suited to Celebrimbor's mood, but at this hour, wine will have to do.
He recognises the feeling, though it takes him a moment to place it: Nargothrond, Year 468 of the Elder Days. Once again, he has a sense of loss from a rupture he has long expected and a caustic tongue - another gift of his father - to thank for it. One can never truly repudiate one's sire, he reflects. The father lives in the son. (7)
He comes from a rebellious clan that held creation above all else - even love. Love - great passion - had been the rule and ruin of their Fingolfinian cousins. But to Finarfin and his golden brood had Eru gifted wisdom. From Finrod, Celebrimbor had learnt that mere knowing is not enough - wisdom comes from the heart, not the head.
It was inevitable that they would clash, Celebrimbor muses. Freedom - from Doom, from guilt, from expectations - for which his heart yearns - is foreign to one who understands innately that the measure of a king lies not in the willingness of his subjects to serve him, but in the king's willingness to serve his subjects.
Ilsanwa, they called it in Valinor: true silver. Malleable when need be; in armour it is light yet hard as steel. He had fallen in love with Gil-galad for the qualities he himself lacked. (8)
"How much of that did you intend?"
Gil-galad, comb in hand as his hair dries in the sunlight, moves to give Celebrimbor space to sit on the stone bench. "I am not sure." He glances at Celebrimbor. "We know each other too well - we know the words that will hurt."
Ordinarily, he would take the comb from Gil-galad's hand. Without delay that might bring failure of nerve, he reaches out. Gil-galad tips his head back, either in pleasure or to make the task easier for Celebrimbor - it matters not; Celebrimbor is encouraged by it.
"I did not see that you were so unhappy," he says.
"I feel...trapped. I cannot leave Forlond and I cannot compel you to return. I suppose that I envy you your freedom. At every turn, I am forced to make decisions I do not like, but must make for the sake of the people."
"The people have great love for you, Artanáro."
"They loved Ingoldo, too, yet it took but a silver tongue to turn them away. I do not say that to bring you pain, but it is easy to rule in times of peace. Would that I had the power to make such peace last! Yet I fear it is already fragile. 'For all the land was filled now with a foreboding of evil.' When the Shadow falls upon us, I will need more than their love - I will need their trust.
"I am weary, Tyelpë. I have been a hostage to change all my days, and I am weary. What contentment I have found has not been lasting." (9)
"To hold back time - preserve what you have - it is the oldest desire of our people," Celebrimbor murmurs. The ability to do this dances just beyond his fingertips.
"You have changed - there is a brilliance to you, an energy that thrums inside you. I do not see my place in your world."
An idea begins to form in his mind. Perhaps he can bring Gil-galad to the source of that energy - perhaps they can find understanding at last. "I think," he says, "that I can show you in a way that will satisfy both of us."
Tilion rises late tonight, and in his fullness his lust for Arien is most palpable. Excusing themselves from Galadriel's salon, they make their way to the stables, where Gil-galad kisses him with passion uncaring for those who might see them in the night's clear light.
"I think our hosts are as glad to see us go as we are to leave them," Celebrimbor says, drawing a ragged breath. He had cheerfully ignored Galadriel's hints about the lateness of the hour and the less subtle looks exchanged between husband and wife. He had a reason to delay their leave-taking.
As he hoped, the baths, most popular at aduial when the smiths have laid aside their work, are deserted when they reach Bar-i-Mírdain. On a dark night, candles might float in the water, but tonight, there is no need, and the moonlight casts a bluish sheen on the white marble. Gil-galad exclaims in wonder. His reaction pleases Celebrimbor absurdly - at last, something of his craft charms his lover.
"Are you not concerned that we will defile the baths?" Gil-galad smirks as he steps out of his robes.
"The heat that warms the baths comes from the great forges of Aulë, but is not the water Ulmo's work? Surely, the foster-son of Círdan, beloved of Ulmo, has his favour." He steps into the bath and sits on a ledge that follows the outer walls. "Come to me."
Gil-galad steps into the bath and sheds the last of the barriers in his mind. Celebrimbor plucks from his thought an aching desire to mate, in contrast to mere lust and bodily union, and he guides him to sit between his legs. Encouraged by the glasslike clarity, he pushes on. "I want you to lead me into fantasy - let me join you in your mind as you create it."
He rests his chin on Gil-galad's shoulder and probes gently, but meets white space.
Gil-galad sighs, resisting. A flicker of images - of his mouth held firmly to a nipple, of Gil-galad's hair running through his fingers - flashes in Celebrimbor's mind, but he cannot yet feel what he sees. He nuzzles his lips against the tip of Gil-galad's ear, and the spark of desire transports him to Gil-galad's bedchamber, filling his nostrils with the pungent odour of sex and his groin with the heaviness of fulfilment long delayed.
His fingers trace the velvety surface of his fullness, feathery and quick, but his mouth is more purposeful, his lips firm against the heated skin of Gil-galad's inner thighs, leaving roses behind that will surely be painful for a day. Gil-galad's desire passes into the realm of too much, the stimulation too intense, and Celebrimbor senses the pleasant agony - of wanting this to continue and needing more decisive stimulation.
He has become more selfish, less giving with time - aggressively receptive, Celebrimbor thinks. What he wants is a singular devotion. Celebrimbor feels a tinge of sadness; his craft is a jealous mistress. He will always fall short, in Gil-galad's eyes.
But the landscape is changing. He senses resistance, not to him or his presence but to Gil-galad's own thought.
His thrusts grow more urgent, the fire in his loins now in control, yet this is not his fantasy and Gil-galad is withdrawing, holding back with desperate will. "Like pebbles to dam a river," Gil-galad murmurs before everything is lost in an explosion of fire and feeling.
Fire creates, yet it also destroys - he knows that the depths of his memory bring no comfort. Still, he is resentful that Gil-galad is drawn to that fire like a moth, yet repulsed by all that it represents. Disappointed, he pulls himself out of the bath and dries himself with a fierceness that reddens his skin in protest. As his anger subsides, the steady drip of water on the marble floor reaches his ears. He turns around to see Gil-galad shuddering at the livid bruises on his thighs and feels a measure of shame.
Gil-galad's face might have been carved from the same alabaster as the baths. "That was no fantasy," he says accusingly. "Do these visions come from Aulë? Or is some sorcery at work here?" He falters. "I - I do not have the gift of sight, yet this night, I have seen what is to be."
Celebrimbor reaches out, but Gil-galad slips from his fingers.
"I saw the end of all things, and it is you, Tyelpë."
"You wish that I would return with you."
Gil-galad looks up from his seat, his leg extended as Elwandor tightens the laces on his riding boots. "I know you think me selfish."
Things had taken a very different course in the baths from that for which he had hoped, and he finds himself more reluctant than ever to confide in his king and lover. At one time, he had believed he would never overcome the curse upon his line, and perhaps he cannot overcome it, but he now finds in his heritage hope of redemption.
"Hope is a fragile thing, Artanáro. Do not ask me to leave it behind."
"No. I would not. Yet-." At a subtle tap from Elwandor, he extends his other leg. "I have not felt easy here. There is something foul about - I hear it in the whispers of the Sirannon. And then, you speak of things that truly put fear in my heart, not only as your lover but also as your king. I have to consider that, Tyelpë - I will not allow one person's demons to bring ruin to my kingdom."
"That is history, Artanáro. I am not Túrin."
'Gobennas natha i amarth a thi ai den awarthar.' (10)
History will be the doom of those who forsake it. "Pengolodh again?"
"No. Círdan." A smile flickers and fades. "I find myself preoccupied, checking and rechecking the locks, if you will. Wondering if we have missed anything, left ourselves vulnerable."
Celebrimbor reaches into his sleeve and withdraws a velvet bag. "I feel that you are meant to have this."
"The phial of Eärendil," Gil-galad says softly. "A light for a time of darkness." He secures it to his belt of his tunic and grasps Celebrimbor's hands. "Perhaps my uneasiness has made me harsh, but in truth, I am lonely without you."
"I am not capable of all you desire in me, Artanáro."
"No. But I will make do - I always have." He releases Celebrimbor's hands as Moebeth enters to announce that the procession is ready to leave. "I will see you in Forlond in Ethuil?"
"You will."
Varda's riddle - and Gil-galad's vision - seem clear to him, now: jewellery might be cast into fire, but the bond of lovers is as immortal as the fëa of an Elf. He must tell Gil-galad; suddenly, it seems vitally important to tell him.
With Galadriel and Celeborn, he sees the High King to the gates of the city, but their leave-taking there is ceremonial - the moment to express his innermost sentiments is lost. He had wanted to prove his need to be in Eregion; Gil-galad simply wants to know that he is loved. It is a lesson well learnt - in the future, he will keep his own counsel.
The gates open and with a shout from Gil-galad, the horses leap into a gallop and are soon far away.
At last, the words come to him: Know this: you are loved.
The ósanwë twists in the wind; one's mind must be open to receive. Too little it is, and now too late.
(1) ithron (S)
wizard
(2) Taur fael nín! (S)
My good king!
(3) Bar-i-Mírdain (S)
House of the Jewel-smiths. Changed from Car in 01-04-14 edit. I used Bar-i-Mírdain in a later chapter, based on Tolkien's phrase for the Houses of Healing in The War of the Ring. As near I can tell, bair (the plural of bar) was his final choice before scrapping the Sindarin name of the Houses in the final edit of LOTR. (The War of the Ring, 'The Pyre of Denethor' pp 379-380 pub Houghton Mifflin). I've used the genitival sense and nasal mutation of in here, following the example of Annon-in-Gelydh, 'Door of the Noldor'.
(4) 'Durin ruled a long time'
I'm assuming that the Durin (Durin II?) named on the West Gate lived longer than usual, though not so long as Durin I.
(5) Laegrim (S)
Green elves (class pl of laegel)
(6) 'your needs are endless'
This sounds like a modern concept to me, but in fact, it's straight out of Tolkien: 'You both have your needs. But what of Finduilas?' (ref Unfinished Tales, 'Narn i Hîn Húrin - Appendix' p 166 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)
(7) 'Year 468 of the Elder Days'
It is not precisely clear what year Curufin and Celegorm were thrown out of Nargothrond. Robert Foster gives 466-468 for the departure of Finrod from Nargothrond to the capture of the Silmaril. (ref Robert Foster, The Complete Guide to Middle-earth, 'Appendix A' p 558 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) In 'The Grey Annals', Tolkien puts the departure of Curufin and Celegorm in 465. (ref The War of the Jewels, 'The Grey Annals' p 67 pub Houghton Mifflin) The Silmarillion, however, gives a slightly different accounting of time. Dagor Bragollach is set firmly in 455. (ref 'Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin' pp 175-6 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) The assault on Hithlum and the death of Barahir occurs seven years later, or in 462. (ref Ibid. pp 188-9) Four more years pass before Beren comes to Doriath, and it takes him at least a year to woo Lúthien and set out for Nargothrond, bringing us to 467. (ref Ibid. 'Of Beren and Lúthien' p 192) Therefore, assuming that this sequence of events is part of a late revision and not a mistake on Christopher's part, I think the date given by Foster more likely.
(8) ilsanwa (Q)
mithril - this word is entirely constructed for the purposes of this story from anwa, 'real, actual, true' and ilsa, the 'mystic name of silver' (properly Qenya and possibly not even valid in mature Quenya). (ref The Book of Lost Tales 1, 'Appendix' p 292 pub Ballantine/Del Rey) Most likely, assuming that mithril was to be found in Valinor (a question in itself), the Quenya word would be the direct cognate of the Sindarin word and formed from mista, 'grey' and rilya, 'glittering, brilliance'.
(9) 'For all the land was filled now with a foreboding of evil.''
(ref Unfinished Tales, 'Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin' p 41 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)
(10) 'Gobennas natha i amarth a thi ai den awarthar.' (S)
'History will be the doom of those who forsake it.' This is as near as I could come to George Santayana's oft-quoted words, 'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.' (ref George Santayana, The Life of Reason, Volume 1)
Construction: gobennas, 'history'; natha, 'will be' (3rd pers pl future tense of naw, 'to be', based on David Salo's reconstruction); i amarth, 'the doom'; a thi, 'for they/them' (nasal mutation of an ti); ai, 'who' (this word is found in Tolkien's translation of the 'Pater Noster', and its significance is uncertain - in my very amateur opinion, it is merely i, 'who', with a tacked on to separate it from another word ending in i for reasons of clarity and aesthetics); den, 'it' (soft mutation of ten); awarthar, 'forsake' (3rd pers pl of awartha-, 'to forsake'). (ref David Salo, A Gateway to Sindarin, 'Verbs' p 122 pub University of Utah Press; Vinyar Tengwar, No 44 p 21, June 2002)